Interactive: A Pigtown Halloween (Part 8)

“Please, no more, don’t…I don’t, get off me!” Ken shouted, trying to force the men swarming him away, but there were too many.

“Can we make him a top sir? Can we?”

“We need more tops, so many holes, not enough tops!”

Some of them were holding him down at this point, looking up at the Master of the Halls, and his shadowed face, and those leering teeth. “Sure, why don’t you all make him a top, since it sounds like you need one so badly.”

The freaks all laughed and tittered, and one of them brought over a strange sheath. It looked a bit like a dildo at first, but Ken saw that it was in fact hollow inside, and the freaks started working his cock until he was hard, and then they forced the sheath over his entire cock. It was a tight fit, and once they had that on, they took a similar sheath, pulled it open, forced his balls inside, and let that snap around them as well. Only then, did they release his arms, and Ken immediately tried to pull the rubber things off of him–only to discover that they wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t that the rubber pieces had stuck together–though they had–it was that they had stuck to him as well. He couldn’t find the seam where the rubber started and his flesh began, and as he tugged on the sheath, he realized…he could feel his hand against it, growing more and more sensitive, until he was moaning in pleasure, unable to stop, he was so turned on by the sensations coming from his new rubber cock, now permanently hard, eleven inches and thick as a beer can. His balls were churning as well, and he could feel them pumping something not out of his cock, but into him instead, and he began to feel some of the other changes start in his body.

He was growing taller, and thicker. Not fat–almost all of it was muscle. In a matter of moments, he went from a fairly average height and build to being six foot seven, and nearly 300 pounds, all of it thick, corded, powerful bulk, ready to force anyone he found into submission. He was growing hairier as well, especially across his chest, arms and back. Once he was finished expanding, the freaks went back to work, and started forcing more gear on his body–a thick cut leather harness, a pair of leather chaps, some biker boots, and lastly a hood that went over his face. He tried to pull it away, but it too had adhered to his skin somehow, and when he looked at himself in the mirror across the room, he no longer even recognized himself. 

He was massive, his head and cock both sealed away in rubber, conforming to his every feature and vein, but somehow making them look even more masucline, and tough, and rugged, and violent, and…and fuck, he was hot, wasn’t he? He kept stroking his cock, and from the tip, some sort of strange, black, viscous material began to leak out and cover his hands–it quickly spread over his fingers and became a pair of black rubber gloves, just as impossible to remove as the mask or the sheath itself.

Horrified, he pulled his hand away, but his cock was aching for attention. No, not just attention, it was aching to fuck, to force its way inside some tight hole and ruin it–that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? He looked at himself, and tried to remember who he’d been, but the hood…was sucking it away from him, as hard as he was trying to keep it. He might have been lost to it, had the imp not appeared in the doorway, eyes wide at him, and then taken off down the hallway. With a growl, Ken pushed past the freaks and took off after him, thankful for his new size now. The imp was quick, but he was bigger now–if he stayed focused, he’d be able to catch him, and maybe even get his tag back.


So, what happens next? The public poll is below, and the patron only poll is over here!

Business as Usual

An open ended, multipart story following the various tales of a business that has been taken over by a new CEO. However, the men working there soon discover that with new leadership, it is going to be anything but business as usual for them.

Last updated: 10/21/2019 – Part 3 is now public!

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Continue reading “Business as Usual”

Interactive: A Pigtown Halloween (Part 2)

The imp was laughing–cackling more like–the entire way down the hall, as Ken raced to keep up. For as small as the little monster was, he sure could run fast! Hurtled around a corner, and ran flatout into something solid. He bounced back and ended up on his ass, staring up at what he thought would be a wall–but in fact was a massive, hulking man.

He was clad head to toe in a leather uniform, reflecting dimly the red light of the hallway. He had to be several inches over six foot, and while his eyes were shrouded in shadow, he grinned at Ken, his teeth…far, far too sharp for a normal man.

“Well hello there little one, what are you doing, running around in my hallways?” the man said. His voice was deep, but didn’t seem to be coming from the man’s mouth. He was still just…smiling, the teeth seeming to grow ever sharper. He could hear the voice coming from all around him, and when he looked around, he saw that they were not alone in the hall–in fact, there were another five men surrounding him there on the floor, all of them masked, so it was impossible to see much of their faces, especially in the dark.

“I…I was chasing…a little imp guy, he took my tag.”

The men around him all laughed at that. “Oh no, the little one lost his tag–and so soon! What do you think men, should we show the little one a good time tonight? Show him what happens when little ones lose their little tags?”

Before Ken could do anything, the men swarmed him, grabbing hold of his limbs as he tried to fight them off, and they hauled him off, away from where the imp had gone down a darker, downward sloping path that emptied out into a large sex dungeon. The men tore off his costume, including his mask, and then raped him, one after another, passing him around, filling him at both ends, coating him in their cum. Ken shouted and screamed for help the entire time, but no one came–and all the while, the hulking, leather clad figure just loomed over them all, watching, that sharp toothed grin never leaving his face, his eyes never emerging from the shadow of the brim of his cap. And the more that happened to him…the more Ken found himself enjoying it.

Soon, he was begging the men to fuck him, crawling across the cold stone floor to get to their drooling cocks, swallowing thier piss, his rational mind feeling like it was getting smaller and smaller, almost like it was being eaten away at. He looked over at the leader, at the Master of the Halls–as he…somehow knew he was called, and saw him lick his lips. It…was being eaten, wasn’t it? He could feel it, somehow, feel him crawling around inside his mind, warping him further and further towards depravity. He didn’t even know how to resist it–at last, with a cock in his ass, one one in his throat, Ken came, an explosive load adding to all of the cum and sweat and piss all over his body, and the men finally retreated away from him.

Ken was left as a quivering, sweating, sobbing mess. His mind…felt like it had been torn to pieces, he could barely manage to string words together at first, but finally managed to force something like a sentence out. “What…the fuck did do to me?” he said, looking up at him, “Why…why am I still so…so fucking horny…” he moaned, one hand reaching around to his well fucked ass, sliding three fingers in effortlessly, moaning as the men around him laughed. That was when the Master of the Halls stepped forward, putting one leather boot on Ken’s chest, and forcing him to the ground. “Men–it looks as though you have torn up this man’s costume! I know that we’re done with him, but we can’t allow him to roam the halls without one, right? It is Halloween after all.”

The men, laughing harder now, all ran to the walls of the room, and returned with arm loads of gear, fighting amongst themselves over who would get to dress Ken in his new costume. Finally, after a little deliberation, and a couple punches, it was settled, and the men forced the squirming, resistant Ken into his new clothing. As they were, he looked over, and saw the imp crouched in the doorway, watching him with glee, his clothes check tag hanging off the imp’s arm. He tried to crawl towards him, but the men dragged him back, still gearing him up. The imp laughed, and then took off again down the hall, back into the maze–and as the gear piled on, Ken wondered if he’d even have the will left to chase him down again.


Alright, what sort of gear does Ken end up in? Some of these below might be dead ends! You’ll never know until you pick them. Again, if we hit an ending, we’ll go back to one of the earlier branches, and carry on from there instead. The bonus patreon poll is over here too!


The Monastery

Father Nicholas clawed his way out of sleep, and was certain he was choking. What he was choking on he did not know–a dream substance of some sort or other. The dream was already fading from him, impossible to grasp beyond the terror of the nightmare racing through him, pulse dizzying, cloaked in sweat. He forced himself to breathe, finally succeeding with a massive, heaving gasp, coughing and gagging and heaving but nothing came up–which was a surprise itself, given the meal he had enjoyed last night, at the monks’ insistence. He concentrated, forced his breathing and his heart to settle, reaching for some sort of serenity that he knew had to be somewhere inside him–because God was inside him, after all.

As he came down from the nightmare, he tried to recall what he could of the dream, but there was nothing. No images at least–just a cascade of feelings. Terror, mostly. A good dose of shame. Regret, maybe, or something similar, colored with a bit of self-loathing. A hunger. There was hunger too, which seemed absurd to him, to awake hungry after…after that. How strange. How unchristian, really. He could see it, lit by candlelight still, the great hall of the abbey, the long table dressed in a deep red, the chair at the head conspicuously empty but still set, the entire length set with a massive feast, one of the largest that Nicholas had ever seen, perhaps outside of the Vatican on rare occasions. The monks, seated around the table, tearing into the flesh of beasts with such vigor and gluttony and…it was abnormal to say the least. Verging on heresy in its own fashion, in how the monks of this monastery had so readily discarded the vows of chastity and restraint that they were allegedly bound to by God.

Or perhaps, just a feast to celebrate a visitor from Rome. Perhaps just a well meant, but ill advised, celebration, given what he was here to do. Perhaps innocent, all the same. He had approached it with that in mind, assuming that the monks were doing their best to just be kind to him, with perhaps a tinge of bribery–which itself was not unusual, but of all of his temptations, greed had never been him. And so he’d sat there, next to the prior on one side, and one of the many monks on the other, trying to be an island of temperance in a building storm of indulgence and gluttony. It hadn’t lasted, obviously, between the monks urging more and more food on him, one of them even heaping his plate full when he saw he wasn’t helping himself to seconds. Another kept his wine glass full to the brim, though he never managed to catch who was pouring it for him. Without the wine, perhaps he could have controlled himself, but between the drink, and some of the most luscious, simple and delicious fare of the table, he’d…relented, obviously. And now here he was, with a still hard gut packed with food, a headache from the wine, feeling like a fool for giving in like that. It was not a good first impression in either case. He looked like a man who could be swayed with wine and good favor. And they, well, they didn’t look particularly good for it either. He could still see the prior beside him, tearing into the thigh of a chicken with his teeth, the grease coating his lips as he laughed at some joke, eyes on him, and…

He hoped it was all innocent, he did, but something told him that there was more here. A voice, he often called God, but never to anyone else. Believing one had a direct line, in this era, was considered hubris. But inside himself, he felt it all the same. There was something here, something more than the rumors that had brought him here. Something rotten inside this monastery. Fraud and embezzlement, most likely. Something boringly human. The curse of them all, really, and why they needed God more than anything.

Father Nicholas was something between an envoy and a spy. The monks knew full well why he was here–sent by Rome in order to investigate the claims that had been made against the monks by the villagers who lived near the monastery. The villagers had complained that the monks–usually a quiet and chaste order–had in recent months taken to rather…extreme behaviors, the monks passing through town shouting speeches in the square verging on heresy, one of them even going so far as to extoll the virtues of gluttonous appetites. It didn’t help that every single monk had given into corpulence–he hadn’t seen a single monk here under 300 pounds, and several seemed to be pushing closer to 500, in all honesty. And so, Rome had sent him to investigate, and if necessary, determine what steps might be necessary to bring the rogue monks into line. But all he had done so far, in his first day here, was apparently eat and drink himself sick with nightmares.

He shuddered as he slipped out of the bed, his sheets damp with his sweat. The quarters where he found himself were small and modest, most likely identical to those where the monks reside themselves. There was a desk along the wall, a bed, a window full of morning sunshine (he would have missed laud service already–though how any of the monks could get through a service at dawn after the night before mystified him anyway–had they not also missed vespers and compline the night before?) and his luggage stacked neatly in a corner. He took a while to unpack, dress himself in new clothes, but the dream continued to haunt him–he felt…dirty, really. Sinful. He shouldn’t have given into such excess, it was uncharacteristic of him, and brought back rather awful memories that were best left in the dust of the past.

It was a desire for control, that had led Father Nicholas to the priesthood. Control over his own urges, foremost, ones that had haunted him through his youth, ones that God had promised him he would conquer, if he only believed hard enough. To his teachers in seminary, this was a troublesome impulse, one they sought to temper. Control was important, yes, but to err is human. Without forgiveness, then everything they preached was meaningless. Nicholas understood that, but found it difficult to live–and certainly difficult in parish life. But he had found this calling in Rome, rooting out heresy and fraud and crimes against the church. He was a dog on a leash, and Rome held him and pointed him where he needed to go–and he did what was necessary. But this was already…a rather strange welcome. How warmly they had received him, even knowing why he was here, the threat he posed to their order. It felt like, either they knew they were innocent, or that they believed there was nothing he could do to bring them to heel.

Dressed, he felt somewhat restored. A shower would help, but that could come later–mostly he felt that what he needed most was confession–especially after the night before. None of the monks here were priests however–not in this small order. The only one able to hear his confession was the abbot–but that posed other problems. According to the monks, the abbot had fallen rather ill and needed to be confined to his chambers. They were vague about the nature of his affliction, and insisted that serious medical intervention was not necessary. The abbot, they told him, believed that God would heal him, and thought seeking a doctor would be a sign of weakness. It felt like a lie, but without knowing who was to gain from it, it was hard to sense the truth behind it. Was the abbot actually ill, or perhaps dead, the monks covering for some kind of foul play? Or was there something else the abbot desired to hide himself, and the illness was merely a convenient excuse? He found his way to the prior of the abbey, a short, rather rotund fellow named Timothy who had welcomed Nicholas the evening before. He found him in the abbot’s study, apparently taking care of business during his illness. Not unusual, but suspicious all the same.

He asked him if he would be able to see the abbot for confession, and Timothy told him it would be difficult, given the abbot’s condition. Perhaps in a few days, Timothy told him. In the meantime, Timothy promised Nicholas he would help him with whatever documents or records he needed from the abbey during his investigation. Nicholas gave him a list, and Timothy happily turned them over with question or reluctance. He simply told Nicholas that dinner would follow the Vespers service, and they were welcome to join them for both.

Nicholas did. The service was fine–though none of the monks were particularly fine singers or readers. It seemed a bit…hollow, in some ways. Rushed. The monks were seemingly eager to be through it, and Nicholas more than once caught a whiff of something delicious on the air, and he felt that hunger from the morning leap up again. He had promised himself a day of fasting, following his indulgence, but when he told this to Timothy, the prior merely chuckled, and led Nicholas into the hall, where another massive feast, equal in size to the one the night before, was laid out for them all. He was appalled, really. How could such extravagance be afforded so regularly? But Timothy planted him in his seat, the monks urging him to eat. He was so thin and frail! So quiet. Does he not like to live? Appreciate the gifts of the earth that God and Christ had given them?

He tried to excuse himself, but the wine was poured and pressed to his lips. The feast the night before had felt warm and welcoming, but tonight, there was a certain pressure. Outside pressure, from the monks, implying that he would be insulting them, if he refused their hospitality. But that was easy for him to resist–it was the pressure on the inside that was bending him, the hunger building up until it overwhelmed him, and he sat back down, filled a plate of his own volition, and devoured it, all while Timothy urged him on, his wine always full, the monks laughing and cackling around him. His vision was swirling, but there was some commotion at the far end, something he thought was fighting at first, one monk thrown against the table by another, but it was…it was…

He awoke with the same gasping, choking sensation as the night before, but the sensation passed a bit faster–which was a relief. At least until he realized, with some shame, that his sheets were damp with more than just sweat this evening, but that he had, apparently, had a wet dream at some point as well. He could…smell it, and it nearly made him want to vomit. He couldn’t recall the last time he had ejaculated–either on his own, or in the night. Perhaps as teenager, but even then, only once or twice. The dream was fading again, but left him with an even deeper sense of defilement than the one before. He took a shower, and noticed that his thin and muscular body was showing signs of a paunch after his two feasts now–and he was so filled with disgust and shame at his own lack of discipline, that he retreated to his room to pray privately for most of the morning, and then continued his devotions into the afternoon–until Timothy came to find him, and check to see if he was well.

Timothy was kind and gentle with him. Coaxed him from his room, only for Nicholas to find himself seated, once again, in the hall, another massive feast laid out before him, and all he could think to do was vomit–but the hunger inside him welled up once more, betrayed him–and again, the dreams, the vile, choking, panting, aching, dreams! It was the next day, his sheets again soaked with sweat and cum, that he demanded the sacrament of penance from the abbot–or he threatened to go into town and speak with the priest there instead, and not stop until he was back in Rome to tell the cardinals that this monastery needed to be torn down, stone by stone. Timothy consulted with the abbot in private, and was told that the abbot would agree–but he would need a few hours to prepare, and that he demanded that Nicholas not lay eyes upon him. The restrictions seemed ridiculous, but he agreed–and so that afternoon he was seated in the confessional, listening to the raspy breathing of someone he could not see through the screen, and he spoke:

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been…six days since my last confession.”

There was no reply, just the same ragged breathing on the other side of the screen. 

“I…I most confess to mortal sins. I…In my dreams, I fear I have sinned against God. Turned against him. That I have…have given into gluttony, and lust in ways that I do not understand, but which I feel are…are putting my soul in mortal danger.”

It was the truth, as close as he could come to it. The ragged breathing quickened, and became a deep, unsettling chuckle. “I am afraid, you are going to need to be more specific,” the abbot said to him. “If these sins are indeed putting your soul at risk, surely you can…tell me more about them…”

The voice was like oil, sliding over his ears and his skin and under his clothes and into his guts. He nearly fled then, but couldn’t move. “I…I do not remember them, I only…only feel it, in my soul.”

“Shall I tell you, what I saw then?” the voice said, close on the other side of the screen, close enough that Nicholas could…smell his breath, the rank odor closing in on him in the confined space. “How I watched you stuff yourself like a pig at our table? How I wanted you devour more and more into the empty space that you have hollowed out, waiting with all hope that God would come alive to fill it for you, but I filled it first, priest. I filled you up, I did, I filled you to the brim, and when you were full, I watched you fuck–clumsy, so clumsy, fumbling and foolishly, but you fucked. You enjoyed it too, you know. Had you given in, before? I tasted it on you when you arrived, how much you crave men, how it drove you here, right into my arms, where you always belonged, you know. God is empty, you see. I am not–we are not. We are alive! We are alive, and living, and enjoying all that life had to offer–and all you must do, for your penance, my dear priest, is submit, and live with me inside you.”

He hadn’t noticed the hole cut into the side of the screen when he’d entered, but he noticed it now, the thick, bulbous, leaking cock thrust through it, inches from Nicholas’ knees, the scent of the cum heady and creamy, and the hunger, oh the hunger thrumming inside him! He longed to taste it, longed to take it inside him, longed to devour it and everything else, everything that had held him back for so long, but Nicholas pulled away, fumbled open the door and tumbled out onto the stone floor–the monks already on him, holding him down and binding him, as the other door opened, and out stepped the abbot–or what remained of the man that the demon inside him had devoured.

He was massive, easily 600 pounds of heaving fat hanging off his frame in uneven rolls. His robe was filthy, crusted with cum and food, and he stank of corruption. It was his face though, his…massive mouth, and his eyes. The drool hanging from his lips in long sticky strings, His eyes were pitch black–and above them, a row of horns had pushed their way out from his forehead and temples. “I knew it was too soon for you–but I also do not have the time to waste, wearing you down slowly–bring him down into the dungeon, we will see if a few tools of the inquisition might bring our Vatican friend to his proper senses.”

The monks all professed their obedience, and while he struggled, they bound Nicholas and dragged him down into the depths of the monastery, the demon following behind them, down into the dark.


How long had he been down here now, in the dark?

There were no windows, only torches that never seemed to need to be relit, or perhaps they were only changed during his occasional, fitful moments of sleep. Nicholas screamed again as the lash came down upon his back again, heaving for breath, having already lost count of the number of blows this session.

“Can you feel it, Father?” Timothy said behind him, his hands gripping the leather tightly. He had traded in his robes for the garb of his new master–a leather harness strapped tight around his chubby frame, a leather strap knotted around his cock, keeping it fully erect, the color a deep reddish purple in the torchlight. “Can you feel it? Oh, I can. I can feel your pain, how delicious it is. Lean into it, release yourself into it! Your body need not feel as pain what it can feel as pleasure!”

The lash came down on him again, Nicholas tried to scream again, but nothing came out. He was exhausted–spiritually and physically. Down here in the dark, the torture had been unceasing, since meeting the demon in confession. If they were not whipping him, or branding him, or milking him, they were feeding him, forcing more and more of their slop into him, more and more wine, keeping him in a constant state of delirium, all of his senses driven to their limits. 

Sensing that he had had enough, Timothy tossed the lash to the side, stepped forward, and mounted the father, working his own aching cock into the priest’s now well worn hole, rutting against him wordlessly for a few minutes until he came, seeding him with another load, the same as the others he could feel drying on the inside of his thighs. Nicholas sobbed then, as Timothy pulled free, took off the strap and freed his own member. Other monks, dressed similarly, rushed in to care for Nicholas’s wounds, forcing more wine on him, and always more slop–but that…that was welcome. The hunger was only growing more intense now, gnawing away in his very bones at times. The monks no longer had to force him to eat–if food was put before him, he would devour it mindlessly, realizing only after, his face coated with muck, that they were making a literal pig of him.

And always, he could smell him in the dark. The demon. The abbot. Watching him, but in all of these days and hours, he had not once said a single word–even when Nicholas had cried out, demanding answers–even demanding death–he had been silent. And so he ate, and he drank, and his wounds were dressed with a surprisingly human tenderness, and then those monks too left him there in the dim light–and it was the first time that Nicholas had been alone in all of this time.

He tested his bonds again, but the cords were just as strong as before, holding him tight over this horse. He struggled anyway–what else was there to do, in the end? But even that exhausted him quickly, and he allowed himself to hang, the wine going to his head, making him dizzy, wondering if it would be better spent trying to rest in this moment of solace.

“Now, perhaps we can begin again. Confess to me your sins, father. Confess them, and I will strip them of you, and grant you true absolution from guilt, and pain, and hunger. None will trouble you again, so long as you are in my arms.” It was the demon speaking, but his voice seemed to permeate the room. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from. Perhaps, even from within his own mind.

Nicholas did not know what to say–but he ached. He ached to be free of this, he wanted to feel the sun on his skin, longed for God–and the demon laughed, like he could sense his thought.

“God is silent, don’t you see? God no longer cares for you–not like I do. Toil and labor in the service of him, and you get nothing but doubt and death. I can offer you more, so much more.”

He felt a sharp claw run down his welted back, and Nicholas gasped. It did not hurt–it felt…divine. He shuddered, his cock growing full, the demon continuing to stroke him gently, Nichoas moaning and gasping under his touch. 

“You long for me. You always have. Confess to me, how you turned away from me, Nicholas.”

His life stretched out before him, in his mind. How…things had started so differently for him, when he was young. How…how that first time with his cousin, how much he had loved the touch of men, but in his conservative family, any sort of desire like that had to be starved into nothing. And so, Nicholas ate. He ate, and he ate, and he tried to fill that hole inside him, thinking about him, about so many men, and hating himself for it. God seemed to be the only hope he had left anymore, and so he devoted himself to the church, first as an altar boy, and then finding his way into seminary.

It was there, that the discipline had been driven into him, by his teachers. They were disgusted by him, by his weight and his gluttony, which he had used to cover up his deeper sins. They shamed him, and humiliated him, wore him down and starved him until he was thin and muscular and willing to do anything for God–but what had God ever done for him? In all of this denial, in all of this rejection of the world, what had he gained, really? Happiness? Satisfaction? He was hungry, but he realized now, that the hunger was older–much older than the last few days. He’d been hungry all his life, and now, here he was, face to face with a being that could, at long last, feed him.

“I…please, I starved myself, I…I’m so hungry I don’t know what to do anymore,” Nicholas said between sobs, “Please help me, please, I…please forgive me…”

“I forgive you, priest, now feast on my seed. Join me. Do your penance.”

Nicholas allowed the cock into his mouth, sucked on it, draining it of everything he could. The precum was thick and creamy, coating the inside of his mouth, filling his gut–warm and solid and so satisfying. He drank and drank, letting it all go, letting all of his control drop for the first time in his life, ready to…embrace everything. Everything he could have been. With a roar, the demon’s cock erupted, and he drove his cock deeper down Nicholas’s throat, draining his corrupt balls deep into his guts, and Nicholas felt himself swell, and swell, and swell, so full he was certain he would burst from the love of his new God, but it would be worth it, worth everything to feel full, to feel this divine presence inside him, and just as he was certain he would be able to take no more–

He awoke.

He awoke from the most exquisite dream he had ever had in his life. He awoke reborn. He threw the sheets down, looked and saw his new body, nearly 400 pounds, and with his hands, he groped his fat, feeling his new folds, groaning and moaning in delight from the sensation of so much weight pressing down on him, and he grasped his cock, grunting and snorting, and within a minute, he shot one of the largest loads of his life all over his belly–and he rubbed it in, relishing it, thanking his God for accepting him in all of his folly, for showing him the way to pleasure, for giving him this true gift of a new body.

He rolled up and stood with some difficulty, and just stared at himself in the mirror for a few minutes. He was beautiful, so beautiful. Full breasts hanging from his chest, wrapping around under his arms, with massive swollen nipples on each. Three chins cascading from his now fat, round face. His thighs touching most of the way to his knees, his ass jiggling slightly as he moved. He had already shot once, but he was already so horny…he struggled with his harness, but found his way into it, and left his room to join the monks.

The monastery had dropped all pretenses–the monk’s old robes folded away, all of them wearing the same harness and nothing else. He passed several pairs fucking in the hallways of the abbey–and while Nicholas longed to join them, he…he knew where he was needed, what he needed, and he found his way to the prior, to Timothy, down in the dark, and with their God in audience, Timothy gave Nicholas a proper whipping, and now, every grace of the lash against his flesh brought forth such brightness and pleasure that Nicholas’s cock would spontaneously explode, splattering load after load on the stone walls, until at last, Timothy fucked him roughly, and so pleased with with their devotion, their God allowed each of them to suckle on his milky teats until the time for the evening feast was upon them.

It was weeks later when Nicholas bade farewell to his brothers one morning, climbed into the car that had been sent for him, and left the abbey behind. He had gained more weight now–closer to 450 pounds–struggling to fit in the back of the small car, but it did not matter. He had found himself, who he was always meant to be, and he had a new mission now, one far, far more important than any he had been sent on before. He patted his satchel, a hunger gnawing at him, but he knew better than to feast on these himself–inside, were several vials of his God’s seed, each with a particular target designated in Rome, and in the world beyond. Cardinals, mostly–each of them with a weakness the demon could exploit, and each of them a potential new pope, as this one’s breath was growing ragged. It was time for a new church. A church with a real God, one you could touch. One you could serve. One who would ensure you would never be hungry again.

Commission: Serving the Cloth 2

Brett liked to run. He’d always been good at it, even when he was younger, running from cops through the streets. But he’d always felt like there was somewhere he had to run to, or something he was running from. Now though–he was just running. Running through this nice suburban neighborhood, running without really feeling like there was anywhere to go, running in a circle, starting at Regis’ sizable house, and ending right back at that sizable house again, an hour later, sweaty and exhausted, but not feeling like he had gotten anywhere.

He had, of course. He’d gotten here. He’d leveraged his body, and his wits, and his charm, and he’d gotten out. Here he was, twenty years old, slender and lean, cute face, good hair, a perfect little twink for older men to slather over–but he’d caught one. From whoring himself out on street corners, to settling down with a sugar daddy like this–it was everything he’d wanted, right? But then why did he hate it so much? Why was he feeling so miserable? He had money, a credit line, could whatever he wanted. The sex was…sex. He had never really felt much for anyone, and Regis was no exception–but over the last few months, things had gotten…harder. Regis had been so excited about moving him into his place, promised him the world–but it was really just a gilded cage. He was so controlling, and outright abusive at times. It was easier being on the street, in some ways. He was comfortable here–but for how long, really? He could tell already that Regis was tiring of him, and as much as he hated it, it hurt. It hurt, because while Brett had been using him to get out of there, he’d also…loved him, in a way. Loved a version of him. Loved what he could provide him with–safety and security. Regis was away on a business trip right now, and they’d had such a fight when he’d left a few days ago, that Brett was not looking forward to him coming home tomorrow. He thought about just running–taking what he could, and just…be gone. Maybe.

He probably would have talked himself into it that day, if he hadn’t run past that house. The haunted one, he thought, though haunted houses weren’t real, of course. All of the houses in the neighborhood were a bit…odd, but this one was especially odd. No one had lived in it consistently for ages now–it was either left empty, or someone would buy it, and then…well, no one really knew what. Brett had seen haunted shit before–the back alleys of the city were full of places like that, where you could feel the souls of people in anguish. This place was like that, and he usually avoided it, and took the long way around. However, he wasn’t focused on his route, and so he was already running past it before he realized where he was. The same car was parked out front, in the same place, where it had been for weeks. He’d seen a father and son pull up a few weeks ago, looking like they were going to overhaul it and flip it, but he hadn’t seen them since. Today though, something had changed. There was a bunch of detritus on the lawn–old clothes, actually, filthy looking stuff, and one of the windows on the upper floors was broken out, like someone had thrown everything out of it. Brett picked up his pace, but then he heard…something.

He picked up the pace, eager to be past it, but all the way home, he had a curious sense that he was being followed, by someone or something. He got to the garage of Regis’s place, unlocked the door, when something slammed into him, sending him stumbling through the doorway and onto the pavement inside.

He awoke a few moments later, and rolled over, looking around for who, or what, had slammed into him–but there was nothing around him. Cautiously, he stood up, locked the door, and listened…but he didn’t hear anyone or anything inside the house. Or…or was there something? A voice?

You don’t have to run anymore.

Brett nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice was so close, almost inside his ears, and yet seemed so…quiet, a whisper recorded and played back at an impossibly loud volume. Then, he felt something squirm under his running shorts, and in a panic, he dropped them–and saw that instead of his usual briefs–there was a rancid looking jockstrap that had somehow materialized under his clothes. Worse, he could feel the pouch…moving, groping him. It was unsettling, and yet…also arousing, and he groaned a bit.

You want things. We want things. Others…waste. We don’t want to waste, We want to help…

Brett looked down and saw that something was happening to his running shorts too–they were…beginning to squirm as well, the orange nylon darkening, becoming a light denim cut off short, ones that smelled as rank as the jockstrap he had on smelled in the enclosed space of the garage…but he didn’t mind it, did he? Brett groped himself with one hand, torn between trying to understand what was happening, and simply…wanting to enjoy it. The change was spreading to his tanktop now, becoming a simpler, ribbed wifebeater…and Brett pushed back. He hauled the clothes off of him–all of them, his shoes too, and hucked them across the garage into a pile, and stood there, naked and breathing heavy…but the smell wasn’t going away. He looked down, and saw that his…cock and balls had changed. He’d never been well endowed, in all honesty, but that had changed substantially–his cock was now close to eight inches long, as thick as a beer can, and had a long, wrinkled foreskin around the head. His balls, too, were massive–and his usually hairless crotch was seething with a riot of curly black hair. 

“What…what the fuck did…how did that…” Brett looked up in time to see the clothes had stood up, of their own accord, and were crawling, rolling and hopping into the house proper. His sneakers were the last, shuddering as they changed into a pair of heavily worn work boots, and they stomped off after the other clothes.

What could he do? He didn’t have anything to wear. He couldn’t call the cops and complain about living clothing. Regis wouldn’t be home for another day. He had no friends he could call. It…was up to him. He cautiously stepped into the house, listened, and heard the clothing on the stairs, and he followed them up.

Come here, follow us…

Was he hearing voices, or was it his own head? Brett didn’t know for sure. He also was no longer certain that following this…weird shit was the smartest thing he could do…but when he tried to turn around and go find a weapon downstairs…his feet wouldn’t stop climbing.

Up here, we have so much to show you…

–He should run, he should be running he had to run he had to run–

You don’t have to run anymore.

The thought struck him hard. Not having to run–what would that be like? He’d been running his whole life now, it was ingrained so deep inside him, that he didn’t know what it would even be like to…not do it. To plant his feet. To stay. He was at the top of the stairs now, one hand still on his now massive, uncut cock. He missed the feeling of that nasty jock now, how it had caressed him, how it had loved him. It had loved him, his body, in a way nothing else had. No one else had.

He was making his way to the bedroom now. He pushed open the door, the voices louder now, but…but more than just loud. There were more of them. All of them speaking differently, and yet at the same time, amplifying each other, louder and louder and firmer. He saw now, what was happening. The jock, the shorts, the boots and the socks and the wifebeater–they had found their way to the closets and were pulling out the clothes they found there, touching them, changing them, and throwing them into a pile in the middle of the room, a seething, warping…mass, and Brett stood there, gaping at it. 

Let us love you we love you, we will love you

The mass threw itself at him, surrounded him, absorbed him. The smell was intense and impossible to avoid, but it…it was his smell. They were his clothes, after all, weren’t they? The jock was on him again, groping him, and more, so much else, but he couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air, and as he blacked out, the last thing he heard was:

No more running, you’ll be a man who doesn’t run from anything or anyone ever again.

***

Brett wasn’t sure how much time had passed, when he came to again. The light coming from the window hadn’t changed–it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but he felt like he had slept for ages. He groaned, and pushed himself up from the floor onto his hands and knees, got his feet underneath him, and forced himself upright. His head ached–his whole body ached, really, but his head hurt the most. The voices were there and so loud–it was difficult to try and parse apart into anything meaningful. They also…didn’t seem to be from outside him anymore–they were in him. In his mind. Or they were his mind, digging in and pushing out anything that wasn’t right, that old him that…that other him. He turned, still a bit wobbly on his feet, saw himself in the mirror, and just…stared at himself, at what the clothes had done to him.

The clothes he was wearing weren’t his clothes, or Regis’s clothes either. Neither of them had anything like this in their wardrobe. Somehow the jockstrap had…changed them into this. He was wearing a wifebeater under a leather vest, both of them looking like they’d been worn for years, and not cared for particularly well. On his legs were a set of leather chaps, biker boots, and under them a pair of filthy looking jeans–though he could only judge that by the crotch, which was more yellow-brown than blue at this point. But him–underneath the clothes. That couldn’t be him, it just…it couldn’t.

He was huge–easily a few inches over six feet tall, broad shouldered, thick pecs, massive muscular arms covered in a riot of tattoos–and over those, a thick layer of hair. His face though–that was the worst part. He’d been handsome before, even beautiful. His face had gotten him out of poverty, further than even his body could have, and now, he was…ugly. A wide mouth and nose, a heavy brow, a thick black beard a couple inches long and growing high on his cheeks, a scar across one side of his face, brown eyes staring out at himself. He was…fuck, he looked like a brute. He felt like a brute, and the voices, they wanted him to like it, they wanted him to enjoy this, but all he could feel was horror.

He started trying to pull the clothes off of himself, but they fought him, refusing to budge. He could hear the voices starting to panic, shouting louder, so loud he had to scrunch up his eyes and clasped his massive, calloused hands over his ears in an effort to clock it out, but nothing worked. 

You want to be a real man, you want this. You want to stop running, be the kind of man who doesn’t run. 

He could feel them rummaging through his mind and his memories, trying to find something else to use against him, and they found Regis, and suddenly, he was all he could think about. How…how angry he was at him for being such a manipulative and abusive asshole. He’d never been this angry at him before in his life, but the voices were amplifying it, intensifying it, making it the only thing he could feel.

We’ll fix him. We’ll fix him for you, we’ll make him love you, we’ll pay him back for everything he did to you just let us in let us in and let us stay stay with us stay keep us on live in us we live in you and we’ll fix you and fix him and

Something broke. Something in his head broke, and Brett just stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, the voices quiet…and then he said, in a voice not quite his own, but one…better than his last one. “I’ll fix him…” It was low and gruff. It sounded mean. He liked it. He liked being mean. “Yeah, I’ll fucking fix him real fucking good, we’ll fix him, fuck yeah…” He hauled his cock out of the front of his jeans and started jacking off, thinking about Regis now, so many cruel, mean, nasty ideas, and all…all he had to do, was listen. Stop thinking so hard, just…just do what the voices told him to do, and everything would work out just fine. He lumbered over to the remaining mass of clothing piled in the middle of the room, looming over it, jacking harder now, and he came with a groan–a massive load of cum splattering all over the clothes there, drying instantly, and Brett felt much better. No more running. No–he would…wait here. Some planning to do of course, some preparations had to be made, but Regis…Regis would love him, really love him. He would fix them both for good.

***

Regis was fuming as he climbed out of the uber parked on the sidewalk in front of the house, went around to the trunk, and hauled his luggage out. That fucking boy–he knew he was supposed to pick him up from the airport today, one fucking job to do, and he couldn’t even do that properly! He’d even done him the courtesy of texting him that morning, but he hadn’t even been checking those apparently. Regis straightened himself out a bit, and braced himself. He’d settle this–that boy was out, as of today. He didn’t care where he went, or with who–this had been a mistake.

Brett had been charming, when they’d first met. But then, Regis had paid him to be charming, and Brett had known what was good for him. The sex had been great too, of course, and Regis had stupidly tricked himself into thinking that this one might be different. He might be worth bringing home. But as the months had worn on he’d grown bored of the boy, the allure of him standing on the street corner dashed when you could have him whenever you wanted him. Regis had been seeing other boys of course–on the trip he’d fucked two just yesterday, and they’d been better and more interesting than Brett by a mile. Yes–he was done with him. Go in there, throw him out on his ass, and pretend that none of this had ever happened. It was for the best, really. At least for him–but then, Regis generally only cared about what was best for him.

He was in his fifties, and not exactly the most handsome man to grace the earth. He was short, and pudgy–a little top heavy really, with a fat chest and gut riding on small legs. He was balding badly but didn’t put much effort into either hiding the fact or embracing it. He had a mustache, and usually a bit of stubble around his face. His looks had never mattered to him, not when he could grease his path with money–and that had served him well enough. 

He walked up the drive and in through the front door–and there was the first sign that something was amiss. There was a smell in the house–something…heady and musky and certainly human but also…not. There was also no sign of Brett anywhere–he’d hoped the boy would have enough sense to at least beg for forgiveness–it would make it that much more satisfying to throw him out. But there was…nothing. No one. He shut the door behind him and set his bag by the door, and called out–but no one replied. The smell grew…more intense though, and then he heard the sound of boots on the hardwood floor, and someone came around the corner.

Regis had no idea who the massive fucker was, standing there in those filthy clothes and all of that leather gear, leering at him. “Hey daddy,” the stranger said, “Glad to see you made it home in one piece.”

The voice…it couldn’t be. It was too deep, and yet…something about it rang familiar. “I…I don’t know who you are, but I will call the police and have you arrested.”

Before Regis could even make a move to grab his phone, however, the man charged him, slammed into him and pinned him back against the door. Now he knew where the smell was coming from–it was coming from him. It wasn’t just him though–it was the clothes…and this close to him, he could feel them…squirming against him like they were alive, the man just staring at him with his eyes, slightly vacant, but the erection pressing against Regis’s gut was very much eager and excited. Regis was frozen for a moment, before he managed to shove the massive man away–he was so large, that Regis was sure he only stepped back because he wanted to–not because of Regis’s shove. The man was just leering at him, groping his crotch and the massive bulge there, and Regis realized that the strange writhing sensation was still there–because his own clothes were…shifting.

He looked down, and saw that a multitude of stains were spreading across the front of his white dress shirt, and he quickly tried to pull it off–but the fabric fought him, the buttons disappearing under his fingers as the shirt sealed down the front, the fabric shifting from the expensive cotton he always wore to something far cheaper, his suit pants changing similarly, becoming rougher, and dirtier, becoming ragged denim–even as a voice started speaking in his mind, a voice he didn’t recognize–more forceful and powerful that the brute’s had been.

Down, down piggy, such a good little dirty piggy daddy yes go down down hands and knees before him before us before your masters

He tried to speak, but as he did, the tie he had on constricted suddenly, choking him, making him gargle and snort for breath. Brett just watched as his daddy’s fancy suit began to assume it’s new form–a cheap, threadbare t-shirt, covered with all manner of food stains with several holes in the front and under the armpits. The pants turned to denim, and started to grow up–his belt becoming denim as well and looping up over his shoulders, completing the new set of filthy overalls, his suit coat picking up color, a checkered pattern, turning to a flannel vest–the sleeves disintegrating before his eyes, the tie turning dark brown and becoming a thick leather collar cinched tight around his daddy’s throat. He clawed at it for a moment more, and then he fell to his knees, and the collar loosened, allowing him to gasp for air, snorting for it really, the voice louder in his ears, telling him what a good obedient pig he was, what a good slave he was going to become for his new master.

Brett stepped up, grabbed his pig by the hair, and dragged his face into the crotch of his filthy jeans, forcing the pig to snort in his stench now, the voice urging him to breath it in, lick it, taste his masters, taste the filth, serve the man, serve the cloth, serve them all–they would both serve them so well now, serve them well forever.

“I’m not running anymore, you fucking piece of shit,” Brett said, hocking a wad of spit right in Regis’s face, “You’re going to do exactly what I say, from now on–got it? You’re just my fucking pig, and…and yeah, fuckin’ hell, you’re gonna be so fucking hot, fuck–come on pig, let’s go play.”

Brett walked to the basement door and went downstairs, leaving Regis there, spit running down his face, more humiliated and disgusted than he’d ever been in his entire life…but it was too late, wasn’t it? The voices were already inside him. He was so much less resistant, so much more…pliable. As he crawled towards the basement, his body sagged heavier, more and more fat piling on him, the cloth growing to accommodate his new size, even as his cock shrank down. He didn’t need a big cock, not that it had ever been large to begin with. But he needed a pig cock, short and thick and always leaking. He crawled down the stairs, and when Brett saw him, more changes had appeared–a thick beard all over his face, growing longer by the moment, all of it a filthy off-white. He walked around his pig, found the convenient hole in the ass of his new pig’s overalls, and the nasty, unwashed briefs underneath, unleashed his cock, and rammed it into the pig’s hole, listening to him snort in excitement as his master fucked him for the first time of many, his own mind draining out his cock and soaking the front of his overalls in cum–and piss soon enough, the pig losing total control of his bladder, soaking his clothes and the concrete floor under him in it–though a number of filthy garments crawled out from the dark corners of the basement and soaked up every drop they could find. Yes, these two would feed them well, but the cloth would be smarter here–smarter than the cloth over in the other house, who simply devoured mindlessly. They would be careful, feed from them, and lure others, yes, already, Brett knew what he would do, what this pig would do for him. He hauled his cock free, and unloaded his cum all over the clothes swarming them, feeding them, the pig whirling around and sucking the last few drops from the cheesy head of his master’s cock, already eager for more–rough fucks, piss, anything it’s master wanted, the filthier the better, the pig would do anything to be with him, anything at all. He loved him, loved him so much he could barely stand it.

But the pig also had work to do–he understood that. Brett would find the men–online sometimes, or more often in person. Entrance them with his own powerful musk, but bring them home with him, tell them that he had a sex pig willing to do anything for anyone. Sure, once the men caught sight of the massive, old, hairy, stinking pig, some of them had second thoughts–but not for long. The cloth would swarm them, show them the error of their ways, and usually the men would leave with a brand new wardrobe different than what they had arrived in–more than willing to come back and feed the pig–and the cloth–whenever they could. Yes, this way they would survive–no, more than survive. They would thrive.

Caption – Arctos: Daddies 2

Patrons at the $5 tier or higher get access to more captions in this series on my discord server!

But maybe you’re tired of daddies telling you what to do. Maybe, for a change, you want a daddy to do what you way. Someone more pliable, someone too weak to call the shots. A daddy who might look the part, but in the bedroom, he knows who’s really in charge.

A daddy like this one. See that slouch, the shoulders forward and back hunched? The tiny cock that can barely even get hard? The tired eyes that don’t really want to make contact? It isn’t that he’s broken–a broken daddy wouldn’t be very interesting for anyone. He does know his place however. He knows who’s in charge, and it isn’t him. He knows he’s a bottom, a punching bag, a hole, a whore even, if you have some friends over. That isn’t to say, however, that he isn’t going to change you.

You say you want to be in charge, but are you really ready for it? Do you have the patience for his simpering, his laziness, his fecklessness? Are you really ready to make every decision, and then watch him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t fuck up the directions you thought were so simple? Do you have the patience? How long until you lash out, until the belt is in your hand, and after the belt, the strap, and after the strap, the flogger, and after the flogger, the bull whip? He knows he deserves it, even before you do–and that makes you angry too. You’re so angry, angry at what he makes you do to him, angry at how good it feels, doing it.

When did you start wearing so much leather, and when did you get those tattoos? Your old friends slowly slide out of the picture, unused to dealing with someone so overbearing, and rude, and at times abusive, as you are now. You find some new friends, friends who understand your problems. Perhaps they have stupid daddies of their own, and you can have parties, and take turns with them all, enjoying them, berating them all. You do know this, however–this isn’t who you wanted to be, but it is who your daddy demanded you become.

Whore on Demand (Patreon Exclusive)

Here’s another story based off of the suggestions from folks who support me on Patreon! In this sketch, a lecherous father decides to get a specialized whore for his son’s bachelor party, but things don’t go quite how he expected. You can find the story here! Anyone supporting me at the one dollar level or more can get access to all of these short stories, and also gets the ability to make requests of their own!