Tag: hypnosis

It isn’t an easy job, trust me–we get some very troubled kids who come to our camp. Sometimes they’re sponsored because they’ve been expelled from their schools, other kids have gotten into trouble with the law or ran away from home, but we have a very high success rate for turning what many see as hopeless delinquents into productive young men ready to be reintroduced to society. My methods, I admit, can seem extreme, but they do work–the extensive hypnosis, the meditation sessions, the affirmation group therapy seems like a bunch of hogwash, but my methods work, and seeing it work is its own reward, well, that and the occasional prize I keep for myself.

This summer, it was Brad. Brad came to us from a severely broken home, and he was falling very far behind in school, generally slipping through the cracks from year to year, occasionally getting held back. At the age of nineteen, he was still a sophomore in high school, and this camp was widely regarded as his last chance. When I had my first counseling session with him, he barely trusted me, but some induced hypnosis cleared that up relatively quickly, and I realized we had a much more difficult case on our hands than I’d thought. A history of abuse from his father, and severe dyslexia had left Brad essentially illiterate–no wonder he was struggling. But he was so sweet, really, and wanted a daddy to love him so badly, how could I resist?

It started slowly, convincing him to start wetting his sleeping bag, and the camp began requiring him to wear diapers at night, something he found himself not protesting at all. After a few more subtle accidents during the day, I had him wearing them all the time, and before too long he didn’t even want to take them off–he couldn’t take them off actually, only a certified daddy like me could change his dirty diapers for him. Wearing a diaper helped him feel safe and confident, and reminded him of his daddy, of how good it felt to be wrapped up in daddy’s arms, with daddy’s cock up his ass. He was like putty in my hands, and so, since he was nineteen, he came home with me at the end of summer, instead of to the foster care system.

Well, the good news is that Brad has made a complete turn around. He’s all set to graduate this year, and has already caught up with this year’s seniors with my tutoring and hypnosis. Of course, he’ll be coming to study at the local college where I teach, and working as a counselor with me at the camp during the summer. Having a little boy around is so hot, I think we’ll try to find him a brother this summer as well.

Garrett looked up from where he was washing his car, and across the street he saw that the old faggot, Mr. Phillips, was looking at him from the window again, and he rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that he necessarily disliked the attention–he was definitely proud of his body and liked showing it off, or else why would he be outside on a nice day shirtless? Still, knowing that the fat old man was perving out on him was enough to almost make him feel like covering up. What he didn’t see, however, was Mr. Phillips slide the window open, point a strange looking ray gun at Garrett, and fire a strange bean of glistening light which enveloped Garrett for a moment, and then he went mostly limp, his eyes closed and head down, and he turned around in a trance, and crossed the street before letting himself into Mr. Phillips’ house.

***

Garrett startled awake, still standing, not entirely sure what had happened, and almost fell over, unsure of himself. He’d been outside washing his car right, but now he was in some bedroom he didn’t recognize, and he saw Mr. Phillips, his pervy old neighbor kneeling on the ground in front of him, dressed in a leather harness, a thick metal chain around his neck, and the sight of it made a deep growl of approval erupt from his chest, and his cock got a bit hard in his jockstrap.

“Wait…what?” he said to himself, and looked down–expecting to see his camo cargo shorts, but instead he was dressed in a pair of leather chaps and a white jockstrap bulging out with his erection, with two shiny leather boots on his feet, but looking at the slave kneeling in front of him, ready to serve was getting him hard–he loved brutally fucking these old fat perverts, but something was missing, something…he needed in his mouth…

“Slave,” he heard himself say, “Light me a cigar.”

“Yes sir!” Mr. Phillips said, and stood up, rushing to a humidor, opening it up and pulling out a slender cigar. He handed it to Garrett, who looked at it, confused, since he’d never smoked before in his life, but when the old man lit a match, Garrett puffed it to life like it was the most natural act in the world, and smirked. Mr. Phillips was disgusting and a pervert, but then again so was he…right? Just a muscular leather god obsessed with humiliating and dominating old faggots. “Clean my boots, slave,” he said, relishing the sense of power he had over this old man, and Mr. Phillips dropped to the ground, licking the leather to a bright shine, moaning as he did.

“You want my cock in that sloppy asshole of yours, slave?”

“Yes sir!”

“You want me to pound your hole so hard you can’t sit right for a week?” Garrett slipped his cock out of the jockstrap and started stroking it. He really needed a PA in the head. In fact, he really needed some other piercings too, and maybe…maybe some tattoos. Still that would have to come later–he had a fat ass to demolish fist, and with a growl, he kicked Mr. Phillips off his boot, got down and rammed his cock into the faggot with one long, dominant thrust.

On the Inside – Part 1

It was hopeless. That’s what I’d been told my whole life, really. My daddy was a coal miner, his daddy had been a coal miner, his daddy had been a coal miner, ad infinitum. Heh, ad infinitum, I bet you didn’t expect me to know that one–no one does. That’s the problem, that’s always been my problem. On paper, I’m a great student. Straight A’s, I even managed to get a few courses from the local community college in my small town, but getting into a nice college? Studying? Improving myself? It seemed hopeless, because when I open my mouth, I’m just another stupid hillbilly redneck, or at least I sound like one.

I’d tried to mask it all my life, I’d tried so hard, but I just couldn’t break it. Finally, nearly defeated, I went to my counselor at my high school as I was getting ready to apply for schools, and told him about my problem. What was I supposed to do, when I had an interview with an admissions director, and I sounded like an extra from “Deliverance”?

He tried to tell me that it would be alright, that a smart person would be able to separate out the accent from the person I really was–that the superficial stuff wouldn’t matter in the end, but I didn’t believe him. Still, he did have a suggestion for me, which I wheedled out of him–the name of a speech therapist who was a friend of his. He told me that he’d had success with softening accents before, and I was willing to try anything.

I didn’t tell my parents where I was going. Amazingly, the doctor had agreed to see me for a consultation without a payment, which was good, because we didn’t even have insurance. In the office, he told me that he’d found that quite a few patients had had lots of success with hypnosis to help correct their accents, and I was willing to try anything once. He put me under…and I don’t remember what happened, but when he woke me up, I still remember what I said, it was beautiful:

“Please sir, please can I suck your cock Sir? I’m just a cum hungry pig sir, please, I’m so thirsty.”

It came out perfectly, not a hint of accent, and when he unzipped his fly and let me suck his cock, I was in heaven. I’ve been his patient ever since, and I know I won’t have an issue getting into college now, though Mr. Burroughs wants me to apply to Bellmon University–I’m not sure why though. Still, I need to go see my counselor today–I need to give him another ‘thank you’ blow job today, he loves those almost as much as I do.

To be Continued…

Are you unhappy with your weight? Do you wish that your body would match how you want to see yourself? Then the Fat Action Team is for you! We run private seminars in many cities, call us today for locations in your area!

That was the third time Max had seen the flyer on bulletin boards outside the restrooms in the Flying J’s he stopped at on his cross country hauls. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit interested. Max had been driving trucks for quite a few years now, and the simple act of sitting behind the wheel for ten hours a day, and eating greasy food at these truck stops was quickly piling weight on his aging frame, and he didn’t like it one bit. Hell, he’d been a track star back in high school, and had simply assumed that his metabolism would never fail him! And now here he was, over 300 pounds and hating the image in the mirror. So, he ripped off a phone number slip from the bottom and gave it a call, discovering there was a seminar happening in his hometown during his next weekend, and he signed right up.

When he arrived, however, he quickly figured that something strange was going on. For one thing, he knew a lot of the guys there, fellow truckers from the road, but they were all guys who’d grown quite a bit larger over the last few months, and who were all rumored to be complete fags as well. Still, as soon as the seminar started, and the spiral appeared on the wall, Max wasn’t worried one bit any more–Max wasn’t worrying or thinking about anything.

The rest of the weekend was spent in a haze of sex and food. Trips with the Fat Action Team to all you can eat buffets, followed by massive orgies in the hotel bedrooms, all of them videotaped by the Team members, to be sold on their porn site, gainerpornos.com. Still, when Max left the seminar, refreshed and already signed up for another group session in two weeks, he did look at himself differently in the mirror–he was too damn skinny. Still, he devoured food on the road (and fucked quite a few FAT members he ran into at truck stops) and successfully packed on ten pounds before the next seminar. He felt so good about himself after that, and there was nowhere to go from there but bigger, and bigger, and bigger…

***

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Into the Night of God – Part 3

***WARNING***

If the first two parts of this were too much for you to handle, don’t read this one. Just don’t. Or rather, read it expecting a horror story–not erotica. Contains amputation, genital nullification, mental death, scat, and bestiality.

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 3 – The Night

Bruin whines in his crate, but I don’t do anything with him yet. I’m not sure what to do with him yet, to be honest–I had apparently misjudged the weight of the connection they must have formed during the day in the hospital, to allow something like this to happen. Rather, that was a lie. I know what I have to do to him, but I would like there to be some other option. There isn’t though, and it’s all the damn doctor’s fault. I could have been merciful. He could have been happy here, serving and worshiping me, but he clung like a rat to a life that I’d forbidden. He defied me, with that damn journal of his–I should have burned it when I’d had the chance. Still,confidence breeds foolishness–I will be more careful when adding to my flock in the future.

I pour myself another shot of whisky, and take a drag off my smoke. My calm blend tonight, even though it makes my limbs heavy–I need to take the edge off my mind, and file off the anger for a moment. There will be other times for anger, but not now–I have to be calm for what’s coming, if I lose control…well, then I’ll be out a pig. This will require careful work, and I can’t let that fuck mess things up anymore than he has already. Still, he was quite the actor–looking through these new entries in his book, he’s been out from under my mental control for a little over a month now, regaining his thoughts bit by bit, pushing back against me. His mental fortitude is impressive–I introduced him to the donkey a few weeks ago, and Jack does not have a small dick. Still, maybe he really does like it? It doesn’t matter now, still, I find I’m curious anyway.

I pour another shot and flip through the diary again, looking at his thought process, at his plan. It could have worked, if he’d picked a better time, if he’d studied me better, but he’d panicked and run too soon. Grabbing Bruin and getting in the truck, planning on making a break for it–what a fool. Still, I’d stopped them easily enough, even if I’d had to shoot out two of my tires. I’m gonna have to fix those tomorrow–I hate car work. He’s just been one big headache since I’d met him, since that fucker had run over my last dog. I know I lost control, I know I went to far, burning him like that. Still, it hasn’t been a complete waste, even if it had taken me months to clean it all up. I can’t help that I lose control sometimes–I just can’t handle the extent of my wrath. Still, I’m feeling good and calm now. I’m under control, I’m feeling mellow, and I think it’s time.

I’ll deal with Bruin tomorrow and the rest of the week, while the pig heals. I’ll just have to destroy him, as much as I hate doing that. It makes for a dumb ass dog, but his loyalty–an animal is worthless without that. I can’t have him care for anyone else. I’m the important one, Me! I’m his master, how fucking dare he, feeling for anyone else, especially some fucking rich ass twinky doctor like that! I hate him, I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna make him wish he’d never been born I’m–

Breathe. Deep breaths, keep calm, it will all be sorted out in time. I nearly lost it there, but I can’t postpone this any longer, he needs to be dealt with. He needs to learn his lesson, he needs to understand that I’m the one he has to answer to for his wrongs. That I’m God here, that it’s my judgement, my farm, my world that he’s in now, and my word is law.

I step out into the cold night–but Spring will be here before too long, I imagine. It has been a long winter, but Bruin and the Doc at least kept me busy, and I suppose the Doc will keep me busy this summer too. He’s in the barn, bound up on the cross I keep there for play when I want a change of setting. It’s even darker in there, and I turn on the lights, watch him blink awake, and he’s angry. He’s yelling, but I say nothing. I have to make this quick, before I lose it, before I just decide to just gut him and end it, but he deserves worse than that, he deserves true punishment, but it will be slow, and he will regret defying me.

Right hand first, with the hedge clippers. Thumb, and every finger cut off at the root. He screams, understanding–or beginning to–what he’s done to himself. Then the second hand like the first. I could take the whole hand as punishment for theft, but I take both his feet instead, saw them off below the ankle. He’s begging now–pleading with me, the fool. God’s don’t respond to the pleas of mortals, God’s don’t care about their subjects. What a delusional fuck.

Two more operations. I dig into his mouth with a bloody hand, drag out his tongue and snip off half, stopping the bleeding as quick as I can, and then the final cut, I remove his balls and cock with a single snip, and then tend to his bleeding and wounds. I wonder if I should just let him die, but that’s too easy for him, for the defyer, for the pig. He’s sobbing now, he’s already hopeless. Good, but as a final measure, I douse his cock and balls on the ground where they lay in gasoline and light them on fire, before leaving, shutting out the lights, the flame his only light–for the moment. Now, I must let him heal before we continue.

I focus on Bruin for the next few days as I planned, and it is good practice for what I will eventually do to the pig as well. It is a hybrid I have rarely used because it is exceptionally strong–it destroys the mind, rather than enhancing it. For the tribes, any who used it were generally left as nothing more than drooling fools, rendered more like animals than anything else. It was supposed that strong spirits dwelt in these particular leaves, the spirits of animals, and that they would overwhelm anyone with a weak spirit. In fact, they simply degrade an individual’s mental faculties so far that they can barely reason, behaving more on instinct than anything, but the hypnotic state that it induces is strong enough that it can overcome anything, even love.

I administer it to Bruin through the gasmask. His remaining humanity disappears quickly, and before I realize my object, I begin to replace it with anger and hatred. I pour my own dire emotions into him, I make him hate the pig, I make Bruin loathe him, I make him trust only me, his Master, his God, the Divine. I stop before I lose too much of his mind, but he’s far stupider–just an angry brute, a guard dog, a hunting dog. When I let him loose in the fields after this, I often find him later in the day, his mouth caked in the blood of some rabbit he chased and disemboweled during the day. He makes me so proud. I love that beast, and he now, truly, only loves me.

I bring this new Bruin before the pig as he heals, as well. I show him what he made me do to our pup–my pup. I show him how Bruin hates him. In the barn Bruin leaps at him, leash taut, leaping for his throat, ready to kill him should I release the lead. The look on the pig’s face–terror, but also regret and sorrow. He understands. He understands that this was his fault, that he made me do this, that this is all part of his punishment, in the end. He is healing well, though. My healing blends have closed his wounds, and they are scarring well. I mind his crotch–well, it’s crotch, now. I mind it to make sure it can still piss through a small hole, but otherwise it is just a flat, round scar–nothing left of it’s manhood, as it should be.

I fuck and fist it, and it still finds it pleasurable. It still realizes it belongs to me, that I control it. I love knowing that the act of pleasing me still brings a stupid grin to its face. On occasion, I regret what I have done, but I must remain steadfast. It had to be done, it had to be punished, I cannot allow myself to be defied. There is more to be done, more work to do, and it will begin soon. I start him with the smoke. The pig’s mind is far, far sharper than Bruin’s, it will take much longer to unravel, but I will enjoy watching it happen. It struggles against the gasmask at first, coughs from the smoke, but as soon as he has sucked it all down and gone limp, I pull it away and begin introducing it’s new habits and desires. Especially it’s hunger. It will be central to him, his stomach his new mind. The next day, I test him, and put him in a stall with a trough, and begin pouring in the slop.

The pig fights it for a few moments, but cannot resist for long. It devours as much as it can, and quickly, it realizes that he cannot stop. The trough never empties, I make sure of that, and even though the pig grows fuller than it has ever been before, it continues eating non-stop, until it collapses from exhaustion and faints. I wait until it wakes again after close to an hour, and sure enough, it continues eating–the compulsion is far too strong for it to fight. I have already won, and he doesn’t even realize it. He still fights the compulsion, still believes it has will, that it can defy it’s Lord God.

I clean up after the pig for now. I want it to grow accustomed to its new appetite. At first, it can only eat in two hour blocks, but soon its stomach has stretched large enough that it can continue eating for nearly three times as long. It no longer fights against the compulsion, the hunger has only grown stronger. I have smoked him two more times, reinforcing it’s need to eat, but I hold back. I don’t want to destroy it’s mind entirely, not yet, I want it to realize what it will become, I want it to accept it, to accept it’s complete submission to my will.

I’ve been taking care of the pig’s waste so far, scooping it out along with the rest of the hog manure, but I decide it’s time the pig starts managing it’s own matters. I smoke it again, and this time, the hunger becomes paired with a need for filth. I expect this one will take more work to ingrain within his psyche, but that’s alright–I have all the time in the world. Spring is now nearly giving way to summer, and I’m minding the pig less. I’m working on several new hybridizations, and I have my own crops to maintain. Bruin is as good a guard dog as any, and only grows more loyal to me by the day. Still, one day he got into the barn by accident, and I had to drag him off the pig before he killed it–still, it gave the hog a much needed, and much enjoyed–fright, for me at least.

The pig doesn’t want me to know what it’s been doing, I can tell. It’s doing it’s best to hide it, but I can see–the streaks of shit across it’s growing body, and finally I catch it in the act. I look in the stall, and there it is, rolling in it’s own massive pile of filth, grunting and snorting as it does, and before it can do anything about it, I’m straddling it, my cock down it’s throat, and I piss gallons into it’s guts, and it loves it. I can tell. It gives me a chance to see it’s growth too. As much as I detest chemicals, the additives and hormones in the slop have been working marvelously. The pig’s muscles have withered, and it’s packing on fat faster than anything I’ve seen. I fist it’s filthy hole next, and then force it to lick it the filth off my arm. I want it to realize that I did this. That I’ve known what it’s been doing all along, that it has no secrets from me, not anymore. The last place it can hide, it’s mind–not even that will last, but it doesn’t realize that yet. It will soon though.

The need and compulsion for filth grows, as I increase the frequency of it’s smoke sessions. The first signs of mental loss are showing–the pig will “blank out” as I call it, and run on instinct alone for minutes at a time. It’s new obsessions dominate it, and I watch it wake up from these mental time gaps, it’s face in a pile of hog manure from the pig in the next stall, and it’s horrified, but it can’t stop. Before long, I don’t even have to clean up after the pigs–the hog does all the work for me before I can get to it. Still though, it eats. I feed it too, my own shit. It fought the first time, but now it’s excited–it craves it. I bring it Bruin’s as well, and make sure it knows where it came from as it chews it down.

I begin pressing deeper into the pig’s mind, destroying it forcefully. I remove its memories–its past. It can no longer remember a time when it wasn’t a pig on my farm, when I didn’t own it, mind, body and soul. The blanks last longer now–hours at a time. But he is fighting me still. He still believes he can win if he tries hard enough. But you can’t win against God, you can’t defy me and expect a chance to defy me again. Still, I taunt it, on occasion. I bring it out of the barn. I leave it by the side of the road, and I step back. I give it the choice, I give it the chance to leave. I tell it that I won’t follow, that it can crawl into town if it wants, or wait for some passerby to find it and rescue it. I know that my commandments are too strong for such a weak pig to resist them, but it fights them anyway. It gets a few hundred yards down the road before it’s fat body, too tired and exhausted to make the trek, overloads its feeble mind. It blanks, and the pig inside draws it back to the barn to feed, to degrade itself for my pleasure.

How must it feel, when it loses consciousness on the road, and winds up back in it’s stall, eating, or licking the holes of it’s fellow pigs? I’m sure it’s beginning to realize what’s happening to its mind. It probably assumes that I bring it back though, that I stop it. I wonder when it will see the truth–that deep down, it wants to be here. That the animal I’ve crafted within it is winning. That before long, there will be no doctor–just a pig. A fat fucking pig covered in filth, devouring shit and piss, desperate to be fucked and fisted by me, it’s Lord and Master–it’s God. Sometimes, when it collapses, exhausted from eating, I listen to it sob. That’s how I know he’s still in there, how I know he’s losing, but hasn’t lost yet. Still, I should make it more tempting, I should corrupt it even further now.

Another session of smoke, but this time–pleasure. How much pleasure it gets from it’s filthy life. How content it is here. Now, when it devours the pig’s manure, I watch it shudder with delight. It can no longer cum, certainly, but it can orgasm. I watch as the pleasure overwhelms his disgust, I watch the doctor begin to rationalize its own descent into darkness. “This isn’t so bad,” it is thinking, “I am fed, I am cared for, I am happy. It could be worse.” But could it? Could it really be worse? Have I not been creative enough? Have I not punished it enough? The pig has fallen so far that he can no longer recall what he was, what it’s life could have been. His world is shrinking. I define the world, and the pig’s place within it, and he can do nothing but nod gleefully and accept it. Then, I give him pleasure for his service and piety. A pig’s pleasure, but pleasure all the same, to him.

I smoke him every day now, he is getting close to the final night of the mind. He struggles to understand me now. I speak to him often, but he usually just stares at me blankly, unable to comprehend language and words that should be familiar to him. He tries so hard though, to understand me, to comprehend the word of the Lord, but his brain can no longer grasp it, and he will inevitably blank out, and wander off to search out whatever filth it can find to satiate it’s never ending hunger. How must it think, when it is aware of itself? In images? In feelings? It’s language is disappearing, things must seem so simple now. Eat. Filth. Fist. Piss. Happy. Sad. Pain. Nothing else, anymore, aside from a few stubborn remnants.

It spends entire days, now, in the instinctual darkness. My mindless pig, obsessed with filth and devouring anything in front of it. It is clear that in it’s rare moments of relative lucidity, it struggles to piece together anything like a rational thought. I wonder if it still has any capacity to hate it’s life? It doesn’t seem to. At this point, it’s thoughts must be of how lucky it is to have a life which gives it so much pleasure. That, or simply confusion. Its mind struggling to do something–anything–with these higher order thoughts which were once so second nature, but which serve no purpose in the world I have made for it to exist in. I am with it nearly constantly now. I want to see it, that moment when the light goes out forever, when it’s mind finally shuts off, when it can no longer recognize itself as a self. I decide, finally, that I will give it a moment so pleasurable, so full of instinctual bliss, that it will give me the moment I have been waiting for for so long now.

I give it a pile of fresh sludge and slop, and it squeals with delight, hurling itself into it, eating it, covering itself with it, and then in comes the stallion. It has never ridden a cock this large, but it is eager to try, and It is soon impaled on it, the horse thrusting it into the pile of muck, and I can see the massive waves of pleasure rippling through it’s obese body, but the eyes, I watch the eyes. In them, there is a flame, it flares wildly. It can’t comprehend this situation, it has discovered bliss, it has witnessed the divine in it’s pleasure, has entered heaven, and then it dies. The pig continues, but it is an empty vessel now. It has known my wrath, and it has known my bliss. Night has fallen, and dawn will never come.

Into the Night of God – Part 2

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 2 – The Homecoming

The sun broke past the far side of Bruin’s window, the light slanting into his eye from the low-slung sun, signalling that the chilly winter afternoon was now dusk, and night would arrive soon enough. The knot of anxiety tightened in his gut, and he let out a soft whine. He was going home tonight–that’s what Master had told him. He’d been a good pup, he’d passed all of his obedience tests, and he could walk all on his own on his new legs, and so Master said tonight would be the night. Why then, wasn’t he happier?

The sun pushed it’s way into the window proper and Bruin turned his head away from the glare. Night came so quickly this time of year, it felt like Master had just left a few hours ago, and already he would be coming back soon. It would go behind some trees in a few minutes, and after a little while longer, it would drop past the horizon, and after that, the smoke-smell, and then Master would come and take him home. He should be happier about that–Master had told him to be happy, but then why wasn’t he happy? Maybe because of the dark–he doesn’t like the dark, he doesn’t like what happens when Master comes in the dark. Still, things are better than they were, right? He shook his head side to side, trying to clear the unease, but he caught sight of the sun, and it was the same way the sun had looked when he’d been driving, when he’d crested that hill and the sun had blinded him, and–

–a flash of light over the hill–the setting sun shot into my eyes, and I shielded them with one arm when I should have just slowed down, I should have slowed down, and then there was the thunk, and I slammed into the steering wheel. I hit something, but what did I hit? I can’t remember, I got out of the car, I got out and I ran around to the front. The impact had sent the thing flying ahead of me, there was a smear of blood across the pavement where it had slid to stop several yards away, and it was a person, wasn’t it? I walked over and it was…it was a dog, it was a dog like me, me there, lying there looking up at the truck that hit me? Master was there–he was there and he grabbed the bad man the man who hit me and he was so angry and Master dragged me off and knocked me out and I was dying, I was dying on the road and he left me? Why did he leave me why–

Bruin was trying to grip the sheets with his paws, but he didn’t have paws anymore, but they still hurt. They hurt all the time now, but more when he thought about that stuff, but it was never quite right, he could never piece it all together. There were his memories, and then what his Master had told him, and then what Doctor had said, and none of those things lined up. Which was the right one?

He realized he was huffing and wheezing, but since that awful nurse had stabbed him he couldn’t make much noise, aside from a soft whine and a quiet bark. Still, Master liked having quiet dogs, he didn’t like dogs that drew attention to themselves, and Bruin wanted to be a good dog for Master. The sun finally started moving behind the grove of trees, and Bruin felt most of him relax. His paws still hurt, even though they weren’t there, but now that he was calm, he was able to work through some of the exercises Doctor had given him, how he could imagine opening his paws, and that sometimes helped a bit. He took a few deep breaths, and wished his master could leave his paws on. He liked having them on at nights, he liked practicing with them. It helped him feel more normal, more like how he had been, when he could actually walk, even if he wasn’t very good at it. Still, he could do well enough, and Master said that soon enough he’d be jumping and running around the farm just like he’d used to, before the accident.

Now that his room was darkening though, the fear that memory had put in him wouldn’t quite dissipate. It hung in his quiet throat now, right below the scar, and he started to whine as he watched the sun slowly sink lower and lower behind the trees. He’d never seen Master during the daytime, he realized–he’d only ever come at night. What would it be like to be around him during the day? Could…did he even exist in the day? What if he took Bruin to a place where there was only night? Here, in the bed, people fed him and took care of him and Doctor came sometimes to talk to him, even though Bruin couldn’t say anything back. He’d felt safe with Doctor there, for some reason, he could tell he was a good man. Master was…he was important, he was God but he wasn’t a good man, he was a dangerous man, a wrathful lord, but he should be afraid of Master. That’s what made him a good master after all. If Bruin didn’t fear him, if he wasn’t afraid, then that meant Master couldn’t control him, but thinking about what had happened, what Master had done those first nights–

–Suck it, you fucking bitch, open your mouth and suck it!”

It had been so difficult, but Bruin had made it difficult and painful, if he’d just done what Master had said, if he’d just obeyed from the beginning.

–Go on boy, lick it up–you love how your Master tastes, you crave it. You want to drink as much of it as you can, you love how I smell, how I taste, how I look, everything about me. I am your Master, your Lord, your God. The thought of being away from me makes you anxious, the thought of never seeing me again scares you more than anything else in the world.”

Bruin was whining again, and he couldn’t tell now if the fear was because Master was going to come, or because Master might not come. What if this was just his last night with the Master? What if someone else was coming to take him away? He hadn’t thought about that, and these last thoughts felt like some kind of trespass–a violation of what Master would approve of him thinking–and he tried to bury them back down. He was a good dog–Master told him he was, so that had to be true. He wouldn’t abandon him–he was cruel, sure, but not cruel like that, and Bruin…Bruin didn’t know what would happen if Master and Doctor both left him.

He hadn’t seen Doctor in weeks now–in fact, he was beginning to wonder whether he had ever been real. No one talked about him, no one mentioned him, it was like he didn’t exist. It was all nurses now, and they never spoke to him, and they all smelled like Master, all had that same glazed look in their eyes as they fed and cleaned him, but they never said a word. Doctor had at least tried to talk to him. Doctor had treated him like…like an equal, like a person, like more than the dog he was.

“It’ll be ok Bruin, I promise.”

He missed his voice.

“I’ll protect you, you won’t have to worry about the Night Man, I swear.”

He missed him, but he’d lied. He hadn’t protected him–Master had come every night without fail, and it was Doctor who’d abandoned him, who no longer came, and he always smelled like Master. More than once, he’d wondered if they were actually the same person, if they were just tricking him. He’d thought that at first, because of the smell, but he knew it wasn’t true, but the doubts were always there, and Master didn’t care about protecting him, Master would hurt him, Master would do anything he wanted to him, but he was just the puppy, right? He was just a dog, just an animal, just his Master’s property, just something for his amusement and enjoyment, and that was good. Bruin liked that, he liked making his Master happy, he really did, but still, his Master didn’t love him, not really. Not really at all–in fact, he sometimes thought his Master hated him.

Bruin looked out the window again. The sun was now fully behind the trees, and the room was darkening quickly around him. Soon, he’d be here soon. The realization that he wouldn’t be in this room the next day washed over him, and he felt fearful again. He was helpless, really, without Master–Master could do anything with him, and Bruin wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He focused on trying to ease some of the pain in his imaginary paws for a few minutes, until he smelled it–Master’s smoke. Less than a minute now. And then the sound of his boots on the tile, and Bruin’s cock was so hard, so excited, and he just watched the doorway until his Master’s silhouette filled it up.

“Evening, Bruin–you ready to get out of here and come home with me, boy?”

Bruin barked softly–his voice could barely raise above a whisper now, but that was enough for his Master to know he was excited. He was, too. At least he wouldn’t be here anymore. At least he wouldn’t be stuck with this endless cycle, the days spent worrying and the nights spent training with Master. It was exhausting. As scared as he was, it was a change, and one he was ready for. His master set down the duffel bag he’d brought along with him and pulled out Bruin’s real paws–four specially designed artificial limbs especially for Bruin. The two front paws were shorter, and Bruin’s forearms slipped into them easily enough. The fiberglass curved down to the point where it terminated in a realistic dog paw, with small enamel claws and everything. His back paws were similar, but much longer, connecting at his disarticulated knee, they curved back, and then forward to paws of their own. It had been months of practice now, every night, but Bruin could finally manage to walk on his own without falling. It still didn’t feel very natural, but Master told him that now that he didn’t have to stay in bed all the time, he’d be getting much more practice, and that he’d be running around the farm like nothing had happened at all, before long.

When all four paws were secured, Master helped Bruin out of the bed and set him down, where he padded around a bit on his paws, getting used to them again. He was still a little unsteady, but he was more confident in them than he had been before, and he did love his paws. They made him feel like a real dog, like all the dogs he could remember seeing, like how he’d been before the accident…right? But…Bruin shook his head, that was too hard to think about, and he realized he hadn’t thanked his Master for his paws today, and he pawed over and nuzzled the crotch of Master’s jeans, knowing what was expected of him.

“In a moment, Bruin–we have to put the rest of your gear on though–we can’t have you going around without your muzzle and tail after all.”

Master pulled both out of his bag, and strapped the muzzle on around Bruin’s face first, and then strapped the rubber tail on above Bruin’s asscrack, where he gave it a wag or two in thanks, and then nuzzled Master’s crotch again.

“Well, someone’s eager tonight,” Master said, and unzipped his jeans, before pulling out his cock, “Well I suppose you can have your bone early. I was going to wait until we got home, but seeing you all geared up–fuck, you’re one sexy pup, you know that?”

Master slipped his cock into the front of Bruin’s muzzle–it was short enough that he could take most of Master’s cock in his mouth even with it on. Of course, it helped his Master had a nine inch cock–and Bruin still preferred sucking on it than having Master fuck him with it. He was too rough, and usually it just hurt. Still, it made Master happy, so he didn’t resist, and besides, he remembered when he had resisted–

Bad dog! Bad dog, you know what happens to bad dogs? Bad dogs get their nuts cut off! Do you want to lose your nuts? Do you?

Bruin shivered at the remembered threat, and focused on sucking Master off like a good dog, like a good pup, like a good slave. He was all those things, after all, and he wanted Master to be happy, that was most important. If Master was happy, he didn’t get punished, and if Bruin wasn’t punished, he could be happy too…mostly. No, more than mostly, he did like his life, with Master, and he was excited to be away from this hospital, away from these people with their blank stares, just…home. He wanted to be home, he’d been going home before the accident, right? But then why had he been in the road? It was so confusing, like two pieces of a puzzle he kept trying to fit together even though their edges didn’t match up at all.

Master grabbed the back of his head and rammed his cock down Bruin’s throat, mashing the leather muzzle against his face as he came, and Bruin swallowed it all down and licked the head clean before Master pulled it out, and then he received a pat on the head, and le licked his Master’s gloved hand, thanking him for allowing Bruin to serve him, and gave his tail a wag without thinking about it. “Well, shall we get going, Bruin? I bet you’re excited to finally be out of here–I know I am. It’s been too long since I had a dog on the farm–besides, I have someone I want you to meet. I think you two will get along great.”

Bruin wasn’t sure what Master meant by all that, but he didn’t care. He saw Master pull out the leash and his heart leapt–he was going, he was really going! Master clipped the leash to the collar Bruin wore, and then they left, Bruin doing his best to avoid slipping on the tile floor with his paws, still, he was doing much better than the first time he’d tried walking in them. It had taken all night just for Master to show him how to balance on all four, and two more nights before he could take a step or two without falling. Oddly enough, everyone they passed seemed to not notice them at all, even though the sight of the two of them walking down the hospital’s hallways would have probably been quite the shock. Master led Bruin down to a side emergency exit which had been propped open, and then they walked to a pickup truck parked around back, the chilly air strange against Bruin’s skin.

“Alright Bruin–we’re gonna have to put you in the kennel for now. I don’t want anyone seeing you, after all, and I wouldn’t want you falling out, right? We can’t have you hurt yourself, and put you back in the hospital again.”

Master grabbed Bruin around the waist and hefted him up onto the tailgate of the truck, and Bruin saw a plastic kennel a bit too small for him tethered to the bed. He didn’t like it, and he started to whine a bit. Something about the tight space, he didn’t want to go in there.

“Now Bruin, don’t make me start punishing you again–you’ve been doing such a good job, boy, and I’d hate for you to backslide. Now get in the kennel.”

Bruin knew that he would end up in the crate on way or the other, either without being punished, or after being punished, and so he took a few tentative steps forward, sniffing the crate as he went in, and as soon as he could, Master closed the grated door, and then the realization that he was trapped shook Bruin to the core. Trapped, he was trapped, there was no way out–

Why can’t I move? Why can’t I move, and he’s there, he’s just watching me, looking at me, can’t he see the truck is on fire? Can’t he see that it’s burning? I didn’t mean to hit the dog, I didn’t, it was an accident, just an accident, please! Please! I can’t speak, if I could just speak, if I could just tell him how sorry I am, I can feel it, it’s almost to me, and I can’t move an inch. What did he do to me? There was that smoke, and now I can’t move a muscle, and it’s on me! I’m on fire, I’m on fire somebody help me, somebody–

“Bruin!” Master shouted, “Get a hold of yourself,” and slapped the dog across the face, bringing him back to the moment. He didn’t know what he’d just seen, but Master looked angry and scared. Bruin shrunk down, embarrassed at having lost control like that, but what he remembered hadn’t made any sense. He’d been in the cab of a truck, and he’d had hands, not paws, and it had been on fire, and he hadn’t been able to move, and Master was there watching him, watching the fire burn him, but why?

Then Master shoved Bruin back into the crate and locked the door again, and Bruin started to panic, but he didn’t have another flashback like before. He just whined and pawed at the grated door, but Master had already climbed into the cab of the truck and started the engine. The drive lasted close to an hour, and the entire time, Bruin did his best to keep calm. The terror would come in waves, usually with a sudden bump, and then he would be trying to force himself out of the kennel until he calmed down enough to breathe and stay put. However, as the drive wore on, and twilight grew even darker, his paws–the ones that hurt but that he couldn’t see–they starting itching, and then heating up until he was certain that the leather and fiberglass paws he now had would burst into flame right before his eyes. It hurt–it hurt more than anything he’d experienced, but he pushed through, keeping as calm as he could, until the truck took a sharp left off the road, and he heard gravel crunch under the tires, meaning that they were home on the farm–or at least that’s what Bruin hoped.

The truck rolled to a stop, and he heard the door to the cab open. He had a moment of terror, when he thought that Master might leave him in the kennel, and that he might freeze to death in the harsh night, but he came around the back and let Bruin out of the cage, and he couldn’t scramble out of it fast enough. “Gonna have to work with you on that, I suppose,” Master said, “Can’t have a dog who hates being crated. Still, we can worry about that later.”

He picked Bruin up and set him down on the gravel, and it took Bruin a few steps to adjust to walking on something that wasn’t hospital tile or carpet. Master didn’t bother lashing him, and Bruin followed him up onto the porch–struggling a bit on the stairs–but Master pushed open the screen, and looking in, Bruin saw Doctor there in the living room, and he couldn’t help but wag his tail and try to bark. Doctor! He missed him–now he knew why he’d gone missing, he must live with Master too…but if he lived with Master, did that mean…could he trust him?

“Bruin!” Doctor shouted, and a silly grin spread across his face as he ran over and wrapped his arms around the big dog, “I missed you so much Bruin, but Master needed me here, working and stuff so I couldn’t come see you. But you’re home now Bruin, isn’t that neat? I missed you tons, though…”

“That’s enough, faggot,” Master said, and shoved Doctor away, “Why don’t you do something useful, and give Bruin here something to fuck? I bet our new dog is horny, right boy?”

“Yes sir!” Doctor said, and got down on his elbows and knees, ass up, and Master walked over and pulled out the big plug from his ass.

“Well Bruin, make sure you give it a sniff and a lick first, like a good boy, and then I want to see you fuck the bitch like a good boy.”

Bruin wasn’t too sure about this, really, but his cock was hard, and he had always…sort of liked the Doctor. Still, it felt wrong for some reason–but an order was an order. He padded over and sniffed at Doctor’s hole, before giving the crack a few licks through the muzzle, and then he mounted him–with a bit of help from his Master–and he had to admit, it felt good. It felt good topping the bitch, it felt good asserting his dominance, and listening to the bitch moan like a whore beneath him, begging him to fuck harder. Bruin didn’t last very long–and he unloaded his cum into the bitch’s pussy where it belonged, and then his Master shoved him off and took his place, ramming his own cock in a moment later, making the whore moan louder.

“Bruin,” Master said, “Get over here, and I want you licking my shaft as I fuck this cunt.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Bruin managed to get his muzzle against the base of the Doctor’s hole, between Master’s legs, so he could lap at his cock while he fucked Doctor good and hard. He could taste his own cum as he licked, and when his Master shot his own load up there and pulled out, he kept licking the crack as cum leaked out of Doctor’s hole, the Master telling him he was a good dog for cleaning up the whore’s hole after they’d finished using it, and he felt good. This felt good, it felt right. He was home–this was home, this was his life, his Master, the Doctor, and their dog.

However, one thing stuck with him, before Master got him ready to sleep in the doghouse out in the back, putting on Bruin’s thick fur coat to keep him warm in the winter night, before locking him in the roomier kennel. It was when Doctor pulled him close for a moment, after Master finished fucking him, and Doctor whispered into his ear, “Don’t worry Bruin–I’ll protect you. No matter what. I promise.” It kept Bruin awake most of the night, thinking about that, about what Doctor had said before too, but he couldn’t protect him from Master. Couldn’t protect him from the night. It had caught them both he realized, and there was no way out for either of them, and he shivered in the cold cage, and gave a silent howl to the rising moon.

Into the Night of God – Part 1

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 1 – The Accident

The excerpts that follow were taken from Dr. Nathan Monroe’s personal journal.

***

August 16th, 2012

Just when you think you’ve seen the worst of it, the world surprises you. I mean, as a doctor, I’ve seen some pretty grisly scenes, sure, and ones worse than this I suppose, but still, it’s funny how little things can lead to horrific catastrophes. Patient Z, as I’ll call him (I have to call him that not just because of confidentiality, but we don’t have any way to ID him as of yet, but I’ll get to that) was admitted around 3:30 this afternoon after a car accident on Route 93. One of the farmers out that way reported he’d seen the truck Z had been driving run off the road after hitting his dog. The man had tried to swerve out of the way, apparently, but not soon enough, but even worse than the dog dying, well, he’d crashed hard enough for the truck to burst into flames.

The farmer had seen it happen, and had run inside to call for help, but by the time he’d gotten back out, the flames had swept into the cab. The farmer (I feel bad calling him that, but no one had gotten his name that I’d spoken to about it, so I don’t know it!) had run over and pulled the man out, but not before the unconscious man had caught on fire.

It isn’t pretty, I can say that. The burns cover about forty percent of his body, which, I suppose, could be worse, but most of the damage was incurred at the extremities and his face. I got a look at him today, shortly, and well, it isn’t pretty. I honestly don’t think we’ll be able to save his hands and feet, and even if we did, they’re so damaged he’ll never use them again. Amputation, I think, might actually be best–at least then he won’t have a constant reminder. Well, amputation would be a constant reminder, too, I suppose, but a negative rather than a positive. Is it worse to have something you can’t use, or nothing at all?

Still, funny, isn’t it? You try and do the right thing, you try to miss the dog, and you end up comatose in the hospital, burned all over, about to lose your hands and feet. How fucked up is that? We need to see if we can save his hands and feet first, if not, then amputation will be best, and help get rid of most of the burnt flesh. The face, well, we can probably get a plastic surgeon to fix the worst eventually, but I don’t know. It might heal well enough that it might just scar badly while remaining mostly functional–it’s too early to tell.

On top of all of that, we have no idea who he is. When the farmer got the guy out of the truck, still on fire, something happened to the patient’s wallet, so we have no ID on him at all. And to top it all off, by the time the firefighters and ambulance got there, the car had already exploded. We don’t have details yet, but they can’t even find the license plates. It’s all very strange, actually, but that’s an issue for the police, not for me. To top it all off, he’s in a coma, probably after sustaining some head trauma in the crash, so we can’t ask him either. Still, we’ll know who he is soon enough, once the police investigate, but I’m not looking forward to that phone call. There was no wedding ring, so I hope he wasn’t married, but he’s young enough to still have parents. Gah, how horrible is that, to have this happen to your son? I can’t think about that, it’s too awful. I just have to get him better, or as better as he can be, after something like this.

***

August 20th 2012

Well, as I suspected, in the case of Patient Z, amputation was necessary. The burns were just too extensive, and the tissue is already showing signs warning signs of wet gangrene. As awful as it may be, it saves us the trouble of treating the burns there, so in the long run, it might be better for Z. For his arms, we were able to save most of the forearm, cutting just about the wrist. His legs were worse, and unfortunately, we were forced to disarticulate at the knee. Still, it has made his prognosis better, I believe. The remaining burns are not as severe and appear to be free of infection, which is lucky. Those on his face, aren’t as severe as I first thought, and seem to be healing well. I’m hopeful–now we just need him to wake up, so we can figure out who he is!

Now, leaving work aside for a moment, I submit that I have a date for Friday night! I know, who would have thought that out in this rural shithole of homophobia, I would actually find someone who not only was gay, but who was willing to risk coming out to me? It’s a bit surreal, actually, but not unwelcome. It’s been lonely out here, even if the money is alright. I thought I would be able to handle it, but as you know, it’s been rough.

The guy, as a matter of fact, is the farmer who saved Patient Z–how strange is that? I was checking in on him today, when the farmer (whose name is Jerome, I have finally learned) when he came by, asking about Z’s condition. I updated him on what had happened, and he said he and the police had searched his property for anything that might have helped identify him, but found nothing. He wondered if he’d been driving without plates for some reason, but we both agreed that was the police’s problem, not ours.

Still, he’s surprisingly bright, for a roughneck. Articulate, a nice sense of humor, but definitely a country guy, which as you know, doesn’t really appeal to me. Of course, me being a bit flamboyant cued him into my possible orientation, and while his question was a bit crude, it was nice to know that I wasn’t the only “faggot” around. He isn’t really my type, I must say. He’s a bit older–probably around 40 or so, and a bit heavyset–definitely a bear. Plus, he had a strange smell about him. Not unappealing, I suppose, but I suspect he’s a smoker, which is a definite turnoff for me. A friend would be nice though, and he didn’t seem very romantically interested himself–mostly he sounded lonely, which would be two of us. I’m going over to his house for dinner on Friday though, so wish me luck. Hopefully it won’t be a complete disaster.

***

August 25th 2012

Well, it wasn’t my usual kind of date, but I suppose I could call it a success. It was easy enough to find, I just had to look for the remnants of Z’s accident on Route 93, which is kind of awful. (Z, by the way, hasn’t woken yet, but that’s all I’ll say about that for the moment.) As I’d expected, Jerome is indeed a smoker, but not tobacco–it’s some sort of strange plant he grows himself. Supposedly, or so he claims, it’s a much cleaner smoke than tobacco, something the Native Americans around here used to grow or something, I don’t remember. Actually (and I hate admitting this) I don’t remember a whole lot about the evening. I must have had a bit too much to drink, because the evening is pretty much a blur until morning, when he woke me up, in his bed, with a rough fuck.

Did I mention how hot he is? Fuck, I love that big belly of his, and I never knew that feeling someone that hairy next to you could be so…fucking hot. I mean, I’ve always had a thing for roughnecks, why else would I have moved out to the sticks to work at a hospital like this one? Funny, that never occurred to me before, huh, but it’s true. Anyway, so Jerome fucked me, and to be nice, since he’d made me dinner the night before, I got up and made him breakfast (naked, I might add–I know, I’m such a bad boy) and after we ate, he fucked me again–God, I can’t enough of him. We’ve been sending each other filthy texts all day since I left, and I just can’t stop thinking about him, about how hot he is, about how…how safe I feel with him. He’s the kind of guy who you just…feel like opening up to, you know? The kind of guy who you just innately trust. Still, I need to try and take it slow, these quick burn relationships are the ones I tend to rush into and that bite me in the ass later, so I’m going to hold off as best I can.

***

August 26th 2012

Alright, so this is one of those angry entries, you know, the ones where my hand is shaking, and my face is red, so I’m just going to keep it short, and get it out of my system. So, since my date on Friday ran over into Saturday, I needed to go it Sunday morning to get some work done, which is fine with me, since most everyone is at church anyway, so the whole building was quiet. Z’s room happens to be on the way to my office, and as I was coming down the hallway, I saw Jerome of all people letting himself out of his room.

Weird, right? So I stop him and ask him what he was doing in there, and he tells me he was just checking up on him, which I suppose sounded reasonable enough, but what followed, well, it was fucking inexcusable. He was horny, apparently, because he pulled me into the room (which was really smoky by the way) and proceeded to fuck me right there, up against the wall, in the hospital, in a patient’s room! Fuck, I was so…well, I mean, it was hot, but just so fucking wrong. And…and it was so weird, the entire time, he kept telling me that–fuck, it sounds so rediculous writing it down–telling me that I was his God, and that I should be on my knees worshiping him day and night. How messed up is that? He left, and I just sat in my office, angry for a few hours, before I finally called him and told him off, telling him I never wanted to hear from him ever again.

Look, that’s all I can write, I just can’t deal with this right now.

***

October 23rd, 2012

I admit, that I had been losing hope in Z’s case, hardly anyone wakes up after a week, much less two months, but finally, he’s out of it, for better or worse. Still, I must say that while I expected there to be some cognitive issues…the symptoms he’s presenting with are rather strange, to say the least. On the positive side, he seems to have had no loss as far as his cognitive abilities go. He still is capable of processing language, of speaking, of visual and spatial reasoning, and yet…well, there’s the amnesia for starters. We still have no idea who Z is, and it turns out that he has no idea who he is either. The amnesia seems to be centered around the accident itself, as we expected, but beyond that, appears to be rather localized around his identity and his own, personal past. Nothing about what he was doing, where he was traveling to, where he was from, family, friends, just all of it gone.

Still, that’s not the strangest thing. I went in to see him, and as soon as I came close, he…started screaming in terror. Just, abject terror, and tried to worm his way off the bed as best he could, and the nurses were forced to restrain him as best they could. I left the room, and he calmed down a few minutes later, garbling something about “the night man” and “smoke.” Apparently something about me had scared him half to death, I’m not sure what. The nurses gave him some meds to calm him down, and when I entered next, I was able to explain his situation. Once he got calm, he was able to tell me that I smelled like “the night man,” which I don’t understand at all, but he was kind enough to tell me that I wasn’t him, and I promised I’d do my best to keep him safe. I know, silly right? But he seemed relieved.

Regardless, my explanation didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. When I tried to explain what had happened to him, and about his amputations, he refused to believe that he had ever had hands or feet. How strange is that? I have no idea what to make of it–I’m not a psychologist, and there isn’t one at the hospital capable of dealing with this kind of psychosis. I’m going to recommend his transfer to a larger hospital. We can deal with his injuries, but his mental stability really worries me.

***

October 24th, 2012

Well, just when I thought yesterday couldn’t get stranger, I get home from the hospital, and what should I find on my doorstep? Flowers. From Jerome. I mean, I haven’t heard from him in weeks, not since I blew up at him after we fucked at the hospital that day. Still, it was a nice, if belated gesture, and I don’t know what kind of flowers they were, but they smelled just like him, and like that smoke of his, and I admit, I got a bit of a hard on thinking about him again. I didn’t feel like talking to him really, but I brought them in and put them in some water, not wanting them to go to waste, and that evening, my phone rang, and it was Jerome.

I thought about not picking it up, but he had sent me the flowers, so I thought I could at least hear what he had to say. We talked for I don’t know how long–hours? And I missed him so much, that when he told me to come over, I couldn’t stop myself, and over at the farm, on the porch, I got down on my knees, and told him how sorry I was for how I’d acted. I don’t know what had come over me, to be honest, he was so sexy, I was the one who’d begged him to fuck my ass in the hospital–he hadn’t forced me to do anything. How could I have forgotten that? Still, he was good enough to forgive me, but he refused to fuck me until after I’d licked his whole body clean (which was so fucking hot, especially his sweaty ass crack, fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about it) and god, if it wasn’t the best fuck of my life after that.

I think I love him. No, I know I love him, my heart just aches being away from him like this, and at home, I just smell the flowers he sent me all the time and think of him, and how much I love him, how much I want to worship him, and how I’d do anything for him anything he asked me to, because he’s so smart, way smarter than me. I mean, he knew just what to do about Z, didn’t he? He gave me this list of drugs to prescribe, but I can’t call him Z anymore. Jerome’s right, Z’s a stupid name, I should call him Bruin, like he does. Isn’t that a good name for a dog? But anyway, he knew just what to prescribe for him, and I called the hospital and withdrew my transfer request because of course we can treat him here, just like Jerome says.

He just sent me a text! He’s horny and wants my ass–I have to go, I’ll write more later.

***

December 6th, 2012

Gosh, has it really been that long since I last wrote something? Still, I have been really busy. Jerome’s been putting me to work on the farm, and it’s getting close to harvest time, not to mention all of the cooking, cleaning and fucking I’ve been doing for him. Still, it’s a small price to pay. The only patient I’ve had any time for is Bruin, and he’s really starting to improve, I think. Those drugs Jerome suggested I prescribe have really helped his clarity of mind–he’s remembering more and more these days, the poor pup. What an awful thing, to be in a hit and run like that? Very traumatic, especially for a puppy dog like him. Sure, he still has some issues, like he keeps forgetting he’s a pup, and thinks he’s human. How silly is that? But he’s doing a lot better. Jerome thinks we’ll be able to take him home soon. Still, I wish I could do something about his night terrors–nothing seems to be working. His screams are waking up the entire hospital at times, but I just don’t know what to do.

Actually, I haven’t been at the hospital very much lately, because I’ve been getting these splitting headaches whenever I try and do my work. It seems like anytime I try to do something more complicated than cooking Jerome dinner or washing his clothes, my head starts beating itself against a wall. It means I can’t do a lot of stuff I used to enjoy, like read my medical journals or do crosswords and stuff like that, not that I really have much time anyway. When I tell Jerome about the headaches he just tells me I should smoke more–oh, did I tell you about that? Jerome got me hooked, I admit it, and the stuff is nice. Still, I don’t think it’s the same plant Jerome smokes, or if it is, it just makes me feel stupid and silly and really horny when I smoke it. He tells me that it’ll help with the headaches but it doesn’t do much at all really.

Work, with the headaches, has gotten really difficult, but someone else is going to have to deal with it this weekend, because I’m moving in with Jerome! Isn’t that exciting? I already got rid of most of my things–Jerome said I didn’t need them anymore, and he was nice enough to talk to the bank about settling my mortgage, so I’m all set. Not that I haven’t been living over there nearly full time anyway, but it’ll still be nice to make it official.

***

December 11th, 2012

Fuck.

Naturally, I take a weekend off, and everything goes to hell. Thank god Jerome was there, or I don’t know what would have happened.

I’m getting ahead of myself. So I spent the weekend moving my things to the farm, so I wasn’t at the hospital. However, from the sound of things, Bruin’s night terrors and screams only got worse, and apparently, one of the night nurses just went and lost it, took a scalpel, and tried to cut his throat. I mean, thank God Jerome was there, watching out for Bruin, or he might have died. The police took him into custody, but our poor pup–I don’t know if he’ll be able to bark, but he certainly won’t be speaking anymore. Jerome sounds hopeful, and that makes me feel good, but still, how crazy is that?

Jerome wants us to bring him home, and I agree. He’ll be safest home with us, taking care of him. Besides, he’s Jerome’s pup after all, where else would he go?

But didn’t he I don’t, it’s another headache coming on

Hurt so gotta stop

Fuck, oh my god, it’s never been this bad,

I…I remember, he’s not…not a pup? But then

Don’t know how long I can keep fighting it, so much pain. He’s not a pup, I think Jerome’s done something. I tried to stop smoking but it hurts so much, I feel like I might pass out any moment. I hear his truck, he’s coming in, I have to stop him, I have to stop this, but hide this first, where he won’t find it, and hope I’m strong enough.

***

[Undated]

Jerome was right I was thinking too hard. I’m just a stupid slut after all just his stupid slut and Bruin is his pup and of course Bruin needs to come home with us. Well, I’m not just any stupid slut, I’m his stupid slut. Jerome own’s my faggot ass, or at least that’s what he says to me when he’s fucking me. He fucks me so hard, I love it when he fucks me. I love it when anything fucks me, that’s what Jerome said, Jerome said my ass exists to be fucked, and it’s a shame that such a smart guy had to be attached to such a fantastic ass but that’s not a problem anymore I’m just a dumb slut like Jerome wants me to be yep just a dumb slut no more headaches for me just fucking and sucking and doing chores for Jerome because I love him I love him so much diary I can’t tell you because it’s like as big as the sky.

I’m not supposed to be writing in you by the way so this has to be our little secret. Jerome says I can’t have any secrets that I can’t tell him anything but I haven’t told him about you, and we’ve been good friends for so long I’m sure one little secret won’t hurt, right?

I can’t wait for Bruin to come home. Jerome says he’s been watching over him all nights and getting him started on his obedience training but that when he’s home the two of us will make him a proper puppy, and eventually Bruin will fuck me isn’t that exciting!!! Jerome can’t wait for Bruin to try on the paws Jerome made for him, I saw them and they look perfect Bruin will walk around just like a real doggy, and Jerome can’t wait to teach Bruin how to fuck me he wants all the animals to fuck my hole he said and I can’t wait because I love to get fucked I’m practicing now diary on a big dildo Jerome just gave me it feels so good I’m gonna go practice now and hide you again where Jerome won’t find you. Goodbye diary I don’t think I’ll have much time to write again but I’ll keep you safe I promise. And Bruin too. I promised him too, can’t forget that too. Ok I have to hide you now, gotta keep you safe. I’ll try to write soon I swear.

Oh man, when I look back, I mean, there’s just one thing I can’t believe–I was such a drag man, just a total lame ass motherfucker. I mean, look at that, look at that saggy fucking body–that used to be me, before I learned how to have fun. Damn, it’s so lucky that I found that self-help program online, because man, that helped me turn into the fun guy I am now.

I mean, the first thing I learned–and I learned it real quick, was that one of the best fucking ways to have fun is to work out. I didn’t believe it at first, and I mean sure, it was hard work too, especially when I first started out, but pretty soon, fuck I was having so much fun at the gym! I mean, it was getting to where I didn’t want to leave some days, I’d just keep working out the whole time.

And jobs–fucking jobs, am I right? So not fun. Man, I quit mine, I mean, sure, I had to find some kind of income, but luckily the program hooked me up with this real fun fucker. I just live with him now, and he pays for my gym membership, and he taught me so many other fun things! Fuck, like how much fun it is to look like a freak, and get yourself tatted and pierced, fuck–I’m gonna get my whole body done eventually, I can’t fucking wait. And man, I have so much more fun now that I’m dumb as a fuckin’ brick. I didn’t need those fuckin’ brain cells anyway, they were just holding me back.

But you know what’s the most fun of all? Sex. I fucking love sex. I’m a fucking addict. Think you could fuck me with this dildo while we keep talking? Man, that would be so much fun. Come on, I you look like a total bore. I should give you a link to that website–I think that would loosen you up good. Just think, before long, you could be having as much fun as me!

The Doctor and the Loser

***WARNING*** Contains light scat.

***

“Good afternoon team.”

“Good afternoon Dr. Jacobs,” the football team replied in near unison. They were all seated on the benches in the locker room, their eyes empty and glazed, just staring at the jeweled necklace the doctor was wearing. Standing next to him was the team’s coach–a very large, hulk of a man, but he looked like he might fall over at any moment; his arms were limp, his back slouching forward. The only part of him that held any tension was his neck, which craned his head around so he could keep looking at the jewel the doctor was wearing. It was so beautiful after all–he didn’t want to stop looking at it. He never wanted it to leave his sight for as long as he lived.

“Alright team, as you know, your coach here hired me so that I could help eliminate the culture of losing which has been the primary reason for these many, many long and grueling losses your team has suffered. Now, when I came here, I knew that a team which had lost for so long would have deep seated roots of failure throughout it. What I didn’t expect, was for so many of those roots to have a single trunk, which could be ripped out so easily. Now team, your coach and I have just had a long, serious talk, and…well, maybe it would be better for your coach to say it.”

The doctor looked over at the coach, but the man didn’t notice–his eyes were still locked on the necklace.

“Coach? Do you have something you would like to admit to your team?”

“Whaa…?” The big man said, noticing for the first time that the doctor was speaking, “Oh…uh…oh yeah, I do.” With some reluctance, the coach pulled his eyes away from the necklace and faced his senior varsity football team. “Uh…team…team, I hate to, uh, have to tell you this. But the doc and I, well, we’ve discovered that…that I’m a Loser.”

The whole room gasped. Dr. Jacobs had told them about Losers before–about how dangerous they were to a team’s chances of winning. The doctor had told them all that they were very close to becoming Losers themselves, and that was the main reason they obeyed him and did everything he asked, no matter how strange. Becoming a loser was simply too terrible a prospect to risk. But to find out that their coach was a Loser? No wonder they’d lost so many games! With a Loser coaching them, they would have been coached to lose!

“What the fuck is a Loser doing coaching us Doctor!” Simon, the team captain shouted.

“Yeah!” Vinny said, “He might have turned *woof* us all into Losers!”

The doctor held up his hands and the team settled down again. “I know, I know. It was never my intention to put you all at risk. I thought I had determined that the coach wasn’t a Loser when he hired me, but I was wrong. You see, the coach had no idea that he is a Loser–after all, Losers are very good at deceiving themselves, but now that we know this, we have both agreed that there is no way he can remain your coach, isn’t that right?”

The coach nodded, his face reddening, “I…I’m sorry boys. If…if I had known, I would have never put you in this kind of danger. But since the season has already started, I technically have to remain your coach…but for now, I’m putting all of you in the hands of the doctor. I can’t think of anyone who might help you all win more than he will.”

The coach took off his whistle and handed it to the Doctor, who placed it around his neck, being sure it didn’t get in the way of the necklace. “Alright,” the doctor said, “I think that’s enough Loser shit for now. Forget him boys! Now, Simon, go lead the team through stretches and a jog!”

“You heard the coach, team!” Simon said, “Let’s go!”

The team all charged past the two men and ran onto the field, leaving the Doctor and the Coach alone in the locker room, and the Coach looked like he was about to cry. “I…I don’t want to be a Loser, doctor! I don’t! Please, please can you help me be a winner like you?” He got down on his knees in front of the doctor, hands clasped, “Please, I’ll do anything–anything!”

The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry, but once you become a Loser–a true Loser–there’s nothing you can do. You’re going to be a Loser for life…but…well, no, It’s a lot to ask of Loser like you, and I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“What?” the coach asked, “What is it? Please, if it can help–if it can help the team win, if it can help me, I’ll do it, I’ll do anything for you.”

The doctor smiled. “Well, alright. You see, having Losers around can be dangerous, unless they know their proper place. But you, I think you’ll fit into your proper place just fine. Come on, let’s go into my office and have a chat about what you’ll be doing from now on.”

The doctor walked towards the coach’s office, and the coach started to get up and follow him, but the doctor looked over his shoulder, “No. Crawl, you fucking Loser. Loser’s don’t walk like winners–that’s the first fucking lesson we’re going to have to get into that Loser head of yours, got it?”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“Yes sir, Loser!” the doctor shouted, “You don’t talk to me like I’m equal to you–I’m not a fucking Loser, do you understand? You address me, and the whole team, as Sir, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir! Yes sir, I understand.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to use you after all–you might be the sorriest Loser I’ve ever seen!”

“No!” the coach shouted, “Please sir, please–I’ll do anything–anything!”

The doctor stared at the now sobbing coach, on his hands and knees on the concrete floor, and smirked. “Alright, come on Loser.” The doctor stepped into his new office, and the coach crawled after him, “We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to make you the worst Loser this team has ever seen.”

***

They won.

In one of the biggest turnarounds the county had ever seen–the Silverside High Vipers won the district football championships. Hollering and shouting, the players streamed into the locker room, thrilled with their victory, carrying Coach Jacobs on their shoulders, and they gave their coach three cheers of thanks.

“Well done team!” Coach Jacobs said, “I honestly didn’t know if you had it in you all to be winners, but you proved me wrong!”

“Ha, we aren’t Losers coach, but we could have been. We have you to thank for that,” Simon said, and the team started hooting and shouting again, Vinny, on his hands and knees next to Simon, gave a loud howl, the team captain reaching down and giving the back of his pup’s head a long, deep scratching, Vinny rubbing his face up against his Captain, and Master’s, leg, his cock already hardening at the thought of the load of victory cum he would have the pleasure of swallowing soon.

“But now–now we have to announce the VIP!” the coach said, and the team fell silent in anticipation. “And I’m going to go with Mick!”

One of the linebackers started jumping up and down like a girl, and ran over to the coach, giving him a deep kiss. “Oh thank you coach, thank you! I tried so hard, I tried so hard just for you!”

“And you’re a winner Mick,” Coach Jacobs said, giving the big man’s ass a rough squeeze, “Now get in that office there, so I can give you your award.”

Mick licked his lips, and hurried into the office, the Coach following behind him, and left the players’ huddle to disperse into the pairs and triples which had formed naturally over the course of the season. Darren, however, broke away from Lewis for a moment, saying, “Hold on, I gotta piss before we fuck. Hey! Loser! Where the fuck are you? I gotta take a fucking leak, you worthless piece of shit!”

“Here, sir! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m here!” Loser said, as he crawled out from where he’d stayed out of sight. He had to stay out of sight until one of the team members needed him, or else he might break their winning streak. The several months since the good doctor had outed him as a Loser had not been easy for the old coach. He’d been tasked with being the repository for all of the teams loser aspects–all of their waste, all of their abuse, all of their humiliation. It hadn’t been easy, but what else was there for a Loser like him to do? He’d lived in the locker room, wearing nothing other than the oldest, nastiest jockstrap he could find in the lost and found bin. Coach Jacobs had taken good care of him, at least–or at least given him better care than a Loser like him deserved. Still, the diet of junk food and lack of exercise hadn’t helped the Loser’s figure. He was now well past obese, like most Losers are. He also hadn’t shaven or cut his hair in all this time–or taken a shower–and he stank almost as bad as Jerry did in his unwashed uniform, his beard caked with dried bits of shit that had collected there over the many practices and games where he’d served as the entire team’s toilet.

He crawled over and wrapped his lips around Darren’s cock, and drank the young man’s piss down, not spilling a single drop, trying not to moan in pleasure. He really was such a Loser–how else could it be that he would enjoy being one so much? It just felt…so much more natural to let things fall, to drink piss, and eat shit, and stink like a truck stop…with a shiver he felt his cock unload a wad of cum into his jockstrap–he couldn’t even control that anymore, he was such a fucking Loser–but he didn’t stop drinking, and he sucked and licked the head clean before crawling away back to his hiding spot–or he would have, if Jerry hadn’t called him over.

Several members of the team had gathered around him–after all, it was time for him to take off his gear, since this had been the last game of the season. He stripped off his rank jersey and socks, and then his jock, and said to the Loser, “Yo, clean me up, Loser–I haven’t had a proper bath in months!”

Loser went to work, licking Jerry’s body clean as quickly as he could, being very careful to touch him with no part of his body other than his tongue. He couldn’t risk spreading his Loser-ness to anyone on the team after all–and when Jerry was satisfied, he grabbed the Loser’s jaw, and stuffed his months-unwashed socks into his mouth, and then the pouch of his equally filthy jock, which he secured by wrapping the waist strap around the old coaches head twice. “Enjoy it, Loser–and they’d better be clean by the time I come back to school on Monday!” he said, and the team laughed, before they fell back into their sexual bliss.

The Loser crawled off to his corner, soaking the filthy socks and jocks with his saliva, before sucking it back out, feeling his cock shoot another load unbidden into the pouch of his jock. The Coach wouldn’t be happy that he’d shot twice already–he might even put the Loser back in chastity, but that was alright. The Loser deserved it–he knew he did. But if this is what it took for his old team to become winners like they were meant to be–then Loser could be happy with that, at least a little bit.

I coach the local high school football team, and, well, our school isn’t the best in the state, or the best in the county–well, we’re basically the worst out of everywhere. A friend of mine recommended a sports psychologist to me though–a guy who specializes in getting rid of the culture of losing, or something. I think it’s a crock of bull to be honest, but I hired the guy–it can’t hurt right?

Well, he’s been meeting with the team once a week now, and I have to say, he must be doing something right. I mean, we aren’t winning every game, but the team has definitely improved–but…well…

Some of them have been acting strange. I got a call from Jerry’s parents–they’re concerned, because he hasn’t taken off his jersey, jockstrap, cleats, or gloves from last week’s game. He just tells them that it’s his lucky gear, and that if he doesn’t wear it, then the team won’t win a game ever again. I asked him to hang out after practice yesterday to talk to him about it, and when I came out…well, he had his jockstrap off, and he was…sniffing it, and he had a hard on. I don’t know what to make of it. I tried to talk some sense into him, but he just blabbered on about Dr. Jacobs this and Dr. Jacobs that…it was hopeless.

And then, the next day in the weight room, Vinny was doing his bench press, when all the sudden he glazed over, rolled off the bench onto all fours and started barking and panting like a dog. He did it for a good minute, and I had to smack him across the face to get him to stop it, and he didn’t remember doing any of it! It was so bizarre. I think I need to have a talk with Dr. Jacobs about this. I’ll schedule a meeting for tomorrow before practice, and we’ll sort this all out then. I hate to fire the guy, but if he’s doing something weird, I need to know.