Magic Show (Part 1)

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he was here…Ethan was no longer so sure. He stood off to the side of the bar, trying to figure out how to feel less awkward. It was Halloween–there was no reason to be this awkward on Halloween! But this…it was different. He’d always wanted to come here–ever since he’d started college in this city a few years back–because even though he was a bit of a twink, he’d always had a thing for…Bears. Daddies. Chubs. He’d hooked up a few times before, but something about going to the bar, it had always felt a bit off limits for him, because he was so young, and thin, and hairless.

His choice of costume for the night wasn’t helping matters, he supposed. He’d decided to go as a strongman–wearing a striped singlet he’d found online, some bright red boots and a handlebar mustache he’d stuck on with spirit gum, along with a fake barbell he’d made out of styrofoam and cardboard. He wasn’t the only one dressed up by any means, and he certainly wasn’t showing the most skin, but he couldn’t help but feel…out of place, even though plenty of guys were smiling and complimenting and…and why couldn’t he just feel normal! He thought about getting a few more drinks, but he had to drive back to school. He sighed, and caught someone across the room staring at him. He was an older gentleman with a sizable gut, dressed in a tuxedo and a cape, with a large top hat on his head. He threw Ethan a wink, and then slipped away into the crowd–strange, but Ethan forgot it quickly in his pouting.

He thought about leaving but didn’t. The party grew rowdier, until the music died and the dance floor cleared. Curious, Ethan came to the back of the crowd to see what was happening. There, in the middle, was the man in the tuxedo he’d glimpsed–apparently calling himself Magic Max, with a magic show planned for the evening. Ethan thought it was silly, but everyone else seemed excited–he didn’t expect much until the magician boomed out his own name, Ethan Gallanger, as his first volunteer.

He didn’t believe it–how could the guy know his name? He wanted to shrink away, but his feet marched him forward instead, out onto the empty dance floor. “There you are Ethan! So glad you could join me for a bit of fun this year.”

The crowd clapped and cheered, Ethan went red in the face.

“I must say, I saw your costume earlier, and I was simply enthralled by your commitment to realism! That mustache in particular–it must have taken you months to grow it out like that.”

“I…actually, it’s…fake…” Ethan stammered, his voice amplified somehow, even though he couldn’t see a microphone anywhere.

“Oh nonsense, let me see that!” Magic Max said, and before Ethan could stop him, he grabbed the end of his mustache, yanked hard, and Ethan yelped in pain, feeling the hairs pulling at his skin, refusing to come away. “Looks real enough to me, now!”

Cheers and laughter erupted around him, but all Ethan could do was drop his fake barbell to the floor, and feel the mustache–his mustache–with both hands. Real…it was real! He looked at the magician, his jaw dropped low. “How…how did you do that?”

“A magician never reveals his tricks, Ethan. I think you dropped your weight there! Why don’t you pick it up–show us how strong you are. After all, you look a bit thin and scrawny for a strongman.”

Laughter again. Blushing, Ethan bent down, grabbed the barbell and went to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. It felt like someone had glued it to the floor, and the laughter only got louder as they watched him struggle with it. But something else was happening, every time he tried to lift it up. He would yank on it, and the barbell seemed to yank back, pulling him lower and lower each time, until he finally gave up, unbent, and discovered that he’d shrunk.

He’d already been rather short at five foot seven, but after his struggle he couldn’t have been much taller than four feet, barely coming to eye level with the top of Magic Max’s full, round belly. The rest of him had grown smaller as well, making him look even weaker, even as the barbell had grown larger, now nearly twice as large as he could remember it being.

Max held up his hands for quiet, and the crowd obliged. “I’m sorry Max, but you gave it a good try–I know your lifting days are well behind you at this point. Hell, you have enough to worry about, hefting around that big, hairy gut of yours all day long, right, old man?”

What the hell was he talking about? He didn’t have a gut, and he certainly wasn’t old. Seeing the confusion on Ethan’s face, Max swung his cape over, and a large mirror manifested beside him, where nothing had been, moments before. There he could see exactly what Max had been talking about. Where before had been his slim, twinkish figure, smooth and somewhat muscled, he now had a massive, firm gut stretching out the singlet he had on. He grabbed it with his hands and shook it–it heaved around as a single, hard mass, like a massive ball he’d swallowed. On his much shorter frame, he looked like a ball, in fact–a very hairy ball. His hairless body was covered with fur now, bursting from the singlet at every chance it got. The only parts of him that were smooth were his face (aside from the mustache and a generous shadow of stubble) and much of his head, where his hairline had receded substantially, leaving him with a light dusting of grey hair in a horseshoe fringe.

“Let’s all give a big thank you to Ethan, for being our first volunteer of the evening!” Max said behind him, and gave him a shove. He had to struggle to stay upright, leaning back to counter the weight of his gut, “Now let’s see if we can find someone who might be able to get this barbell off the floor! We can’t just leave it here, after all.”

Ethan just tried to process what had happened to him…what he…thought had happened to him? It was suddenly a bit hazy, and hard to hold onto in his head. He’d been different, hadn’t he? He watched the rest of the show like it was a dream–but he had to talk to that magician again–he had to figure out how to get his body back.

Case Closed (Part 5)

He tried to protest, tried to just get us to let him go, but no–I was tired of his fucking shit, and I knew what he really wanted. I dragged him across the precinct, Walker laughing the whole way, and shoved him into the drunk tank. It was still early evening on Saturday, but we had a few visitors already–it was always pretty busy in here after Friday nights, and a lot of them might not get processed until Monday morning, so the cell was only going to get more crowded. He begged us, through the bars, to let him out. That he couldn’t stay in here, to have some fucking mercy. Well fuck that–we’d be back to get him on Monday. Still, it was another cased closed. Walker suggested we go get some drinks, something which I was more than happy to do, because fucking Dick had only gotten me revved up for more.

Fuck–that was one of the best weekends we’d shared in a long while. Fuck, I actually couldn’t remember the last time we went as wild as we did, though we do it all the time, now. The two of us were already dressed to go out, of course–since our work clothes doubled as our club clothes–the immaculate leather uniforms we both wore fit right in down at the leather bar where the two of us hung out. It was funny though–the club seemed a bit busier than usual–in particular, it seemed like the entire college football team had come out that night, and all of them were poaching our usual hunting grounds, so we decided on a change of plans, and found two young freshman who shouldn’t have even been in there–and gave them a choice. Come back with us for the rest of the weekend, or kiss their fucking scholarships goodbye after they get an arrest record. Needless to say, neither one of them was very happy about it, but we cuffed them anyway, and dragged them home with us.

It’s funny…I didn’t remember Walker and I living together, but…I mean, I guess it makes sense, right? Two top cops? Two burly, leathered up fuckers like us? Why the fuck wouldn’t we live together? I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that those two football frat fuckers were singing a different tune by Sunday evening, begging us for our cocks, our fists, our piss. We did let them go, of course–but put them on chastity probation–locking them both up, and requiring them both to come over for regular check ins and training. Heh, Justin–that’s one of them, this big old linebacker–he’s graduated at this point, and became a full time slave for a friend of mine, this old biker–fucking rough man, but I’ve never met a guy who loves getting beaten up like Justin does. The other, Harry, he’s a fancy businessman now, but I still have his key–he hasn’t had his cock out in over a year, but he doesn’t fucking care–he gets more pleasure out of drinking down some stranger’s cum in a bathhouse than he ever did shooting himself. Still, I suppose I’ve gotten a bit off topic, now haven’t I? I’m still talking at all, of course, because the strangest thing about the case, about Dick, I should say, only happened after that weekend, when the two of us, still reeking of sex, still in our leathers, showed back up at the precinct, nursing a couple of light hangovers, and found ourselves with quite a mess in the drunk tank where we’d abandoned Dick on Saturday night.

Now, this is easily the busiest precinct for drunks in the city, since it’s so close to the nightlife district, but it wasn’t the number of people in there that was surprising–it was what they were doing, or rather, who they were doing. In the middle of the, at this point, rather sleepy throng was Dick–which shouldn’t have been surprising, I suppose, considering how eager that guy was for a load of cum. No, what was strange was Dick himself. When we’d left, he’d been a middle aged slob, sure, but not..this. He’d packed on close to two hundred more pounds, his bare belly scraping the concrete floor of the cell, his several chins disguised by a massive, grey beard I couldn’t recall him having before. He was no longer middle aged, but seemed closer to seventy–his teeth all missing aside from a few barely hanging by the root, his body coated in filth, clothes unwashed, as he begged another man for a load of cum. But maybe I was just remembering things wrong. It seemed like I’d been remembering a lot wrong, lately. Still, we figured we should give the guys in the cell a break, and we took a final turn with the disgusting pig in the interrogation room, feeding him our loads of cum and piss before kicking him back out onto the street. We didn’t mind giving Dick a place to stay on occasion, but he couldn’t very well live here, right?

But the oddest thing? The two of us got to work processing the guys in the drunk tank after we finished with Dick…but none of the fuckers’ intake information matched anything close to who we were looking at in front of us. Like, some of the paperwork told us to expect a couple of young hicks who’d gotten pulled in on a drunk driving charge, but who we found looking at us were a couple of middle aged, pot bellied bikers, covered with tattoos and reeking of piss and cigars. A couple of businessmen charged with harassing a woman in a bar, were now a couple of young skinheads, dressed in camo and rubber, and much more interested in making out with each other than answering any of our questions. Just one fucking screw up after another, and we had no clue what to make of it. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder about Dick, in all of this for some reason. He still comes by, on occasion, ends up in the tank for a night, and everytime the same fucking thing happens. It’s a fucking mystery, you know? But hey, not every case wraps up nice and neat, but that’s the job–now if you’ll excuse me, it looks like Walker’s collared someone over by the dance floor, and he might need some backup.

Neighborhood Pub (Sketch)

“Hey! Faggot! Why don’t you get fucking lost? Ain’t no guy here wanna have you round, lookin’ at us like that,” Nick puffed up his chest and got in the stranger’s face, leering at him. No one knew who this fucker was–the pub here was really only frequented by guys from the neighborhood, guys who’d know each other for years. Sure, the occasional stranger would slip in, but they got the idea pretty quick that new folks weren’t very welcome in there. But this guy, he hadn’t gotten the hint at all this evening, and worse, it was clear the guy was a total faggot.

He was an older guy. He’d shown up a few hours previously, and ordered a beer with a bit of a lisp and the bat of an eye from Sammy, the bartender. Usually Sammy wouldn’t even bother serving freaks like this, but for some reason he’d just given the guy the beer he’d wanted, and the fucker had just made himself at home. Very, very at home. He’d spent the night wandering around the pub, busting into other people’s conversations so he could flirt and feel up the local guys…and for some reason no one was doing anything about it! Well Nick had had enough of this clown–he’d throw him out himself, since no one else could bear to do it, for some reason.

The stranger grinned at Nick, and moved in closer, pushing his gut into him. The man was older, balding, sweaty and hairy. At some point he’d lost his shirt, so nothing covered his ugly fat beyond two suspenders keeping up his pants. Nick’s first instinct was to recoil, but he wouldn’t give him the…the satisfaction of knowing he was…was scared or…or turned on…or…if he pushed closer, into the man’s gut, maybe the strange butterflies fluttering in his gut would go away. They didn’t they got worse, but that was alright, and something…something about the way the man smelled, something was…was so…good.

The bar had grown quiet. No one had known what to make of the man, no one had been able to resist him, and terrified, no one had dared challenge him. They had all secretly hoped that if they just…let him feel up their bodies, and lick their necks, and whisper…horribly, sexy things in their ears, that maybe…maybe he would leave them in some kind of peace. But Nick–fucking hotheaded Nick–the man ran one hand over Nick’s stubbly face, watching his jaw droop, eyes turning glassy. The stranger put his hand on the top of Nick’s head and applied a gentle pressure, the bar watching as he dropped to one knee, and then both, the man guiding his face to his crotch, where Nick began grinding his face into the man’s crusty jeans.

He had no control. He couldn’t…couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to stop himself. He could…could see…visions, in his mind. Of himself, but…but different. He was wearing something…shiny and black, all over his body. It looked like rubber, but so…so reflective, black, but with yellow. Yellow…like piss. Fuck, like piss! He felt the warmth in his crotch as his bladder released into the front of his pants, running down both thighs to the floor of the pub. Everyone else could smell it too, they could smell it, and they were growing…growing hungrier, like when they’d all first smelled the stranger, and they could see what Nick was now–a urinal, a fucking tool, a dump for them to use and abuse as they wanted. The man undid his fly, pointing his cock at Nick’s face, who waited patiently, the puddle growing around his knees until the man released his own piss, and Nick drank down as much as he could, feeling everything he couldn’t get down soaking his body, his clothes so…wet now. It would be so much better if he was wearing rubber, all rubber, all the time, for…for the rest of his life, yeah, a rubber urinal, just an object.

The man finished, Nick kissed the head of his cock, and started licking up his own piss from the floor of the pub, the weaker willed men around him standing up and walking towards him, their own bladders begging to be emptied, and the man drifted off to other men, toying with them, slowly for the rest of the night, and he never returned to the pub again…not that he needed to. The pub was…different from that day on. Every man from the neighborhood would come dressed in leather and rubber, most of them smoking, all of them constantly horny. New men were always welcome–none of them could resist the heady, musky smell of the place for long, all of them ended up going home with some other patron of the club to discover the new desires brewing in their guts. Nick, however, lived in the bathroom, chained to the floor. He’d grown fatter, his gut massive, stretching the rubber bodysuit he now wore to the limit. He hadn’t left the room in months, but Sammy took good care of him, making sure he got all the nutrition he needed and stripping him out of the suit once a week to hose down his fat, and shave his body smooth. It was up to the rest of the bar to keep him full of piss and cum, to keep him happy, forever.

Hopeless (Part 3)

You stumble into the parking lot, still pumping cum out the bottom of your shorts, where it’s running down your thick, hairy legs. There’s something wrong with you. Well, of course there is something wrong with you, you’re worthless, but this is different. You’d gone so long without cumming, for weeks–or maybe even months, you couldn’t quite remember, and now that the dam had been broken, your gut was churning, your balls are aching, you’re sweating from head to toe. People stare, no–gape at you plodding to your car, mouth open, snorting, eyes wild. You throw open the door and go to climb in, but hit your head on the frame, your knees scrunched under the wheel. It isn’t until you process the fact that the space is smaller than usual that you manage to reach under your seat, past your massive cock, and shove the seat as far back as it will go. Is this even your car? Your key worked, it…smells like you, but it doesn’t feel right. You shut the door and immediately feel claustrophobic, panting and panic rising in your chest, but you have to get home, you’ll be safe at home, you aren’t safe here.

It’s a fifteen minute drive to your home from the gym, and it’s harrowing. Your bones ache, muscles pulse. More than once, a sudden, full body spasm of growth sends you speeding forward or swerving into other lanes–the fact that you don’t end up in an accident or arrested is a minor miracle. You park, throw open the car door, and manage to squeeze yourself free of the confines of the car, whimpering and moaning. The exit is anything but graceful, and you end up toppling out face first onto the pavement, but you’re free, at least. you grab the car door to help yourself up, but when you pull on it, rather than gaining any leverage, you feel the car door bend down in the frame towards you instead, the car tipping slightly to the side as you drag yourself up. It’s so…small, like one of those clown cars at the circus. You abandon it, running for your apartment, and your shorts finally can’t bear the pressure of your package and thighs, bursting at the seams, your foot and a half long cock and massive balls flopping out into the open, your shirt following soon after–you tear away the tattered remains once you reach your door, crouching in the hallway, fumbling with the keys you’d kept in your hand, but they’re so small and you’ve grown so clumsy that you can’t fit the key in the lock–in frustration you simply start pounding on the door–and it opens.

Without worrying how, you start the next task of finding some way of squeezing through the doorway, the only thought you have is making it inside. You end up pushing yourself in sideways–you’ve grown much too tall to walk in, and your shoulders are too broad. It’s close, but you squeeze inside, heaving for breath, feeling your body continue growing as you do…and you realize you’ve trapped yourself. There’s simply no way you’ll be able to fit yourself back out–but why would you want to leave? Out there, all there are are people who will stare at you, look at you like you’re a freak–because you are a freak. You don’t want to go out there, you don’t want to leave. Your trainer, who’d opened the door for you, closes it behind you but doesn’t lock it–you don’t even notice that he’s there until he standing beside you, stoking one massive, hairy arm, talking to you, calming you down bit by bit, that buzzing sound returning, and soon you’re shivering at his touch, at his words–and you realize that you are sitting down on the ground–and he’s standing next to you–but he barely comes to your shoulder. How…how big are you, really? How big is your cock? It doesn’t seem real, hanging there between your legs. You must be at least ten feet tall–far too tall for your ceilings. The only way you’ll be able to move from room to room is by crawling…but is this even your apartment? Now that you’re more calm, this doesn’t…seem familiar. The floorplan is too open, there’s almost no furniture…where did you drive yourself, anyway? Where did you just trap yourself?

“Look at you, you’re a beast–a gigantic, disgusting beast,” he says, walking around you in a wide circle, taking all of you in–the hairy body, the long beard, the massive cock and balls, “You’re going to be so popular, so many people have been waiting for you to finally blow.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t elaborate. You try to talk, but words…don’t come easily to you anymore, and he has no interest in anything you might ask or want to know. He leaves you alone–but you don’t feel abandoned. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe. The the men begin arriving. You have several visitors each day, and all of them come for one reason–to abuse your massive cock. The ride it, they worship it, the suck it, they drink your cum by the gallon. None of them care about you, about the body attached to this marvelous beast of a cock–but then, why should they? You know you’re worthless, unworthy of anyone’s attention. You’re simply happy to know that there’s one part of you which is worthy of desire and that’s enough for your simple mind. The only person who sees you is your trainer–no, your owner now–when he visits. He comes every few weeks–you look forward to those visits more than any other, because finally, he has allowed you to serve him. You pull him close, gently, lick him clean from head to toe, worship his cock and balls with your mouth, letting him know how thankful you are. How thankful you are that he has given you purpose. How thankful you are that a hopeless, giant-cocked beast like you, could ever hope to be owned by a man like him.

Hopeless (Part 2)

I have a comment I want to make on the inspiration for this story, but I felt like it would be best to wait until I posted this second part, where it becomes more obvious what I’m talking about. This story, as it ended up being written, is the fault of @noodlesandbeef and all of his recent posts on big dick humiliation. I wouldn’t say the story is *for* him necessarily, because it’s also filtered through the rest of my own perversions and came out…uh…slobby, but I’ll dedicate it to him anyway. So here’s to you–thanks for your awesome blog, and for making me think of fetishes that don’t cross my mind very often.

You watched him drive away, certain that this had to be…some cruel joke. The way he’d consoled you, he had to care about you, right? Then again, why would he care about you? You were a mess. Filthy, sweaty, stupid–so fucking stupid! How could you have just said something like that to him, to the only man in your life who cared about you. Still, he had told you to go home, so you got in your car and drove home. However, once home, you had no idea what to do.

Your apartment was filthy. You had always done a good job of cleaning up after yourself, but ever since you’d met him, you’d just…started letting things slide. First it was a bit of clutter, then you stopped doing the dishes, and now you hadn’t done laundry in weeks, everything you owned stank to high heaven, and the whole apartment was littered with empty take out, since you couldn’t even think hard enough to try and cook. You’d probably just burn everything anyway, or hurt yourself trying. Worthless…fucking worthless! Just…just a big pile of nothing.

Your cock tingled at the thought, which was odd. As turned on as you’d been lately, with your personal trainer, and all of the fantasies you’d been thinking about, you’d actually been jacking off less than usual. More often than not, it simply hadn’t occurred to you to jack off, and even when you’d been horny, thinking about him, your cock had been hard, but you hadn’t touched it. Now, however, you pushed your hand into your pants and started rubbing it, thinking…thinking again.

I’m hopeless.

Your cock was raging now, and you pushed some trash off the couch and laid down, slowly stroking your cock.

I’m a just a dumb brute with a big cock. I can’t even hold down a stupid job.

Fuck, you were so horny! Your cock was leaking as you demeaned yourself, over and over again, thinking about all of your recent failures, how hopeless you are, and it felt…it felt so damn good, but you couldn’t cum. You jacked your cock for hours and hours, but though you leaked a copious amount of precum into your nasty jock and the front of your gym shorts, you never reached any sort of satisfaction. You couldn’t even jack off right–but that thought only made you even more crazed with lust. It was only when you reached the point of exhaustion and hunger that you finally stoped, ordered some take out you can’t afford anymore, and ate. When you finished, you tried again, but it was like your balls were locked shut, and no matter what you did, you would never be able to cum. That didn’t stop you, you weren’t even sure you could stop, as you fantasized about all the ways you’re slowly ruining your life. Eventually, you collapsed back on the couch, and fell into a fitful sleep. He’s there, in your dreams. You don’t…deserve him. He’s amazing, and you’re completely worthless. A failure. No wonder he left you, you’ll never deserve him. You don’t deserve anyone–you deserve to be alone.

The next day, you arrive at the gym…late. He’s waiting for you, but he doesn’t seem surprised. If anything, he seems to be expecting you to arrive late, and the simple failure…it makes your cock leak in your nasty, crusty shorts that you didn’t even bother changing before you came. After all, you like it. You like other people seeing what a nasty thing you are. How badly you smell, how stupid you are, it makes you feel so good, and you want him, this man you love, you want…you want him to hate you, to see that he’s wasting his time on you, that you don’t deserve him, that you never deserved someone like him. That you are, and always were, a hopeless wreck.

All day, you fuck up on purpose…or maybe you can’t tell the difference anymore. You lift wrong, you plateau and backslide, you spot poorly. Still, he’s nothing but supportive and enthusiastic, his usual self. But behind his usual smile, you see it, that…sly grin of his, and that buzzing, it’s so loud in your head, you can barely hear him sometimes, what he’s telling you. He talks so much, but why talk to you? You barely understand anything that comes out of his mouth. Your workout is long today, much longer than normal. The next several days, the workouts are equally long. You know you should work on finding a job–you have some savings, but they’ll only be able to pay your bills for a few months. Soon, you think differently. You deserve to be unemployed–in fact, knowing you do nothing with yourself, that you have wasted your life doing nothing, it turns you on. Seeing what you’ve become in the mirror, fuck–your cock refuses to go down, it leaks constantly all over the benches and the machines. You’re huge now, so huge, with a thick beard all over your face, your hair down past your shoulders, massive pecs, thick legs, mouth open and drooling almost constantly. The only part of you that isn’t muscled is your gut, bulging from your constant diet of take out and pizzas, but that bit of failure only makes you look hotter, in your eyes.

Until a day comes, and you arrive at the gym, only to discover that he isn’t there–instead, the person waiting for you is the manager of the gym. He informs you that so many members of the gym had complained about your behavior and hygiene, as well as that of your friend’s, that the two of you will be permanently banned from premises. The manager telling you that, somehow it does something nothing else had been able to do, and even as he continues speaking, your balls tense up, you let out a groan, the first blast of cum erupting from your cock, soaking the front of your shorts. Your go weak and fall to your knees, and the orgasm last for what feels like an eternity, everyone in the gym turning to stare at you, the cum now leaking down your leg to the floor it an amount so copious you couldn’t even believe it was yours. The manager threatens to call the police; you stagger up and out of the building, your cock still pumping out a trail behind you, and into your car, where you pull down your soaked shorts, and discover your cock has somehow grown even more massive in the space of a minute–it’s now a foot and a half long and incredibly thick, your balls each the size of baseballs, and still pumping out cum. How could this even happen? It’s so large, you’d never be able to fuck anyone–it’s just…just obscene and pointless and nasty, like the rest of your whole life. So worthless that…that all you can only think about is going home and…and milking your worthless, disgusting cock over and over again.

Hopeless (Part 1)

You met him at the gym, but whether it was by accident, or by a choice he made, you never found out. He asked you to spot for him on the bench press so he could push his max, and you were willing to help him out. You’d seen him at the gym before, but had never thought much of him–probably in his mid 30’s, bearded with a shaved head, a bit hairy. Muscular, but with a small gut all the same. On the bench, while you guided the bar up and down, you listened to him grunt, your eyes focusing on the curve of belly that appeared, inch by inch, as he lifted, an odd…buzzing in your head, vision tunnelling slightly, until he failed, and you snapped back, helping him rack the weights back, your head still…fuzzy. You worked through a few more sets with him, and then he offered to help you, counting for you as you pressed. You couldn’t lift nearly as much as him, but he encouraged you, he made you feel…good. You parted ways with a handshake, and from that then on, you noticed him more and more, every day, and both of you struck up an acquaintance, spotting each other from day to day.

He wasn’t the first guy you’d been attracted to, but he was…different. The way he made you feel, when you were close to him, it was something you’d never felt before. At the same time, life outside of the gym started to become more…difficult. You found yourself messing up at work more often, you felt…exposed in public. Friends you’d known for years were suddenly saying strange things–that you seemed distant and disconnected, that you were quieter and didn’t talk as much. You felt hurt at their comments, and saw them less, even as you started going to the gym more. Whether that was because you simply had more time, or because, at heart, you wanted to see him more, you couldn’t tell. You couldn’t quite be honest with yourself yet, could you?

Still, he never pushed you away. He never said you were too quiet, or too disconnected. Without really noticing when it had happened, he’d taken control of your workouts, almost becoming your personal trainer. You would arrive early and wait for him–the idea of working out without him felt…wrong. Scary, even. You might hurt yourself, or do something wrong, if he wasn’t there, watching over you. He pushed you away from your cardio focus, and you began lifting more, and longer. It was exhausting, but you were doing so good! You could see it, too. You were bulking faster than you’d ever imagined possible…but it was more than just muscle. You seemed…taller, too, although you convinced yourself that was probably your imagination. Your cock, too–it seemed longer. Thicker. It felt thicker when you jacked off, thinking about him, about your trainer, about…about how good he made you feel.

Without really noticing, the gym became the center of your life, and he was the center of your workout. Everything else was driver further and further to the periphery, so when your boss called you into his office, it felt like…some strange intrusion. You hoped it wasn’t more work he needed you to do today–you wouldn’t want to be late for your workout. You knew that your work had been slipping, but when he laid it all out in front of you: the missed deadlines, the simple errors, the poor presentations, your unprofessional appearance, the ill fitting clothes, your lack luster hygiene, it made you…feel so small, even though you towered over him. You wished your trainer had been there, so that you wouldn’t…have had to care. So that comfortable buzzing could have taken over, so he could have just…just told you what to do, what to say. You had no excuse, no reason to give, you could barely even speak at all. Your boss had only been planning on reprimanding you, but somewhere in the one-sided conversation he decided to just cut you loose entirely. You packed up your things, and didn’t know what to do–so you went to the gym, and you waited.

It was hours before the two of you were supposed to meet for your workout, but what else could you do? It was so hard to…to think, to make a decision. You felt paralyzed. But he…he was so confident, and he was so…such a natural leader, and you had to follow, you had to. When he arrived, you tried to tell him what happened, but getting the words out was difficult. Talking, in general, had become more and more difficult lately, and the buzzing when you were near him only made it worse, the stuttering, the words missing from your vocabulary, you couldn’t get it out, and so you just worked it out. You worked out, hoping that would help you focus, but all you felt was dimmer. It made you feel hopeless, and even more overwhelmed than before. What was wrong with you? You hadn’t always been like this. Thank goodness he was here, watching out for you, or else you would probably hurt yourself so much. At least you were looking good, looking bigger. With his help, you’d been packing on the pounds lately, and even the beard was looking better, now that you’d been growing it for a few months, though your hair was lank and greasy, and…just ugly. You stank too–when had you taken a shower last, or brushed your teeth? You hadn’t been taking care of yourself, not at all. You were disgusting, you were filthy, and ugly and…and you hated it.

You hated yourself, and there, on the bench, you started sobbing. You’d been trying to keep it inside, trying to ball it all up, but you had no guard left anymore, and you were certain, as soon as he saw how weak you really were, he’d leave. Abandon you, forget about you–worthless, hopeless you…but he didn’t. He sat down next to you, and put his arm around your now hulking shoulders, cooing at you, consoling you. The buzzing grew a bit louder, and you, slowly, calmed down. When you felt up to it, you continued your workout, and things felt…easier, for the moment, until you were finished…and he walked away from you in the parking lot.

Of course he was walking away, he had his own home, but the terror that gripped you, when he did, was something you couldn’t comprehend, and you started following him, chasing after him, and caught up to him as he climbed in. He saw you there, the desperation on your face. “Don’t….leave me…” you said, those three words so inadequate to how you felt, but the only three you could find in your empty head.

He thought for a moment, looking you over, and said, “Go home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I’ll Make You Feel Small (Part 2)

It felt, to Trey, like an enormous shaft of pain. He’d never, ever, allowed any man to fuck him before, and he screamed, trying to claw himself away, but somehow, this fat man continued to overpower him, grabbing his arms and pinning them to his sides, weighing him down with his gut, breath hot against his neck. “How does it feel? Being helpless? Do you feel small? Well you are small. A small man–no, not even a man now. Not a man at all, you’re just a bitch, a slave. My slave–how does that sound? You don’t get to be a man anymore, no, all you are is two loose, hungry holes, ready to please your betters–but that means you’re ready to please absolutely anyone, right? Because you’re the worst, the smallest, the most pathetic thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing. Now quit your crying and take it–it’s the only pleasure you’re going to get from now on.”

Trey remained quiet, listening, trying to understand how this could have happened, George focusing on inflicting as much pain as he could, but Trey’s gasps were already turning to groans, as he adjusted to the size of his cock, and he began to realize how good it felt, to take a real man’s cock in his hole.

“Listen to yourself,” George said, “Listen to you moan. Does it feel good? Being used like this? It’s disgusting, how much you enjoy it. Aren’t you disgusting? Say it. Say ‘I’m a disgusting little bitch slave.’ I want to hear you tell me what you are.”

“N-No…” Trey said, but even he knew there was no force behind it.

“Fucking say it!” George screamed at him, “Say you worthless sack of shit!”

“I’m…I’m a bitch…” Trey sobbed, “I’m…I’m a disgusting little…little bitch slave.”

“Again. Say it again.”

“I’m a little, disgusting bitch slave…”

George gave a growl, and flooded Trey’s ass with cum, gripping the bitch’s wrists hard enough to bruise as he filled him up, and then he slid himself free and stepped back, heaving for breath, looking down at Trey, at what he was now. He walked over, grabbed Trey by the hair, and dragged him over in front of a wide mirror against the wall, and in the dim light, Trey could make out his body, his…his small, worthless body–what had happened to him?

He was…short. He’d started out taller than this hulking daddy bear by at least two or three inches, but now he barely reached the top of his chest. He’d shrunk close to a foot and a half…and all of his muscles had disappeared along with it, like he’d simply deflated. No wonder he hadn’t been able to fight him off–why had he even tried? He…he knew better, a weakling like him. Men…men like this man, like his…Master. He couldn’t fight them, there was no way he could possibly win, not against a man like that. Not against any man…because…because he wasn’t a man, not…not anymore.

He could see his crotch, and it was…it was bare. He’d always had a small cock, but now he had literally nothing. Not even a nub, and his balls, too, had shrunken away and disappeared entirely. Seeing where the bitch was looking, George crouched down, and with one hand rubbed the smooth patch of skin. “Tell me bitch. What do you feel? Feel anything down there anymore?”

“N-No…No, what…what did you do to me? Where’s my cock?”

“You don’t deserve a cock, bitch. What would a pathetic piece of trash like you even use a cock for anyway? Or balls? No…no, you know what you’re good for–the only thing you’re good for, slave. Tell me…tell me what a worthless bitch like you might be good for.”

He didn’t…want to say it. He couldn’t say it, but his lips were moving, words were slipping out against him, “Serving…sir. Serving men. Men like you.”

George turned him towards him and slapped him across the face, “No, fucker–you don’t serve men like me. You serve any man–all men are better than you and deserve your service, right bitch?”

“Right…sir.”

“Good,” George said, and pulled out a collar attached to a leash he’d kept attached to his belt. Trey meekly allowed him to place it around his neck, and then George tugged him out of the room, naked, “Let’s see if we can help you learn that lesson, bitch. Come on.”

They stayed at the bath house until the early morning, George leading Trey around by the leash, forcing him to serve every single man they came across, no matter how old and fat, or young and thin. The whole time, he forced Trey to show off his empty crotch, forced him to tell men what he was, and what he was good for. He even gave him a new name, since he didn’t deserve a man’s name. His name was Trash now–and by the time George led him stumbling out into the cold dark outside, still naked, it was the only name he could remember having.

Down the street, still parked, was a motorcycle. Some…dim memory tried to tell him that it was his, but what could a little bitch like him ever do with a motorcycle? Hell, he wouldn’t even be able to drive it…at his new height. He’d continued shrinking, all night long, the more George had abused and humiliated him. Now, he was even weaker, and only about four feet tall. George stopped outside, and looked down at him, wondering what to do next. He wouldn’t be hurting anyone now, not anymore–but was that enough? Did such a cruel thing deserve even this much of a life, as a worthless, tiny bitch? He didn’t. Not in George’s opinion. “Come on slave, you’re coming home with me. I’ll deal with the rest of you then.”

I’ll Make You Feel Small (Part 1)

George stood outside The Pit, off to one side of the entrance, just beyond the scope of the streetlights, smoking a cigar, and waiting. He’d been standing there for close to an hour, waiting for him to show up, his target–a man named Trey Donovan. They had business that needed to be settled, not that Trey was aware of the debt he owed. Still, he’d been a blight on the local scene for long enough that someone needed to deal with the fucker, and George knew that if anyone could deal with him for good, it was him.

Trey thought of himself as an alpha, not that he really knew what that meant. An alpha ought to be a leader; to Trey, it simply meant dominator. He cared only about himself, about his needs, about his looks. He was, George supposed, appealing, of one had a fetish for gorilla silhouettes. He almost certainly was on steroids, from how large he was–it was clear he was compensating for something, and everyone who’d been with him (or raped by him) could attest to his rather…lackluster size. Still, anyone who mentioned that tended to end up with one of those massive forearms shoved inside, whether they were ready or not. He was a brute, cruel and unfeeling, and George had seen too many boys and cubs he liked be ruined by Trey, in one way or another.

George considered himself a daddy, and he looked the part too. Past what some might consider his prime, his hair greying and balding past the crown of his head, a big full gut pushing out against the thick leather harnesses he liked wearing. Still, he knew how to win someone’s obedience, how to create a bond more lasting than the ones Trey fostered out of pain and fear. Some brutes could only learn in the language of brutes, and George was certain Trey was one of them. If he could only get off by making people feel small, then perhaps what he needed more than anything else was to feel small himself. So small, he’d never hurt anyone ever again–George would make sure of that.

He heard the roar of a motorcycle coming down the street, and saw the hulking bull sitting in the saddle pull over to one side of the street and park. He was decked out in leather and denim, all the clothes a bit too small for him on purpose. Trey got off and stomped his way down the sidewalk and up into The Pit, passing George on the way, not even giving the old bear a glance, since George wasn’t exactly his type. He didn’t even hear the strange mumbling coming from the shadows, though he did feel a strange…sensation as he climbed the steps, like some shadow had attached itself to him. He tried to shake off the feeling, but couldn’t, growled and went inside, figuring a rough fuck would make him feel better. George just smiled, waited a few more minutes, put out the butt of his cigar, and then followed Trey inside, ready to get to work.

It hadn’t taken Trey long to get started. In fact, he had probably grabbed the first slightly appealing guy he’d seen, dragged him into a room, bent him over the bench and started on him–or at least that’s what it looked like. The guy was young, short, a bit of a twink, kind of into it, though he kept asking Trey to take in a bit slower–not that he was listening. A few men were watching, and George joined the circle, watching for a moment, before he said, just above a whisper to the man next to him, “What is it, four inches, ya think?”

The man he’d spoken to, knowing Trey’s reputation, immediately turned around and left the room–the other men following suit. Trey, too, had heard him of course, and stopped his rutting, gripping his victim tight to hold him in place, turning to where George was standing, leering. “Big enough to fuck you up, old man. W don’t you just shut up and watch, and see what a real man can do?” The quaver of doubt in his voice was apparent even to him, and he started fucking harder.

“You’re not a man, you’re just a fucking animal. A fucking animal with a tiny, worthless dick,” George said, “You’re pathetic.”

Trey pulled out, and snarled, but something was wrong with him. He knew that he should be angry–no, he was angry, but he should be…angrier than he was. Part of him, some strange part of him was…a bit turned on, by the insult, for some reason. The young twink took his opportunity, rolled off the bench and ran off, Trey realizing too late that his fuck had gotten away. “Ya know, I don’t usually fuck old farts like you, but I’ll ram my fist up your hole just to teach you a lesson about respect!”

He charged George, ready to tackle him. “You’re weak,” George said. Something affected his stride, and Trey stumbled, nearly tripping. “You’re weak, and you’re worthless.” No, no, this wasn’t right, Trey thought to himself, this fucker couldn’t…couldn’t say shit like this to him! He threw a punch–George caught his fist in his own…and his hand should have been so much bigger, but somehow…somehow this old, fat man could palm his fist in his own…and…and… “Bend over, bitch,” George spat.

Trey fought. He fought this…this this sudden desire to submit, something he’d never felt before in his life, something he’d never even imagined himself capable of feeling. He took a step back, but George closed the distance between them, one of the bears hands wrapping around his neck. “You worthless piece of trash, don’t even think about it. You know you deserve this. I’m gonna show you just how little of a man you are. Now bend the fuck over, whore–I won’t tell you again.”

George shoved him back, Trey trying to keep his balance, but he fell on his ass, and…and he got on his knees, helped himself up with the bench, and…and bent over, the whole time, his mind screaming at him, unable to understand why he was doing this, as he heard George’s belt buckle click open, his zipper drop, and the old bear shoved his eight inch cock in balls deep.

Mr. Lear’s Buddy (Part 3)

Things were different for Buddy from then on, when he finally woke early Saturday afternoon, from his very long sleep. He’d…tried to resist. He really had, at first, but once he’d understood how…how good it could feel, how wonderful it was to have someone like Mr. Lear inside him, guiding him, controlling him, it was easier to just…let go. Together, Mr Lear and Buddy spent the next hour or so jacking off–for real now–exploring his young, husky body, Buddy amazed at the range of pleasure the old man could bring out in him. Sure, he’d jacked off before, but it had never felt like…like this. It was no wonder people jacked off so much, if you knew what you were doing, of course. And Mr. Lear had shown him that Buddy had no idea at all, what he was doing. He’d just been…floundering all this time, in desperate need of someone’s help. Well now he didn’t have to do anything at all. Mr. Lear would do everything for him! All he had to do was go along for the ride.

He felt a bit bad for his dad, however. He eventually came up to his son’s room to investigate the moaning he’d heard, over the din of the television downstairs. He opened the door, and was appalled at what he saw–his son covered in his own cum, jacking off openly under his roof like some…some fucking faggot! Buddy’s dad wasn’t all that much brighter than his son. He hadn’t even managed to graduate high school, ending up working away his life in construction. he was a big brute, heavily muscled with a thick full beard–it didn’t take much effort for Mr. Lear to have him on top of his own son, drooling, licking up the cum from his skin, disgusted with himself at his own actions but unable to do anything to stop himself.

But what to do with him? Such a horrible little man couldn’t be allowed to just continue being…horrible, after all. Mr. Lear started by stealing most of his cock. Buddy had been modestly endowed–around four inches, his father was a bit larger, at six. Together, however, Buddy’s body was wielding a ten inch, incredibly thick cock, and his father was left with not even a dicklet, but a dimple and a hole. He was humiliated at the sight of himself–which gave Mr. Lear a horrid idea–so he forced his new father to take any number of pictures of himself, in all sorts of demeaning positions and in his wife’s underwear, and made him start posting them online–his face exposed of course. He couldn’t stand it, but the thrill for him was so powerful, he started compulsively oozing from his new cumhole.

Mr. Lear had no real interest in returning to school–he already had enough knowledge to satisfy multiple PhDs, but his new body needed at least a high school diploma. When Buddy suddenly stopped failing classes, some of his teachers thought it was a miracle–the hopeless student, not just uncaring, but too stupid to really know what caring was–suddenly improved. Was he cheating? No one could prove anything–but some of the teachers found out the truth, soon enough.

Mr. Sonders, for example. He was easily the fattest teacher at the school, weighing in close to six hundred pounds, though this year he’d resolved to lose as much of it as he could–at least until Buddy’s body showed up at his desk one day after school. Mr. Sonders, Buddy discovered, had been Mr. Lear’s pet piggy–and while he put up quite a fight against falling back under his master’s control, he was soon crawling around the floor, squealing and oinking, begging his master’s forgiveness for daring to lose any of the weight he’d worked so hard to gain. In a matter of months, he was larger than ever, and as punishment he could no longer cum without his mouth packed with food–or a cock.

The football coach was equally unhappy to discover Mr. Lear was back from the grave, but he too, was back to his old habits before too long–no longer showering or changing his clothes, licking out the locker room urinals and toilets after practice, wetting the bed each night in his bachelor pad, since his wife had long since left him after his hygiene had first slipped. One thing that was unforgivable, however, was that he had shaved off his long, grungy beard, and cut his hair. As penance, his hair began growing incredibly fast–he had his old beard back by graduation, and it would only be getting longer–and filthier.

Buddy had no real hope of getting into college, of course–not with his abysmal track record in school. That didn’t seem to bother him, however, and he took on a conveniently open janitorial position at his old high school, and moved out on his own, into Mr. Lear’s still vacant house. After a few months, his father and mother divorced–his photos had finally been found online by his wife and work buddies. He was forced to quit his job out of shame, and move in with his son as his personal maid and slave. The brute spent his days in woman’s panties and heels, but Mr Lear forced him to work out even more and start juice up, turning him into a massive muscle monster bottom, filming slutty, humiliating videos for his online fans…and that was the last Buddy saw of him…of anything, actually.

He’d been fading for a while now, as Mr. Lear took over more and more space up in his mind. Before too long, even he wasn’t sure he existed anymore–when Mr. Lear finally convinced him that his existence was simply an impossibility, he finally winked out entirely, leaving his body to his Master, for the rest of his new life.

Breaking Point (Part 6)

All Leon could do was watch. Watch as the homeless bum he’d picked up out of some alley sucked down all of his old life. The years on the street hadn’t been kind to him, but the exhaustion, the hunger, the addiction, it began to fade away. His hair and beard pulled themselves back into his face, which was becoming less lined with wrinkles, turning firm as the bones of his jaws and cheek grew harder and masculine. His flabby belly shrank as his chest expanded–not with fat, but with all of Leon’s lean, developed muscle from his years in the gym and out on the field, or rather, Ned’s years.

Those were his memories now–that was his life. I’d given this man a second chance, and from the look in his eyes, the hope there, I knew that he would do something better with it than Leon ever would have in a hundred years. The cigar was dwindling; my cock had revived and I was taking a second round on Leon’s hole, harder and faster this time. The pig still couldn’t believe what he was seeing, that his hopes had been dashed so utterly. I could see him struggling to reassemble that broken ego, but he could no longer convince himself that this would be temporary. I could feel him freeze up as I thrust into him, trying to not enjoy himself as I’d conditioned him to, trying to reject this body, this life I’d given him. It was only supposed to be temporary, a midsummer’s dream. How could this have happened to someone like him?

The cigar burnt down to the size it had been back in the trailer, when I’d taken everything Leon had ever held dear, and extinguished itself. Ned, blinking like waking from a trance, pushed off the lethargy and stood up from the chair, running his hands over his hard muscle, feeling the youth and power in his chest and gut, walked to a mirror, chuckling–then laughing. A happy laugh, if a bit maniacal. You’d be a bit crazy too, if it happened to you. I finished for a second time in Leon’s pighole, pulled out, and undid the chains holding him in place. I told Ned that he was free to go, but that if he still wanted that second thousand dollars, all he had to do was allow this fat, worthless pig to service him–one last taste of the life he’d taken for granted before saying goodbye to it forever. Ned was more than happy to take the money–Leon was resistant, but an order from me was impossible to deny. He sucked down the young hunk’s load, and then I caged him up, leaving him there in the dungeon while I drove Ned home, so he could get ready for college that next week. He was…incredibly thankful. I told him to just appreciate it–to treasure it as a true second chance. Then I returned home.

In the cage, Leon was sitting, knees pulled to his belly, eyes hollow and and distant. When I came down the steps, the tears started again, but I could tell, this time, finally, they were fearful. Good. He should be afraid. He finally asked, through the tears, what was going to happen next–I unlocked the cage, ordered him out, bound him to a chair and put the mask over his head. He knew the mask well, from the hours of forced smoking before–when I would pack cigar after cigar into the air tube, choking him out with smoke. Once he was secure, I was–for the first time–honest with him. I was going to destroy him. I had destroyed him, in fact, but now I was going to erase him, eradicate him, pulverize his entire personality, all of his memories, to dust. All that would remain, at the end, was a perfect, disgusting, loyal pigslave.

Oh, he fought, of course. No one can help fighting their death. I had selected the cigars ahead of time–two dozen of them. The first seven would obliterate him–his memories, his will power, his ego–the rest would build something marvelous in their place. And marvelous he was–no more inhibitions, no more shame, no more petty humanity. He could behave normally enough at work and in public, but as soon as he was alone with me, he’d collapse to his knees, oinking and squealing, begging for food, piss, cock, filth–anything to validate himself in my eyes. A perfect pet–but I’ve grown a bit bored with him over these last four years, to be honest. Still Ned is finishing college next month, and I think he deserves a proper graduation present. Who, in their right mind, wouldn’t want the perfect pig, after all? Perfectly broken, that is.