Tag: inanimate

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 8)

Erik…wasn’t sure he wanted to put on his old jock. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to being that old him. He liked this body–the fur, the stink, the power, the brutality–but he did as his coach told him to do, and pulled on the jock, being careful not to rip it on his claws. It was tight, and while it did fit–it felt weird, over his fur, like it didn’t belong on him at all. Then, he helped coach, both of them hauling the other, much tighter, jockstrap up Paul’s thick legs and thighs, getting it to settle under his gut and around his sheathed cock.

By that point, Erik had noticed that some of the changes his body had gone through were beginning to fade. His paws were becoming hands again, his claws returned to nails (though they seemed harder, and sharper, than before), and his snout was pulling back into his face. Still, not everything changed back. He kept quite a bit of the hair–in some places, it was still thick enough to completely obscure his skin–and he also didn’t lose any of his new height or mass. He didn’t have an exact measurement, but he had to guess he was close to six foot five at this point, and he probably weighed in at over 300 pounds of fat and muscle. In a locker room mirror, he looked at his face–which was mostly the same, aside from the much thicker beard, and the thick head of brown hair he had…but it didn’t feel like his face. It felt like a mask. Underneath…he was still the bear, still that monster. He hadn’t changed back, so much as covered his new self up with the skin of his old body. He peeked into the pouch of the jock, and sure enough, nothing in there had changed at all–his skin just as hairy, his cock still…inhuman. It made him feel at ease, seeing that.

Paul gave a groan, and rolled over. The orgasm had been so powerful, that he hadn’t really been able to focus on, or do, much of anything as long as it had lasted, and it had lasted close to twenty minutes. He’d been able to feel Coach and Erik moving him around, and even felt the two of them forcing some tight jock onto him in his stupor, but he hadn’t been able to do anything to help them, or stop them. Now, however, he was able to at least roll up, and see that whatever strange body he’d had had also faded away somewhat. Like Erik, the obvious animal traits–the snout, the ears, the trotters, the tusks–had all disappeared for the most part–though his incisors were still peeking out over his lip, he was still massively fat, and his skin still felt so rough and thick, like before. Paul peeked in the pouch of his own jock, and saw that his strange cock had slipped back into its sheath, his massive balls still churning below, and just the sight of it made him get a bit horny all over again.

Coach explained the rules of their new bodies to them both, while Sponge worked behind them, scouring the floor for any drop of moisture and filth it might have missed earlier. If they had their old jocks on, both of them would be…mostly human. But when the jocks came off, they’d be themselves again in a few minutes, proper sexy beasts. The jocks wouldn’t rip, and they wouldn’t age, so both of them wouldn’t have to worry about destroying them, but if they were ever washed, their old selves would be washed away too, and they’d be trapped in their real, bestial forms forever. Should that ever occur, the coach advised that their best bet, would be to go live in the woods somewhere.

Paul was only half listening at this point–the powerful musk coming from beneath erik’s pouch had drawn him back, and he was sucking at the bear’s cock while coach kept talking, groping his own piggy cock through the mesh. “I should also mention, that since you two…transitioned together, you’re going to have a fairly strong bond for quite a while, as you can see. I don’t think you’ll mind, however. And if you need to let loose with someone else, well, you always have me and Sponge, as well as a few other choice alumni I can put you both in contact with.”

Erik and Paul were more than happy with one another, however, though no one else at the school could figure out why, one day, two straight football players had simply gone gay for one another…or why the two of them stank so much…or any of the other oddities of their new bodies. Their musk, even with their human skins on, was so powerful that few people could stand to sit anywhere near them, and when they were together…well, it wasn’t long before they were in the rest room, banging each other’s brains out. They each decided that they couldn’t do the college thing, not like this, and instead they got jobs out of school with a few of Coach’s contacts in the Stinker network. It was a few years until they were able to afford a cabin up in the mountains, but no one saw much of either of them from that point on, and anyone who coach sent to pay them a visit seemed to disappear as well.

Sponge, on the other hand, never left the locker room again. Coach introduced all of his teams to the dummy the next week, and soon, they were all happily using the thing as their cum dump and urinal. After a few months, the thing was utterly sodden, and was having a hard time keeping all of its moisture in. By the end of the school year, it had passed capacity, and constantly wept filth which it tried to wick back into itself. Coach let it dry out a bit over the summer, alone, and it served the teams well over the next decade, before it finally started to rot dissolve away. Coach salvaged the jersey for his personal collection, sold off the rubber head to a collector, and looked forward to the day he’d find another one like Anton. They were, after all, his favorites, and he knew just how to treat them right.

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 7)

Robinson was pleased to see that the two beasts had become so well acquainted with their new bodies, and with each other, while he’d been tending to Anton. Usually, when he did this to his players, it took a bit of coaxing from him before they sank as deep as this. The echos of the two were loud in the tiled room, and the stench of their filth was…heady and intoxicating. Despite the fact that Robinson had cum less than a minute prior, he was already excited again–but he could wait a moment longer. He dropped Sponge, his newest dummy, to the ground, where it bounced slightly, the helmet rattling against the floor. It tried to sit up, but it still wasn’t quite familiar enough with it’s new form to really understand that it no longer needed to try and move like a human. Still, it was close enough to the two rutting beasts that it could sense filth. It flipped over and started crawling over towards them, the mouthhose dragging on the ground. Erik saw it, and while his eyes were a bit puzzled, he didn’t stop fucking Paul’s hole deep. The boar, on the other hand, didn’t realize they’d been joined by something else until Sponge started forcing itself between his huge belly and the floor, Sponge feeling it’s body flatten under the weight of the animal above him, spreading wider, soaking up all of the cum and sweat that had dripped from the two of them over the last several minutes. The one part of Sponge that wasn’t at all flexible was it’s head, and that ended up in the larger gap between Paul’s thighs, the pig now driving it’s cock into the cushiony mesh of the Sponge’s jersey, and the dummy just stayed there–the puddle soaking up into its body, the pig rutting against it, leaking more cum on top of it. Here, it would be properly used, like it was supposed to be.

Robinson watched Sponge settle in, and then walked around in front of Paul, where Sponge’s feet were sticking out, and ran his hands over the boar’s face–feeling the rough skin, tugging at the floppy ears, examining the tusks and the nose. “What a nice boar you made, Paul, simply handsome–and stinking as–fuck, nothing smells quite a good as nice boar. Open up piggy, Coach wants to spit roast this hog.”

Paul was all too happy to have another cock inside him, and started slobbering all over his coach’s knob. It was hardly the first time he’d tasted it, but the smell and taste of the rank meat was so much more intense than before, and so much more pleasing. Paul had always hated the taste, but now, he couldn’t get enough of it, taking it to the hilt, grunting and snorting, bucking back to meet Erik’s thrusts, and an intense pressure built up in his groin. His nuts constricted, and he started pumping his load all over Sponge beneath him–soaking the jersey with even more of his seed, which the dummy was all too happy to store for him.

Coach could see Erik growing closer as well, and he left Paul to his massive orgasm, straddled the boar’s body, and pulled himself close to Erik. “Shame you weren’t born one of us–you should have been. You would’ve been an amazing Stinker. I can at least give you this though, you fucking monster. Now come on, cum in this fucking pig, I wanna see you breed his fucking hole, Bear.”

He grabbed Erik by the fur on his cheeks, and pulled him into a kiss, shoving his tongue between his sharp fangs, tasting one another’s rank breath, and with a muffled roar, he came, flooding the pig with his cum, his snout never leaving the coach’s mouth. Robinson pushed Erik away from Paul for a moment, his cock popping free, and he grabbed the end of Sponge’s tube, and pressed it over the pig’s asshole, as Erik’s cum was about to come spurting back out. Sponge tasted the vile filth pouring into him, and began shuddering and shivering beneath Paul–who was still in the throes of a massive orgasm, his entire weight pinning Sponge to the floor, where all it could do was wiggle.

“Fuck…oh fuck, what the fuck did you do to me?” Erik asked, looking down at himself, at his strange new body. He looked more bear than human at this point–but what in the world was he supposed to do? Go out and live in the forest? He stared at Coach, but the older man seemed to sense his worry.

“Look, hold this tube for me, and I’ll ease some of your worry, alright?”

Erik nodded, and walked over. It was hard to grip the tube with his strange hands, but he managed. Coach went back to a locker, and pulled out a jockstrap from a bag, sniffed it to double check he had the right one, and tossed it to the bear. Erik smelled it too, and knew the smell immediately. It was his–the jock he’d worn with Coach all these years. “Will this…change me back?” he asked.

“You’ll see–I’ll explain everything in a moment. But first, help me with this pig–he’s fucking heavy, and I’d like Sponge to not be a pancake.”

“Is…is that Anton in that gear?”

“It was Anton, yes. But Anton doesn’t exist anymore–that thing barely has a mind at all. It’s just a dummy now–all foam, through and through. It’s only desire is to be used for sex, and to store men’s filth inside it’s body. It takes a special kind of man to make one, and Anton, well, he was a rare bird. I’ll be enjoying him for a while–and you can always use it, whenever you visit. Too bad they don’t last longer–the will holding what remains of his spirit to the thing usually fades away after six or seven years, and it’s not too long after that that the thing will start to rot from the inside out–but the stench of that! Fuck, it’s crazy, I tell you.”

Suddenly Erik was no longer jealous for not being chosen for the coach’s special treatment. Clearly, of the three of them, he had gotten the best gift he could have imagined. Coach waved the bear over, and together they rolled the grunting and moaning hog off of Sponge, who crawled back onto the pig’s leaking cock and kept rubbing the remaining cum onto its body, until Coach shoved it off and away.

“Now, put that jock on, and then help me get Paul’s on too.”

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 6)

“Alright Sponge–not too much longer now,” Coach Robinson said, as he pulled Anton’s foam body back up, and shoved him into the chair. He felt…lighter, now–at least, aside from his head, though the piss cooling in his foam guts gave him a bit of weight. His coach leaned over and kissed him, exploring Anton’s mouth for the last time, wishing, somewhat, he could still smell the boy’s clean breath. He could at least taste him, the blank slate that he was. Fuck, all Robinson wanted to do was defile him, ruin him, but if he stayed human, there was literally nothing he could do that would leave a mark. Like this, however–well, the boy was going to be his now–an object, a dummy, a toy, a mascot for his teams to use and abuse, and he was going to love it. Well, what little bit of him would be left, would love it–there wasn’t exactly much thinking that could happen with a head full of foam. Anton’s eyes were still fearful, but resigned. Coach fed him some more spit, and Anton swallowed it down, feeling it hit the foam below his neck, and soak into him, moistening him, feeding him, nourishing him. Before, when Coach had forced himself on Anton, he’d always left feeling a desperate need to be clean, but now, for the first time, he didn’t want to be clean, he wanted…more. More spit, more cum, more piss, more sweat. He wanted to soak in it, wallow in it, be made of it.

Coach pulled his face away, even as Anton found himself seeking more. He mouthed the word “Please,” and the coach just laughed.

“Now, now–we have to finish you off first, and then you can have as much as you can get.” Coach pulled another rubber tube from his drawer–this one even thicker than the one which had been forced into his ass–and quite a bit longer–nearly two feet long. Anton…knew, where it would be going, and he didn’t…want to want it. Coach put the narrower end of the tube at his mouth and he…opened. Wide, tongue flat. “It’ll go in a bit easier if you swallow–often, and as much as you can, for as long as you can–but it’ll go in regardless.”

Anton nodded. The coach pushed the tube in, hard, and Anton did as the coach had said, and swallowed. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference, and it still hurt–hard enough that he was certain that the rubber wasn’t sliding neatly down his throat, but tearing into it–but it didn’t matter for long. The tube hit the point where flesh became foam, and the resistance picked up–there was over a foot left before the widest part of the tube would be flush with Anton’s lips, and he could see the coach, over him, bringing his weight to bear on the tube, shoving it deeper until it wouldn’t go any further, and it began to merge with his flesh. The coach was no longer pushing on the tube, but stroking it, and while it began as a tickle, soon the sensation of his hand running up and down the flexible rubber was more powerful than even his cock had been, when he’d had one.

After the tube, came a full rubber hood–much like the mitts which had gone over his hands. There were no holes for his eyes, or his nose–it was simply featureless. He could…feel the rubber taking over his skin, and then, fully choked off from the world, his face and head began to change, lighten, the flesh losing mass and becoming foam like the rest of him. He could…feel strong, firm hands on his skull, squeezing and crushing it as it changed, and he lost sense of himself, of his humanity, his brain fading, and leaving just the…need to be damp and wet and filthy. The squeezing stopped, and something else settled over his rubber head–a familiar sensation of a football helmet, his mouth tube fed through the chin strap and the face guard, and that too became part of his body, his new skull. Anton wasn’t there any longer–he was…Sponge.

Sponge couldn’t see, and it couldn’t hear, and it couldn’t smell, but it could…sense. It knew that its coach was there–no, not a coach anymore, because Sponge wasn’t a player, or on a team. Sponge was just a thing–an object, a dummy, a cumrag and urinal. But it could sense its owner, it could sense where he was, and that…that his owner was horny. Horny as fuck, looking at his newest dummy, and Sponge just wanted to be used by him, and satisfy him, over and over again, and be used by anyone and everyone. There were hands on its…tube, its snout or trunk perhaps–they were its owner’s hands, and they were putting something in the end of the tube, some attachment, and he could…feel the new end of its tube, a tight…silicone fuckhole, and its owner put his cock in it, and Sponge…felt so excited. Excited that it was going to be fed. It reached out with its mitts, pawing at its owner, trying to show him how excited it was, how much it needed to be fed, how…dry it was. It could sense how excited its owner was, as it was getting closer, and then, he came, shooting into the tube–and Sponge could taste it, taste all the delicious cum in its tube, and it dropped off the chair and onto its padded knees, and the cum ran down the tube, into its throat and soaked into the foam of its chest–and the sensation of wetting, it was ten times as powerful as it had been before. It felt like, for Sponge, that its purpose had been fulfilled, its entire life reduced to a simple mission: become wet. Hold men’s filth. Store it, and let it rot and mold within him.

Its owner removed his cock, and then grabbed Sponge around the waist, and hefted it over his shoulder. Sponge…enjoyed the sensation, how light it had become, but couldn’t wait until it was properly heavy and sodden. They moved through a doorway, Sponge’s flexible limbs bending awkwardly against it, and beyond he…sensed others. Two fucking…men? Animals? It wasn’t sure, but more importantly, there was so much filth–and Sponge hoped it would get to suck up as much of it as it could.

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 4)

After his demonstration, the coach forced Anton into a long sleeve compression shirt–long enough that the spandex and the rubber of his new mitts overlapped slightly, making it difficult to tell where one fabric ended and the other began. Much to Anton’s surprise, even after he’d lost the feeling of his flesh under the shirt, he found that he could still move…but without bones or tendons, he also had a…surprisingly large range of movement. He was like some living doll, and every touch of the coach’s hands on his new “skin” sent waves of pleasure through him. He didn’t want this to be so enjoyable. He was terrified, certainly, but also somehow…excited.

Coach forced him to bend over the desk next, revealing his ass for him. Anton thought coach might want one last fuck before sealing away his asshole underneath the uniform pants, but instead, he took a wide, semi-flexible rubber tube, told Anton to open up his ass, and began sliding the tubing into him. He could feel the rubber wanting to cling to the sides of his ass, as it went in, but Coach kept forcing it deeper–deeper than Anton had ever really taken much of anything before, until there was just an inch or so of tube sticking out from between his ass cheeks. Then, coach stopped, and after a few seconds, the rubber had adhered to the inside of his hole. The inside of the tube was filled with silicone, almost like a fleshlight. The coach’s finger pushed against the rubber sphincter and entered him, making Anton shiver, and an odd…need, overwhelmed him. “There–you might be a dummy, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be useful, right?”

“R-right…” Anton moaned back, without much thought.

“Yeah, I think you like being used, don’t you?”

Anton just moaned again. Coach played with his dummy’s new hole a little longer, and then got the pants and socks he’d already prepared–black spandex, like the shirt, but with pads built into the knees and ass. Socks first, and while Anton’s feet and ankles began to numb up and turn to fluff, Coach forced the pants on, all the way up to his waist. A ragged hole had been left in the front, allowing the jock pouch to peek through the front, and a small hole had been left in the seat of the pants as well. It took a bit of maneuvering, but coach pushed the end of the rubber tube through the hole, and the pants sealed themselves around it–joined with it seamlessly, in fact. Anton was left with an ample butt oddly without much of a crack–just a hole leading deep into Anton’s body, and the fluff it was rapidly becoming.

Now that most of his body had been…converted, he had a better feel for the substance which was now filling his body. It felt more like…foam, than anything else. Pushing in, his body would indent substantially–much more than flesh–but would return to it’s shape rapidly. It reminded him of those memory foam mattresses, or an unused but first-wetted sponge.  He tried to stay standing, but the foam feet kept giving way under his weight. Coach put on two cleats next, which helped–giving strength and structure to his ankles and soles, allowing his the ability to walk–slowly, but he…could tell he would become better at it in time.

It was with some fear that Anton realized that, for several minutes now, he hadn’t heard, or felt, his heart beat. He also wasn’t breathing, now that he had no internal organs to pump air or blood through him. He tried to speak, but while his mouth could move, there was no air inside of him which could be forced out to make sound–he was just a human head, miming language uselessly.

“Almost done, dummy. Just a few more pieces. How about we get your jersey and pads on, eh?”

Anton had seen the yellow jersey with black writing in the corner, but it wasn’t until Coach had put it on him that he saw his new number on the front–34, the same number he had out on the field, in fact, but the name on the back was different. Instead of his last name, all it said was “Sponge.” The word filled his head with fear, thinking about what coach had demonstrated earlier, with his crotch, but the foam body…it had begun to ache. It needed to be wet, if it was going to move, after all. If he hardened, then he’d be frozen in place, like a statue. He was…damp at the moment, thanks to the water held in all the flesh he’d been before, but if he didn’t get more, he’d shrivel up.

Sensing his thoughts, Robinson patted him on his padded shoulder, “Don’t worry Sponge, I have lots of guys who will be keeping you well…saturated. My teams always love my dummies, and use them plenty. You’ll be holding onto all of our piss and cum and spit and sweat for a long time–everything might have just wiped off you before, but now, you’re going to be keeping everything.”

He pushed Anton over at the waist–it didn’t feel like bending over, it felt like he was just some doll, being manipulated by an owner. The rubber tube emerging from his new ass was a couple inches wide–an easy target, though Coach missed on purpose, soaking the seat of Anton’s ass in piss, before sending the rest of the stream into the tube, where Anton could feel it reach the end, deep within him, and the piss just started…suffusing him. It was warm, and pleasant…almost like the time coach had made him piss himself out on the field, after a particularly humiliating fumble. “Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it? It’ll take a while, but pretty soon, you’ll be dribbling filth with every step you take, heavy with everyone’s fluids. I bet you’re already starting to ache for it, right? Well, we just have to take care of that head of yours, now, and once that’s done, you’ll be a dummy through and through, Sponge–isn’t that exciting?”

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 2)

“Just…leave. You don’t have to be here, you can just leave, just fucking leave!” Anton was saying to himself, but his body wasn’t having anything to do with his thoughts or words. Then again, he’d grown used to his body betraying him around the coach. Ever since the first practice with him, he’d…sensed something strange between them, between the way they both smelled, and coach knew it too. Robinson had never given him a clear answer, regarding what, about Anton, was so special. All he really knew, was that whenever the coach was around him, he just wanted to get him as musky and stinking as possible–smearing him with the team’s dirty laundry, pissing and cumming on him, making him skip showers, leaving his own uniform unwashed…

Erik and Paul–they made sense, somehow. Neither was particularly clean, they would enjoy the sorts of things the coach did to them–especially Erik. Why not pick Erik for some special treatment? Why him?

“Ah, there’s my special boy,” Robinson said, entering the office and shutting the door behind him. The room was tight, and immediately, the coach’s musk overwhelmed the room. Anton’s breath quickened, and his desire to leave was beginning to fade, but he did his best to keep his focus.

“Sir…what…I don’t understand, why am I special?”

“Oh Anton, all these years! I don’t…find men like you very often. For stinkers like me, well, you’re a real find. So clean! Everything just…wipes right off of you. But don’t worry, I’ve been at this for quite a while,” the older man leered at him, opened a drawer in his desk, which is where he kept the sex toys he used with his harem of young athletes. But he didn’t take out a dildo–he brought out an athletic cup, but no jock to go with it. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy this soon enough. I’ve been needing another dummy–my last one finally fell to bits a few years ago. Sold some of his salvageable parts to a few friends of mine, but the rot! It just got in everywhere.”

None of that made any sense at all, but before Anton could get any answers, Robinson had taken the cup and pressed it to Anton’s crotch, over his cock and balls. He felt a series of stings all around it–it reminded him of how it had felt to get stitches, like when he was a kid and had cut open his knee on some glass–and when the coach pulled his hand away, the cup remained against Anton’s crotch, against gravity.

He reached down and tried to pull it free, but it was like he was tugging at his own skin. “Now now, if you get it off, it’ll be a bloody mess. Leave it alone, and stand still!”

Anton obeyed, “Sir, please…I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I could talk at you for days, Anton, and you’d never get it,” Robinson said, “But more than that, I’m sick of listening to you. Since I can’t get to the mask yet, shut the fuck up, and enjoy this,” he stroked the front of the cup, and Anton…shuddered, and nearly staggered to the side. He could…feel that. He felt coach’s hand on the plastic cup. He realized he couldn’t feel his cock, or his balls, either. “See? It’ll all feel so very good, once it’s finished. Relax! Now, let’s get you dressed.”

A jock next–a clean one, or at least a new one. Anton noticed that it seemed…stiff, somehow, and when it was on, he felt that same…stitching sensation as before, even around the cup. He looked closer at the waistband, and it was a part of his body. There was skin, then there was elastic, then there was skin. What in the world was happening to him? He kept at it, trying to get the jock to pull away from his body, but it refused to come away.

Coach grabbed him by the wrist, and held him tight. “None of that now,” he said, “I can do your fists early, at least.” Anton was expecting gloves, but instead coach pulled out two things that looked like rubber balloons, and started forcing them over Anton’s fists. The rubber was secured with two leather bracelets, not that it was necessary. The rubber edge fused to his skin like the jock strap had, and the leather fused on top of the rubber. He kept moving his fists as long as he could, but they grew numb, quickly, and soon he felt…nothing. Just two bulbous, rubber mitts where his hands had been a moment before. He looked at his coach, terrified, but the leer on his face…it was crueler than he’d ever seen. “Still confused boy? Here, let Coach demonstrate.”

Robinson hauled out his cock, pointed it at Anton’s crotch–which was now just a jockstrap, bulging out like there was a cup beneath it, and started pissing on it. Anton felt the warmth…and felt it seep into him. The piss, it was inside him, under his skin somehow, and he just looked down, seeing the white jock turn yellow from the coach’s acrid piss. Robinson cut off the stream, reached out, and gave the boy’s pouch a squeeze. Anton moaned in pleasure, and felt the coach…wring the piss right out of his body, making it dribble from out around his fist and onto the floor beneath them.

His cock and balls–they were gone. They were just…fluff now, fabric, stuffing. What little structure the flexible cup provided was all that remained. It couldn’t possibly be true, he had to be hallucinating, but he…knew what he’d just felt, and coach could see the realization dawning on him. “Now, how about we get you dressed the rest of the way, dummy? Then we can check on those two teammates of yours, and really have some fun.”

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 11)

~~November 7th~~

It took John a few days for his mind to pick up speed again, and for some of the changes inflicted on him by Santapig to regress–though he had a feeling he wouldn’t truly be back to normal anytime soon. The pendant around his neck no longer shown as brilliantly as before, when it had caught every bit of light and every eye in a room–the metal seemed tarnished, almost like it had become muddied. Any longer with the pig, under his sway, and the pendant may have lost all of it’s luster, leaving him trapped.

Petey had to keep up appearances, and so it took a few more days for him to bring enough supplies that they could unlock the door and enter the room. The late fall snows had been flowing in through the window, and everything was coated in a soft layer of white. Carefully, they dusted the dry flakes from the urinal, and began collecting the eggs, wrapping them carefully to keep them from breaking, and placing them in a case. Petey’s one concern about the plan was that there simply wouldn’t be enough eggs, but there turned out to be an ample supply. Petey would have preferred a chance to study the specimens and learn more about them–how they functioned, and more importantly, what sorts of defenses one might raise to prevent…infestation. But they had no time, and any further experimentation would have raised further suspicion, as well as exposed both Petey and John to further risk.

Lenny had been conducting meetings in a small conference room with several other of his closest associates several times a week. They were actively plotting a broader takeover of the system, focusing on ousting Petey. He’d avoided any direct attack thus far by simply feigning ambivalence, and allowing Lenny and his crew to do as they pleased, but he, and many other elves, could see that Lenny was drunk on power, and was endangering Christmas further. Stanta was now little more than a gimp slave, dressed all in rubber, always at Lenny’s heel, ready and eager to do whatever his love ordered. He spent much of his time chained down in the workshop, Lenny ordering the elves to abuse him, ensuring that Stanta was being properly conditioned to enjoy it–and need it, of course.

The addictive cum had originally been Petey’s idea, in fact, when he’d been collaborating with Marty, at the beginning. He had, of course, synthesized an antidote which had been administered to all of the elves, but he was the sole guardian of the formula. This, Lenny could not stand, because without love, the only thing tethering Stanta to his control now was his newfound addiction. Petey also didn’t dare trust the formula with anyone else, and kept it only in his mind, and that, even more than his willingness to cooperate with Stanta, was the reason he bore a target on his back, and the reason Lenny needed to be dealt with.

And so, Petey and several of his close confidants snuck into the vents, and huddled over the conference room, until Lenny and his friends entered, with Stanta in tow. That was the true sticking point. Thankfully, when Stanta wasn’t in use, Lenny kept all of his holes sealed with a special mask and buttplug. Without testing, Petey couldn’t know if that was enough to keep him safe or not…but he could hope. Once the business of abusing Stanta had finished, and he’d been sealed up and business had commenced, the elves dropped the literal bomb down onto the table–smoke bombs first, followed by an exact number of eggs shattered on the table.

They couldn’t see, through the smoke, to know if their plan had worked. They could certainly hear screams, as the strange, rubber bugs found their newest hosts and infested them. The smoke cleared ten minutes later, and the last of the elves was shuddering as the rubber began to coat them–whether the mask and plug had been enough to protect him, or whether he’d just gotten lucky, it was never known, but where Lenny and his lieutenants had, minutes before, been laughing and plotting their seizure of power, there were now five urinals attached to the wall, ten toilets adhered to the floor, and Stanta, chained to the wall, trying to call out to his love through the mask.

Petey found the love gun in Lenny’s workshop, and used it to undo the spell of love over Stanta’s mind–only then did they dare release him from the chains holding him. If he had gotten free and seen what had happened to his lover…chances were good that no elf would have been safe. Instead, Stanta was disgusted with himself, appalled with his behavior, and surprised, more than anything, to find Petey and John, together, standing over him. Petey took one further step, to demonstrate his good will–he provided both Stanta and John with the same immunity to elf cum they all enjoyed–further levelling the playing field. Then, together, they went out into the workshop, John carrying the hard rubber toilet which had been Lenny, and dropped it to the floor of the workshop, and the elves all stared at Stanta, at his cold, furious eyes, but he steeled himself.

“The ones who deserved to be punished have been dealt with, as you can see. I desire no further conflict between Stanta and the elves. I implore you: let justice stand here, let no one seek further revenge, in the…spirit of Christmas.”

The sincerity could only be proven in time, but everyone in the room knew that there were larger stakes to be dealt with–Christmas was now only a month and a half away, and the existence of all of them hung in the balance, just as it did every year. Stanta did his best to show his good spirit, and even though the nights turned dark, and the winds colder than ever, everyone could feel a Christmas spirit warming the workshop which many had thought gone forever. Christmas, was back, and everyone was rejoicing without even realizing it.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 10)

~~October 28th~~

He needed to do something, right? He couldn’t just…stay here. John was plowing Santapig’s ass, but the action was rote at this point. At least with his fifteen inch pig cock buried in a hole, the desperate desire to fuck receded enough to allow him a chance to think, but lately, even that was becoming difficult. The long summer days had returned to a more natural day and night cycle, and now the days were incredibly short–just a few hours at a time. His mind felt similar–John was descending below a horizon of the mind. At first, he’d worried that he’d be subsumed by “Claude”, by some personality dictated by Santapig, but the reality was turning out to be far worse. Whatever magic had restored the previous Santa’s mind, over the last month is was clearly beginning to fade. Santapig barely spoke any longer, and his appearance was devolving further, his snout and tusks longer, hide thicker, and he rarely walked on two legs any longer. This change in him had, in turned, affected his desires, and John too, was changing.

The room had no mirror, but from where he was standing he could see a transparent reflection of his head and torso in the window, and he no longer…looked particularly human. Even the features of Claude had begun to fade, and he was looking more like a stocky, brutish boar–even his hands and feet were beginning to curl up, the nails of his fingers growing back up along the fingers, threatening to become true trotters. He turned away from the window, and over to the other wall, where the urinal was…where the eggs were still growing. They hadn’t burst yet, but the outside had become translucent, and he could clearly see things squirming around inside of them. They looked like bugs of some strange variety, and given what they were coming from, he had few doubts regarding what they might do to someone they found once they hatched. He was trapped between the beast he was becoming and the strange things growing–one or the other would finish him off if he didn’t leave, but how? The door was locked, and the window didn’t open, but maybe…maybe if he wasn’t too far gone, he could still try and talk some sense into him.

It hurt to do so, but he hauled his cock free, feeling that scratching, aching voice start up in his mind again, that desperate desire to fuck, and Santapig looked over one shoulder. “Not finished–keep fucking!” he said in his guttural voice.

“No–No, we have to get out of here, we can’t stay here. We have to get out,” John said. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to talk to the pig about this, but all signs indicated that this attempt would go as poorly as the others. Already, his hand was lining his massive cock back up with the hole, hungry to back inside him…but he fight harder, and stepped back, turning to the door, pounding on it with his fists. “Dad….Dad! Please, I know…you told me to stay, but please, you have to let me out now!” Again, this wasn’t his first attempt at rousing his father, but that too, had proven fruitless.

“Stupid boar–boar only good for fucking! Now fuck!” Santapig said, and at the words, John felt the amulet around his neck warm up again, his mind…draining further than it had already, and a stupid grin spread across his face. Yeah, he did need to fuck–what had he been thinking? But still, he hesitated, trying to grasp at the straws of his mind–but it was too long for the pig’s preferences. “I said fuck!” Santapig said, and got off the bed, stomped over, grabbed John by the shoulders and threw him at the wall beside him. He collided with it hard enough that one of the eggs hanging from the urinal snapped off, dropped to the floor and shattered. Something resembling a centipede coated in shiny black and yellow rubber uncurled itself, and began slithering it’s way across the floor towards John, who stepped away. Santapig tried to get in his path, but John just grabbed him and threw him behind him, his heart aching at what he was doing, but he…wasn’t going to become one of those things.

Santapig stumbled forward, snout open–the creature sensed him, and leapt. As he fell, the thing shoved it’s way into his mouth and down his throat, the tail in unfurling into a funnel with sharp hooks that embedded themselves around the pig’s mouth, as he struggled for air on the ground. After a minute, the creature erupted from Santapig’s asshole, swiveled for a moment, and then drove into the floor, dragging the pig down with it and anchoring it in place. The remaining changes…took several hours. The funnel began to secrete a rubber solution which began to coat the pig’s body–from the look on his face, and judging by how much cum he shot, the experience must have been…quite pleasurable, but from the outside, John could only watch on it horror as his facial features were sanded down, his back bent back at an impossible angle, arms and legs adhered to the body until all that remained was a standing toilet, ready and eager to be used. And for the first time in months, John was also alone.

His mind returned quickly, and he realized that the obvious step was to simply break the window. He did so and managed to squeeze his way out into the cold snow, before returning to the house through the back door, searching for Stanta, but the house was empty–and seemed to have been empty for quite some time. Worried that the worst might have happened, the pig crept to the workshop and investigated, and saw his father dressed as a rubber gimp, bound to the floor of the workshop, as a line of elves waited to use his mouth either as a cumdump or a urinal. The anger he felt surprised him. He hadn’t expected to ever care that much about this man, and yet…he did, and seeing him there, like that, it gave him an glimmer of an idea–but how would he even manage to do something like that?

“You must be John.”

He spun around, and found himself facing a wiry elf. He didn’t know what to say, other than stammer, but the elf calmed him.

“My name is Petey. I did some…investigating around the house, and noticed your situation. I wasn’t going to intervene unless you managed to escape. You can see that…Stanta is in a bit of a bind. It isn’t, in my opinion, the best option, but unless we can get rid of the elves supporting Lenny, it’s the situation we will have to endure. You can return to the house, if you’d like. As long as you don’t interfere, I can guarantee you a measure of safety and comfort. But if you’d like to…resolve the situation you can see in the window, we can discuss a few plans I’ve drawn up.”

“No, I have a plan. Come with me,” John said, and he led Petey back to the window, hoisted him up so he could see the remains of the room, and explained the outlines of his idea.

“Ah, yes…poetic, and feasible,” Petey said, “If you invite me in for tea, we can see about making it happen.”

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 7)

~~June & July~~

Summer at the North Pole was an odd kind of misery, particularly for those who hadn’t experienced it before. The sun never set, it only traced a strange, wavering path in a circle around the sky, never quite rising fully, and certainly never setting close to the horizon. It made every day blend together, particularly because sleep was largely impossible. As immortals, the inhabitants’ bodies had entered their own kind of perpetual state, with no need for the basic necessities which had governed their entire lives before. Now, their bodies had no need for anything, and with the sun never setting, sleepiness never came, leading to a strange twilight of the mind, the sensation that this was a day doomed to last forever.

For the workshop, this strange mania was necessary–from the month of May to September the elves largely worked non-stop in the omnipresent sunlight, producing nearly all the toys and gear for the next Christmas in those few bright months. It was a time for Stanta and the head elf to be near constant presences on the workshop floor, but with the sudden, unexplained disappearance of Timmy, that left the entire task of guiding the elves to Stanta himself. Of course, all of the elves knew what must have happened to Timmy–even if they didn’t know the details. The last several years of strife led them all to presume Timmy’s plan of subjugating Stanta had failed, or backfired, and he had been taken out of commission as well. It was lucky, in some ways, that their new Stanta possessed a strong authoritarian streak, or production would have been derailed entirely–they likely would have never made their yearly quota. This was complicated by the fact that Timmy, in a breach of protocol, hadn’t bothered to name another elf to act in his place should something happen to him–this meant that the elves would need to hold elections for a new head elf, but they were barred from doing so until 90 days had passed, placing the election date in early August.

Inside the house, a different sort of hell was emerging for John. Despite having dealt with Timmy, his father still had not returned to free him from his forced cohabitation with Santapig, and he was quickly learning that the effects of the mirror pendant he was wearing only grew more intense with sustained contact. His only way of juding the passage of time in the room, without the presence of night, was to try and keep track of each time to sun passed through the single window in the room, shining across the increasingly filthy room each day, where the two men spent nearly every moment fucking. Santapig was insatiable, and clearly, his mind had been relatively shattered by his experiences over the past few years. He insisted on addressing John by the name Claude, and would grow violently angry should John try to assert his true identity to him. But to make matters even more confusing, the pig harboured deep, emotional sentiment towards both of the Claudes in the room–John was certain, in fact, that the pig loved the strange urinal on the wall far, far more than he could ever love him.

The pig insisted the urinal be fed–he claimed that he could hear when it was thirsty, and he would milk Claude’s cock into the thing’s funnelmouth, demanding that he piss for him, demanding that he feed his lover, demanding that he feed himself. John found his own mind beginning to warp–at first, he thought it was simply the fact that he was trapped with this insane pigman as some form of Stockholm Syndrome, but he became convinced, with time, that it was largely the doing of the amulet. He was, it would seem, still changing. Each time Santapig grew unhappy with him, or dissatisfied with his performance, John would change a bit more. He wasn’t even sure that the pig was aware of what he was doing to him–at least, he never mentioned it, but as the months wore on, John noticed that as his mind was beginning to twist, his body was shifting slowly as well.

His cock was the first thing he noticed. First, it was massive–after all Santapig, despite his control over the entire relationship, had remained a resolute bottom in bed. He demanded constant satisfaction from John, and in turn, found himself in a state of constant horniness, needing to fuck at all times to even be able to think about anything else. But he noticed, soon, that at some point his cock had ceased to be human, and had taken on the same corkscrew shape as the pig’s. He noticed other shifts as well–increased muscle mass, short tusks pushing out from his mouth as his skull began to form a snout. He was becoming the same sort of monstrosity as Santapig, and worse, he…liked it.

His mind was slowing. He didn’t need to worry about anything, really. He just needed to be Claude–or half of Claude, really. He could never be complete, he knew that, somehow. He too, found himself developing an odd attraction to the urinal, but rather than wanting to care for it, he found himself…mourning it, somehow. Trapped within that rubber, was himself, a piece of himself he needed to reclaim in order to be complete. He could only ever really be Claude’s body, but his soul was there, deep inside, and the loss he began to feel was indescribable, even as he desperately tried to tell himself it was deeply irrational. It was in late July that John noticed something else–the urinal…something was happening to it. Around the base, where the body adhered to the wall, strange bulges had appeared–and more began to appear as well, all over the surface. Once, he felt one of the bulges stir, as though something inside it was alive. In his strange midsummer dream, he felt an odd sense of joy–part of him, it was alive, there, in these strange mounds of rubber. They continued to grow, however, and alongside the joy was a constant dread. They were eggs–he knew that, somehow. He also knew, that he didn’t want to be in this room when they hatched.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 2)

January 2nd

It had been a relaxing week of rest, for the elves and Stanta Claus, who had spent much of the week in bed with John, as the chubby, cubby slut he’d become at the moment. The mirror pendant was capable of changing someone’s mental and physical form, but it needed time to recharge between each use–anywhere from several days, to even weeks–and John had resigned himself to the fact that, for the time being, he was stuck as a horny, desperate cub, his holes aching for cock at all hours of the day–and Stanta was all too happy to keep him satisfied, even though he told him, regularly, that while he enjoyed John’s slutty ways, this wasn’t a man he could love.

Still, it was time to get back to work. The elves were back in the workshop, toying around with old projects, putting together research and development groups, planning for next year’s logistics and reexamining last year’s weak points and production gaps. From January to March, little was done in the way of actual production–this was the chance for the elves and Stanta to plan for the coming year–and Stanta, in particular, needed to get caught up on the details of his new position, and that meant he needed a grand tour, which Timmy was providing. The two of them were up on the catwalks overseeing the workshop, and Timmy was discussing Stanta’s role as director–his primary duty being to construct the list of deliveries for the next year–while the head elf generally took on the position of production overseer–but Stanta wasn’t really paying close attention. Instead, he found himself focusing on the elves below.

Their looks up at him were often. He made them nervous, that much was clear. It was understandable, he supposed–even Stanta found his new appearance disturbing when he caught a glance of himself in a mirror, and didn’t expect it. Still, there was something else in the air as well, hanging over the entire place like a fog–more than unease, there was deception here, he could sense it. He caught more than one elf glancing at him and Timmy, and then at a door along the far wall–a door with a sizable padlock, and no handle. A door which, he wasn’t even sure he was “supposed” to have noticed. It was along the wall with several other private workshops for various elves in managerial roles, like Timmy, but it had no name hung on the front like the others. “Whose workshop is that?” he asked, interrupting Timmy’s monologue, and he pointed to the locked door.

“That’s not a workshop–it’s just storage,” Timmy said, but while it wasn’t a lie–Stanta had found his capacity for catching falsehoods to have skyrocketed with his new position–he could tell from Timmy’s sudden nervous glance that it wasn’t the entire truth.

“What are you storing inside? It seems odd that you’d have a room for storage in line with all the other workshops on that wall, don’t you think? I’d like to have a look.”

Without waiting for a reply, Stanta dropped down from the catwalks and crossed the floor of the workshop, Timmy racing after him, trying to divert his attention with excuses. The work on the floor had ceased–further confirming his suspicions. Still, Timmy wasn’t worried. That lock was his own design–no one could open it without the key–but Stanta held it in his hand, gave a light tug, and the padlock popped open without the slightest protest. The elves all turned to look at Timmy, whose jaw had dropped. All Santas had the ability to, say, unearth truths and secrets, but none of the Santas Timmy had worked with would have been able to pop open that lock–or at least not with such ease. This…did not bode well. He hurried his own pace, trying to catch up before Stanta could get inside, but–curse his tiny legs!–Stanta opened the door wide and stepped inside, where he found a destroyed workshop and two pigs rutting amongst the mess.

“I see,” Stanta said, as Timmy caught up to him in the doorway, “A rather odd thing to be storing, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s complicated, and I can explain, but–”

“Shut up, Timmy,” Stanta said, and Timmy felt his mouth clamp up tight. Stanta sighed, and walked over to the pigs as they fucked, and laid a hand on each of them for a moment. They had been…people, it would seem, but who was a bit of a mystery. The animals in each of them had pushed most everything else out. One, the hog getting fucked, was nearly twice the size as the boar fucking him–though the boar’s cock was nearly a foot long. Still, there was something else in here, or perhaps, someone else. He looked around, but the entire room was a mess–still, one thing stood out to him, hanging on the wall–what looked like a human head and torso, the mouth misshapen into a funnel, and hung…quite low on the wall. A urinal for an elf, he supposed, though looking at it, it was clear the pigs had been using it as well, to some extent. He touched the flithy surface, and felt something stir within–some other poor soul, even further destroyed than the two pigs. Still, whatever had happened here, he knew he couldn’t trust Timmy to give him a full answer. “I think the tour’s over, for now,” Stanta said, “I’ll be confiscating a these for some personal research,” he added, grabbed the urinal, and tugged it free from the wall. The pipe, sticking out of the thing’s ass, began to wriggle wildly, like it was alive–he bound it up in a hand, and tucked the thing under his arm. With his other hand, he gave a wave, and two leashes flung from his leather wristband, securing themselves around the necks of both hogs. Timmy watched, still unable to speak, as Stanta dragged them both out of the room, and back to his house. A moment later, his mouth opened up again, and Timmy found the elves all staring at him, and muttering to one another.

This, Timmy knew, wasn’t good. A Santa this strong…Timmy hadn’t wanted to resort to the old tricks which had plagued the last few years and created so much strife, but if Stanta got the wrong idea, then Timmy was going to have to figure out some way to control him, for the sake of Christmas itself. He gathered the elves together, to discuss their options and, and consider contingencies. Still, if Stanta was as powerful an incarnation as he appeared to be, Timmy wasn’t quite sure there was much any of them could do, should Stanta come to the conclusion that the elves were his enemies.

A Brief Revenge (2 of 2)

“Yes, Vance, what a tragedy. Still, it wasn’t all that surprising that he would just up and vanish–he was a disgrace to this whole town, really. I was more than happy to help people believe that it was likely his father’s doing, paying his son to take off so he wouldn’t embarrass him during his reelection campaign. Still, he lost–that’s an excellent example of killing two birds with one stone, don’t you think?”

“Are you wearing someone now? That’s not Vance, is it?”

“These? Yes, these are someone, but no, they certainly aren’t Vance. I never wore Vance, actually. I don’t really have to wear people like him, since I’d much rather wear people who want to be worn. It’s…rather taxing, having to feel all that anger and fear all day long. I’d rather wear someone like…what was his name again? I don’t really recall–he’s been in my collection for close to a decade now.”

“A decade?”

“Oh yes–a volunteer for my permanent collection. Never really felt…right as a person, he said. If his displeasure got too great, I’d probably release him anyway, but, well, I don’t think it even remembers being a person anymore. It wouldn’t know what to do with a body if I gave it back.”

“So, if you don’t wear people like Vance, then what does happen to them? You just keep them in your drawer?”

“Oh goodness no–that’s a waste of good money. I rent them.”

“You…rent them?”

“I have men all over the world paying to wear my creations. Some want to be paired with willing participants. Some people want to be worn by particular kinds of people, or in certain ways, so I often attach conditions to rental agreements, and renters have to verify they’re meeting the requirements. I attach my own requirements to underwear like Vance, of course.”

“So…where is Vance?”

“I’m good friends with a very fat slob in New England. He gets off wearing these guys non-stop for months at a time. He has amazing willpower too–which is the other reason I like him. He stretches them and beats them into shape in about nine months, but he’s keeping Vance for a year and a half. Then I’ll check in with him, and see how he’s developing.”

“Because…they change, right?”

“Of course they change. If the underwear wears out, they get older. The dirtier it gets, the dirtier they would be when they are released. But the mental link–a strong willed owner…well, let’s just say that when Vance gets let out, he’s going to be quite a bit different from his old self. If his dear old dad was embarrassed by him before, I can’t wait until he gets a look at his disgusting, cum and piss addicted pigson when he goes and knocks on his door for the first time in a few months. I’m going to videotape it–I can’t fucking wait.”