Asslickers Inc. (Part 6)

The dildo was quite small now, especially compared to the width of Judd’s ass. The white and blue had faded away from the shaft as it had shrunk, leaving just a pale, creamy rod which Ari slid in deep. “Why don’t we just let that melt for a bit?”

“Aww fuck…can’ believe ya fuckin’ turned me intah some dumbass redneck slob. Can’t believe how much I fuckin’ love it, fuck! I’d fuckin’ plow mah ass if I could, hot damn, what a pig…” Judd muttered to himself, gazing at his reflection. “Ya got anythin’ tah smoke round here? Could use somethin’…got an itch tah scratch.”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke. I can get you a beer though.”

“Fine, two cans though–’n just the cheap shit! Don’t need so sissy fuckin’ import shit. Real fuckin’ ‘Merican’s drink domestic!”

Ari just shook his head, and went into the kitchen, as a new taste flooded Judd’s mouth. It was like sweet whipped cream…but with a sour tinge, almost like yogurt, or…cum. Yeah, it was like sugary cum, that was it exactly! Fuck, it tasted pretty damn good–he wouldn’t mind some real cum, now that he was thinking about it. Ari returned, and since Judd’s body was still paralyzed and limp, He had to help the big lug drink the two cans down. A good amount ran down his chins and onto the rubber sheet, running around his filthy body, but he got a small buzz going–enough to ignore the growing need for tobacco in one form or another. “Thanks fucker–now git that cock in mah mouth–this pigs hungry fer some cum.”

“No kidding. Still, I want to check on the rest of the effects, and see how that’s working first.” Ari walked around behind him, and looked at Judd’s ball sack–which was tingling a bit, and Ari gave a few noises of approval. “Damn Judd–you’ve got quite the sack on you now! And better get used to having the crotches of your overalls wet, because that cock of yours will be leaking at the first sight of a guy’s cock you want.”

“Yeah? Well I fuckin’ want yers! Now git round here, ‘n fuckin’ feed me! This pig’s fuckin’ hungry.”

Judd didn’t actually get through the blow job before he fell asleep, thanks to the tranquilizers Ari had put in the beers. Still, he took pity on him, skull fucked his fat, bearded face and buried deep into his throat, pumping his gut full of a load, and then got up off the bed, found his phone, and made a call.

“Got a pickup for you. He’s asleep….Sure thing, one hour.”

Overall, a successful test–as good as he could hope for really. He could review the tapes later, and decide on what changes he might make to the product line–but for now, it was nearly four in the morning, and he needed to sleep. He managed an hour nap, before the crew arrived, marched in, bundled up Judd and carted him off out of the apartment–Ari didn’t know where they took them when he finished with them, and he didn’t really want to know. All he really wanted, was a nice long sleep–and when he woke up? He’d pick another target, and conduct his next test in next week.

Judd woke up to a pounding headache, and with a groan, rolled over in the tight queen bed that barely contained his bulk, and wondered where, exactly, he was. He should be home…right? Was this his home? He had fuzzy memories of some crazy dream, but they were already fading–he sat up, belched, gave his furry pit a scratch and sniff, before hauling himself up and squeezing through the tight trailer, finding the filthy bathroom where he pissed mostly into the toilet, and then started scrounging around for something to smoke. The only thing he found was a can of chewing tobacco, so he hauled out a thick wad of the dark leaf and shoved it in his mouth, feeling better as he gnawed on it, dark spit rolling out the side of his mouth and down into his beard. Beer next–then breakfast. Then he could worry about how he’d ended up here.

Still, by the time he’d gotten four beers in his gut, cooked up a pile of eggs and potatoes and scarfed the whole thing down, his brain had managed to catch up–and he realized he was home. After all, it didn’t make sense for him to be anywhere else…and he’d probably just drank a bit too much, and fucked up his head, like usual.

Breakfast hadn’t quite sated all of his hungers, however, and he hauled up his massive gut and started proding at his cock–turnin’ on the cumtap as he liked to call it. His balls were massive–at least the size of two grapefruits, and the cum streamed out of him in a torrent–fast enough for him to hang off a chair, milk his cock with one hand, hold a big glass in the other, and guzzle down a full cup of fresh jizz every few minutes. His milking routine was interrupted by an unfamiliar ringtone–he dug through the filth of the trailer for a few moments, hunted down the years out of date flip phone, and answered it with a long, drawled hello.

“God fuckin’ damn it Judd, where the fuckin’ hell are ya? This god damn truck ain’t gonna drive itself, ‘n yer half an hour late n’–fuck, from the way yer pantin’, were ya milkin’ yerself again?”

“I don’t know…who ya are, but…” Judd stammered.

“Shut the fuck up pig! If ya weren’t such a cum hungry faggot, I’d a canned yer worthless fat ass months ago. Git here now, fucker–’n if ya don’t got her nasty mouth round mah cock in twenty minutes, yer gonna be findin’ another fuckin’ job!”

Memories were falling into place again–that was his boss–Heathrow Midstel–and the owner of one of the biggest, fattest cocks Judd had ever seen. Trucking wasn’t something he liked to do–but if he got to drink his boss’ cum on a regular basis, he’d manage. Grumbling, he hauled on a pair of filthy overalls, the crotch stained dark and stiff with cum, threw on some boots, and went out to his old beat up truck. It wasn’t a perfect life–but it was the only one he had…and if Judd was honest, it was the only life he wanted now too.

Medical Trials (Part 2)

The feeling of calm indifference only lasted for about half an hour–but the tank had only been drained by about a third, when he felt like he was finally free of whatever strange mental state that drug had left him in. As disconcerting as it had been, he actually missed it in a sense, as he kept swallowing his own seed, desperate to not drown on his own spunk, his gut aching, because at least for that short window of time, he had genuinely enjoyed this. The speakers in his mask continued to repeat the message, however, about once a minute, and the repetition wore on him, and he fought it for a while. Now however, he was sobbing, about an inch of cum remaining in the tank, his gut feeling like it would burst at any moment. He’d gagged a few times, spewing cum out his nose, where it ran down the outside of his mask and dripped onto his chest and swollen gut. He let out a cry of relief when the flow eased up, and the tank was dropped back down to the floor, out of sight. The machine beside him administered something else to him, and he feared he’d see that ame blue liquid, as before, but all he felt, after a moment, was pleasantly floaty, and he fell asleep in the chair.

When he woke up, he was once again in the chair, though his gut didn’t ache as bad as it had, and he felt less stiff, like he’d been out of the chair for a bit, while he was asleep, and then returned to the same position. He tried to beg and plead through the mask attached to him, but he saw the drip once more turn blue, and he fought harder against his bonds. Fifteen minutes later, the first orgasm ripped through him, and he just focused on his mind, on maintaining his focus, but he was broken, sobbing and whimpering after an hour, and after two, when his cock was merely spasming weakly, the fact that the mask was pulling his head back to the chair was the only thing keeping his head upright. Once more, the tank was raised up to the ceiling, and the flow began again. The world was dull, meaningless, aside from a slight bright spot. The tank. He…enjoyed cum. He could remember that, somewhat, but little else.

“You love the taste of cum, officer Timmons.”

The tank grew brighter in his focus, and once the flow began, he drank it down hungrily. He drank, and the messages continued, though with greater variation than the last time.

“You crave cum, Officer Timmons.”

“If a man offers you his cum, you will do anything he demands of you to obtain it.”

“Cum is priceless, you will never have enough of it.”

The dullness lasted longer than it had the first time, and was more difficult to shake off. Or was it just that the tank hadn’t been as full as it had been the first time? He wasn’t sure, everything felt like a blur. He pushed the sensation away as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t deny that he felt a more lasting effect this time, a…craving for more. The taste of cum lingered in his mouth, and he didn’t want it to fade. His gut ached, but surely he could fit in another load or two, right? Oh fuck, what in the world was he thinking? It was a relief when the tranquilizer flooded his system again, and sent him to sleep, it was easier than trying to understand what was going on with his mind.

He was forced to endure five more sessions like this. He would wake up in the chair, once again. As soon as he was awake, the strange drug would be administered. He would cum, violently and repeatedly, for several hours, after which he would ingest every drop of cum he’d just expelled. The voice would repeat in his mind, and he was no longer certain whether everything he thought was his or not. One thing he did know, as the sessions wore on, was that, more and more, he looked forward to eating the cum. He could…survive the onslaught of orgasms (though they had become so painful, he was certain that if he ever left this lab alive, he would never cum, or have sex, ever again) so long as, when they were over, he could eat the cum. He loved cum, after all. That much he knew for sure. They wouldn’t be able to take that away from him, that was just…just who he was, right?

It was difficult to compare from session to session, but Evan thought that he was orgasming less and less each time. Certainly the cum he was fed wasn’t enough to sate his desire, and the tank never looked as full as it had that first time. He also wasn’t sure…but his body felt different, somehow. Of course, he hadn’t been able to see his body since waking up in the room, with his head pulled tight against the back of the chair, but he…sensed something was wrong, or at the very least, different than it had been. Most worrisome, however, was that the world really was beginning to lose some of it’s color, even after the drug had worn off. It was hard to care about anything beyond drinking more cum. He felt dull…but even stranger, he felt calm. Relaxed and at ease. Rationally, he knew that what was being done to him was terrifying, but the emotion attached to the thought was losing force. Every emotion was losing force. He’d think of his girlfriend naked, but only received a dull throb of arousal and love, nothing like he could remember feeling.

And so, when he woke up after that seventh session, and he wasn’t strapped to the chair, he didn’t really know what to feel. Or rather, he knew what he should be feeling–relief, happiness, anticipation–and all of those things were there to some extent, but mostly he just felt…calm, as he looked down at himself, and saw for the first time what the drug had done to his body.

Medical Trials (Part 1)

Evan looked around at the desks around him, all of which had emptied out my now, leaving him alone in the precinct, chasing his own tail on this investigation into several men over the last few months. There was no real connection between any of them–not age, neighborhood, habits…well, except for one. Every single one of the men was employed at a massive health conglomerate in the business district, Trinq Incorporated. The company was trying to claim that all of the disappearances were all likely to have been done by one of their chief, international competitors–and initially, that’s what had seemed like the most likely possibility. Now though, he wasn’t so sure. The evidence the company had provided had just enough holes to make it look reasonable, but also impossible to prosecute, and in two of the cases, he’d found evidence that the men in question had actually been preparing to blow the whistle on what was looking like some serious ethical issues in Trinq’s R&D department. But as soon as he’d started asking questions along those lines, the company had started stonewalling him. His boss was pressuring him to close the file as a cold case if necessary, but Evan’s detective instincts were telling him he was on the cusp of something big.

He heard the elevator ding, and assumed it was just the janitor, coming up to clean the floor. He didn’t have time to react when the two massive men attacked him, one of them holding a rag soaked in chloroform to his nose. He fought as hard as he could, trying to reach his sidearm, but he was out before he could do anything to fight back, and the two men carried him down to the basement parking garage, threw him in the back of a van marked with Trinq Incorporated’s logo, and drove off through the city, arriving at an unmarked office building, and disappearing inside.

He was trying to scream, but all he could manage was a muffled cry, with the strange tube shoved in his mouth, and held in place by the mask secured around his head and neck, holding it immobile. The only things exposed were his eyes, allowing him a limited survey of the room–white tiled wall straight ahead and to the right, a white door in that corner, and to the left, a wall with a large mirror. In his experience, he figured it was likely one way. Where in the hell was he? The last thing he could remember was sitting at his desk, and then everything else was a blurry haze. Had someone kidnapped him? He didn’t know if it was Trinq or some foreign company, but he was willing to bet he’d stumbled on a hornet’s nest, and hadn’t been smart enough to know it.

The rest of his body was immobilized as well, and all of his clothes had been removed, leaving him naked, though there was something on his cock, or perhaps more precise, inside it–a tube, almost like a catheter, though he couldn’t see where the tube led outside his range of vision. In his arm was an IV, and some sort of complex machinery which was pumping something into him–probably saline–though he had a feeling that he’d be subjected to something else before too long. Sure enough, now that he was awake, he heard the machine whirring to life, and a blue liquid was added to his drip. All he could do, was try to scream and struggle against his bonds as the drug–whatever it might me–slipped down the line and disappeared into his arm.

For what felt like a long time, but which in reality was likely only fifteen minutes or so, nothing happened, beyond Evan panicking and hyperventilating. Then, without any warning at all, he felt his cock stiffen all on it’s own accord in a matter of seconds, and a massive orgasm ripped through him, leaving him shuddering and shaking in the chair, and he only had a few moments to heave for breath through his nose, before a second orgasm, even longer and more intense, followed right on the first’s heels.

He had no idea how long it lasted–he quickly lost count of how many orgasms he suffered through in rapid succession. At first, it was pleasurable, but the euphoria dulled away, and soon every shot of cum was simply excruciatingly painful. It felt like his balls were being crushed in a vice, milked endlessly–and somehow, every time, more cum came out of him. He’d heard somewhere, that after a relatively small number of loads, a guy would just begin shooting dry, but not him–he could see his cum flowing through the tube lodged in his cock, flowing to some unknown destination below him.

After an hour of this, the time between orgasms began to lengthen again, and he did indeed begin to shoot dry–which hurt even more, somehow. His balls were throbbing, his cock felt like it was on fire, but after the intensity of the experience, those sensations felt so distant, and as the last few orgasms shook through him, what Evan actually felt was a surprising sense of calm. Or more than just calmness, also…indifferent. Like the world had emptied of meaning somehow, or he’d simply lost the capacity to grapple with things going on around him. And as the tension left his body, he saw something rising up from below him–a massive tank, full of at least four liters of his own cum. At the top of the tank, which was being slowly raised up into the air, was the end of the tube attached to his cock, and at the bottom, the end of the tube leading back to his mouth.

“Officer Evan Timmons, you will eat all of your own cum. You will enjoy it.”

The words came through speakers in the mask itself, and they lit up the grey, featureless world around him, broke through his indifference, and he found himself focused on the command, as the tank began to empty down the tube, and into his mouth.

The Trophy (Part 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fetish Gun (Part 9)

Ray tried to pry himself away from the nipple in his mouth, and Jeff watched him struggle for a few moments, smiling the whole time. A few times he took a wild swing or two at the gun, but Jeff had crouched well out of reach, where he could watch him struggle. Eventually, he gave up, and asked, “You wanna make me a cow? Fine, get it fucking over with then.”

“Be a little patient, I’m still trying to decide on what kind of cow to make you, you know? Still, why don’t we start with this,” Jeff said, pointed the gun, and pulled the trigger, holding it down for close to fifteen seconds, before releasing the button, revealing a very different Ray when the light dimmed away.

He was no longer kneeling–in fact, he was even shorter than Wade, making him the perfect height to keep sucking at his tit. However, instead of Wade’s muscle, Ray’s body had ballooned with fat. He still had on a complete leather uniform, however the leather now looked comical on his round figure, the leather pulled tight over his rolls and apron, the seat of his pants massively wide to accommodate his much fatter ass. Ray could feel an odd wetness around his heavy moobs as his nipples started to spontaneously pump cum out, but with nowhere to go, it ran down inside his shirt, making him feel clammy and uncomfortable. A second burst of the gun eliminated the uniform entirely, leaving him naked up top aside from a wide strap leather harness cutting into his fat, his own massive set of balls flopping out of some crotchless leather shorts, rubbing against Wade’s, both of them soaking each other in their cum.

“What do you think, Ray? You enjoying yourself? It sure looks like you are. This fucking cow sure does love it. Look at him, completely mindless, ruled by instinct–what do you think Ray? Is that what you’d like? You want me to empty out that head of yours? You want to be drooling, just a fucking sack of milk for men to drink all day, every day? Or is that too easy for someone like you? Maybe you should just rot away in there, your head dulling a bit more, day by day, feeling your sense of self drain away until you finally give in and there’s nothing left to lose?”

Ray tried to talk, but the only thing that emerged was a series of moos and grunts. No matter how hard he tried to form them, he couldn’t seem to make an intelligible word.

“Oh stop trying, Ray–cows don’t get to talk, you know that. Cows don’t get to make decisions. Cows don’t get to beg. Pup–do me a favor and plow this cow’s ass pussy for a while. I want him to take a moment to think about what might be coming for it in the future.”

“Yes sir!” Ben said, and happily came around behind Ray, got on his knees, and drove his cock in between the fat cheeks of his ass. The cock slid in smoothly, and Ray let out a long, deep moo of pleasure, cum spewing helplessly from his tiny nipplecock. By now, the two cows had a full-fledged puddle of cum and milk between them, and every eye in the place was glued to them–letting Ray turn the dial on the gun to setting E. But instead of shooting it at any one person–he instead pointed it up at the ceiling of the bar, and pulled the trigger, focusing on the image in his mind like he’d seen Ray do the night before, when they’d turned that shitty breeder sport’s bar into this fine leather establishment, but this time he had a different idea in mind. The gun’s light flew out in a shower, up to the ceiling and then cascaded down around onto the entire bar and everyone in it, the light throbbing and pulsing, absorbing all of them aside from Jeff, who kept still in the middle of the maelstrom until the gun’s power finally drained away, it’s battery exhausted for the night, leaving him in a place much different from what it had been.

Now it was the filthy bathhouse of his dreams, and he was the sole proprietor. He wasn’t standing in a bar–rather it was a dimply lit locker room, and his pup was fucking one of their in house milk cows over a bench. Ben had changed quite a bit–gaining a substantial amount of muscle, but that was important, since he was the primary bouncer and enforcer. He finished with a few loud grunts and slid his cock free, before dragging the cow back to its cage, shoving it inside, hooking up the milker and turning it on, Ray’s attempts at resistance melting away into moans of pleasure as the pumps sucked away at him. Wade was in the cage beside him, hooked up to his own machines. The two of them stored the milk and sold it on tap–each of their milks was highly sought after in the bulking and gaining communities–Wade’s for building muscle, and Ray’s for packing on fat.

“What do you think, pup? Think we’ll be happy here?” Jeff asked.

He gave him a confused look, unsure of what his Master meant. Hadn’t they always owned the bathhouse?

Jeff rolled his eyes and ordered his pup down to suck his cock, deciding it was best not to worry. He was happy–and if he ever wasn’t happy, he was confident the gun could take care of any nuisance that might crop up in the future.

The End (Of this storyline at least)

The Fetish Gun (Part 8)

The three of them, two filthy derelict biker and one short, overmuscled pig with milk leaking from his tits and cock, left the apartment building and never returned. A few neighbors witnessed them leaving, but for some reason none of them regarded it as particularly odd, after Jeff shot them with the gun of course, and each of them returned to their own, newly fetished lives without another thought–sometimes literally.

Jeff was ecstatic. Finally, it was his. Sure, at first he’d resented Ray for changing him without even asking him first, but in that old body, he’d realized how…wonderful it was to be in control. One night, Ray made him his own personal pain slave, and that whole night…it had opened his eyes. This is how life was meant to be lived, but he’d always been second fiddle, until now. Now he was the one really in charge. Now he had the gun, now he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and what he wanted now was a whole lot of fucking–starting with Ray, of course.

Ben remained a few respectful steps behind his master, still trying to wrap his head around everything that had happened to him that evening, from the alley to the apartment, and now this. Who even was he, anymore? His mind tried to answer the question for him, telling him he was Master Jeff’s obedient biker pup, that he’d do anything for him, that he’d serve him for the rest of his life, and even though he knew that was wrong, the words rang so true so deeply that it was quickly becoming impossible for him to even imagine an alternative…and yet, there had to be one, right? He could still barely remember walking into that alley to take a piss, and then…then everything. But that was getting harder and harder to hold onto, and fading faster than he could believe–in fact, by the time they reached the bar, he no longer remembered any of it. Instead, his head had filled in the blanks with a new life, a life spent at Jeff’s dirty boot heel, and he loved every moment of it.

Wade wasn’t thinking anything at all–his entire mind had been wiped, replaced by simple, instinctual impulses. His massive balls and missing cock were on display for all the see, and he felt no shame, or pride, or anything. What he did feel was pain. His balls and pecs were…brimming with cum and milk, and he needed release, soon, or his mind worried he might simply explode. The thump of his thighs against his huge sack as he walked helped, a jet of cum fling out with each forward step, and he kept his hands locked on his nipples, tugging and yanking and twisting them like faucets, his chest and gut soaked with his own milk, but it wasn’t enough. He would slow on occasion, and Master would yank on his nose ring, the bell around his neck clinking, and he’d give a pained moo, but pick up the pace, hopeful that his master would give him relief soon.

After a twenty minute walk, they arrived back at Ray’s bar–the bar he’d fashioned with his leather master sensibilities in mind, and while a day earlier Jeff had been in love with the place, now it seemed…far too clean and bright and open. He wanted dingy concrete. He wanted urinals and tobs brimming with piss. He wanted darkness and red lights and unknown bodies grinding against his. Still, that could wait–Ray was in there, at the bar, his personal bartender serving him bourbon. He looked annoyed–Jeff was late, but he’d been late for good reason. Still, he couldn’t confront him yet–he had something else in mind first. From here, he could do whatever he wanted to Ray, of course, but it had to be perfect–and he had just such an idea in his head.

“Cow, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go in there and walk up to him, just let him notice you, and let him do whatever he wants to you–got it?”

Wade understood, and he waddled inside. He turned quite a few heads, including Ray, who could barely believe what he was seeing…and then he recognized him as their missing thief, and then the gun’s ray struck him right in the chest. he barely had time to register what had happened, and then he was up, his nose flaring, drawing him closer to the mancow approaching him, and he fell to his knees, latched onto a nipple, and started sucking, helpless to the crippling addiction that had overwhelmed him suddenly. The pleasure hit Wade in wave after wave, cum spewing freely from his cock, the entire bar watching what was happening.

“Having a good evening, Ray?”

He managed to crook his eyes up, and saw Jeff approaching him, the gun in his hand, “Fuck…Fuck you, fucking stop this,” he managed to saw with the nipple still glued to his lips.

“I’m not doing anything, Ray. You seem like the one who should stop, if you don’t want to make a complete fool of yourself. Then again, it doesn’t feel like you want to stop, now does it?” he added, slipping one dusty boot between them, pressing the outside against Ray’s still massive, sensitive sack and making him groan with pleasure and pain, “In fact, I bet you’d like to be a cow too, eh? Making some milk of your own. How does that sound?” He adjusted the dial on the gun, “I think it sounds pretty good myself.”

The Fetish Gun (Part 7)

Jeff held down the trigger for a few moments, before releasing it; the light dying away and revealing Ben once again. He was essentially the same, but with a few very important differences, the most obvious being the thick chain necklace he now wore, with an industrial padlock holding it together Jeff had no idea where the key was–he’d lost it ages ago, but that didn’t matter. As far as either of them was concerned, Ben would never be taking it off for the rest of his life. Jef stepped closer to him, their combined musk overwhelming them both, wrapped one hand around the back of his pup’s neck, feeling the lank, greasy hair in his grimy fingers, and thrust his tongue into Ben’s eager mouth, tasting him for the first time, and for the thousandth.

This wasn’t the first time Jeff had been subjected to setting C. When his friend had found the gun, that was the setting he’d used to turn him into his duplicate uniform master. What he hadn’t expected was for the changes to flow in both directions this time. Granted, the first time he’d been perfectly neutral, so perhaps that explained why his former half hadn’t changed at all. Still, that was something to figure out later–he pushed down on Ben’s shoulders, and his pups knees immediately buckled, hauling out his master’s pungent cock just in time to catch a facefull of piss blasted across his face.

“What…happened? Why I so…fuck…*moooooaaann*…”

Jeff looked over to where the now incredibly freakish cow on the other side of the couch. He chuckled to himself as he pissed down his pup’s throat, and pointed the gun at Wade, who was still helplessly twisting his massive, leaking nipples.

“Nooooo…” he groaned, trying to back away, but there was nowhere for him to go.

“Don’t you worry–I’m just going to help you become the cow you were always meant to be–the cow you want to be, I’m sure,” Jeff said, and pulled the trigger. After a few seconds, he released it, and Wade stood there, all intelligence drained from his eyes. He was no longer even capable of speaking–just grunting, moaning, and mooing of course. His body was relatively unchanged, aside from the fact that he was covered in a tattoo pattern of brown spots and the word “COW” etched across his forehead, a heavy steel door knocker pierced through his septum hanging lower than his lips, and a chain collar similar to Ben’s, but this one hooked to a cow bell resting on Wade’s massive chest.

He’d finished pissing, and his pup had moved onto his usual blow job, happily sucking at Jeff’s cock, desperate to be of service to his master. With his two targets relatively neutralized, Jeff finally had a chance to inspect the damage which had been done to him, when Wade had shot him earlier, and he inspected himself, and his mind, getting to know his new self. Physically he was similar–aside from some of his musculature being traded for a layer of fat–but that helped him and his pup stay warm in the winters as they travelled on their bikes. A couple of filthy, nasty derelict bikers, that was them–a gang of two, bathing in piss, drinking cum, going from city to city, robbing and raping as they went, taking what they needed before taking off again.

Part of him was disgusted–but he was used to that at this point. That bit of him, that old quivering Jeff that he could barely remember anymore, he didn’t fucking matter. Still, should he change himself back? Give himself back his pristine uniform? His perfect body? He thought about it, watching Ben suck his cock, and decided against it. He didn’t want that anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted this before, but he wanted this now, and that was more than enough for him. Still, there was the matter of revenge on his former half, and how to deal with him.

Ray had been the one who’d found the gun–he’d started all of this. The two of them had split up tonight to try and find the guy who’d stolen it from them–but it had never really been them, now had it? Ray had always called all the shots, made all the decisions, but now he was going to be in charge–and looking at his new cow, he realized he had the perfect idea of what to do with him, when he got back to the bar for their rendezvous. Fuck, just thinking about it, he was gonna explode, and he shot his load down Ben’s throat, his pup drinking it down eagerly into his belly, before standing back up with a grin on his face. “You look like you have something dirty planned, boss,” he said.

“Heh, you know me too well, boy,” Jeff said, “Come on, I have some business to take care of tonight.” Jeff picked up a leash he usually used for his pup, but instead he attached it to the thick ring in his cow’s nose. “You too–you’re gonna love this cow–just you fuckin’ wait.”

The Fetish Gun (Part 6)

Back in his apartment, Wade settled down on the couch, parking Ben between his legs where he could suck down all the milky cum he wanted, and began experimenting with the gun on his new whore. Setting B, it seemed, was the easiest–it simply turned someone into whatever he wanted them to become. Setting A, as far as he could guess, would tailor the target to their current environment, but he wasn’t certain. Setting D amplified someone’s current form and fetishes to be even more extreme than before. That left two final settings which he had no clue about. One of them had to change people back, right? That was probably setting E–the last one. Out of curiousity, he turned the dial to E and fired it at Ben, figuring he could always change him back–but nothing happened. It was like the light wouldn’t even stick to him, or do anything at all. More confused than ever, he turned the dial to the letter C and fired it at Ben again. This time the light stuck, enveloping him in an aura like before–however when it dissipated Ben hadn’t changed at all. He fired it again at him, but like with setting E, the light refused to stick. Was it broken? Why in the world wasn’t it doing anything?

That was as far as he got, before a booted foot started kicking at his door. Ben pried himself away from Wade’s cock, who stood up and looked down the short hallway. After three kicks, the bolt broke through the door frame and the door swung open, revealing one of the uniformed men he escaped from the night before, his balls still massive, and he did not look happy. The man saw the gun in Wade’s hand and charged at him–Wade raised it up and shot him as he came crashing towards him, and the light engulfed him…and Ben, standing beside him, an umbilical tendril connecting them both together for a few moments, before disappearing. The gun had done nothing to stop the intruder’s momentum and he slammed into Wade, the gun flying from his hand behind the couch, and he began wrestling with the man on the carpet, eventually throwing him to the side, scrambling up to his feet, and finding Ben standing there, the gun shaking in his hand, the barrel pointed right at him.

The stranger stood up next to him, and the three of them remained still, allowing Wade to see what had just happened. It was clear that setting C was designed for two targets–both Ben and the man had been changed–and it looked like, to Wade, that the two of them had absorbed each other’s fetishes and lives, meeting somewhere in the middle. Both of them were dressed head to toe in leather, however it was no longer a police uniform, but appeared to be cast off biker leathers, all of it heavily worn, tattered and filthy. Wade could smell them both, in fact–Ben had stank of musk and piss as they’d come back to the apartment, and now they both did. It was clear that Ben’s obsession with piss had worn off in the other direction.

“What…what the fuck should we do with him?” Ben asked, looking at the man like a fellow conspirator, “He fucking…fucking fucked with me Jeff, we gotta, I don’t know…make him pay.”

“Look, Ben, just calm down, and give me the gun. It’s all going to be alright,” the man said…but how did he know Ben’s name? “Give me the gun, and the two of us will sort this whole thing out.”

“No!” Wade said, “No, don’t give it to him, he’ll just–” but that was as far as Wade got, before the light struck him in the chest. He assumed, at first, that the gun would still be on setting C–however, he started to feel a familiar warmth, and realized that the dial must have twisted when he’d thrown it, meaning things were about to get a whole lot worse. He tried to move, tried to reach out and deflect the ray, but his arms wouldn’t budge. It was getting harder to think, harder to focus on much of anything, but he tried to, he tried to keep himself together, until the light finally dimmed away.

Ben stared at Wade on the other side of the couch, unable to believe what he was seeing. If the man who’d accosted him in the alley had been a freak before…well, now he was even stranger. He’d lost even more height, bringing him under five feet tall, but he’d packed on even more muscle somehow, making him look like a short fleshy wall–especially his pecs, which ballooned out from his body before sagging down, made heavy by the milk inside them already seeping from his huge, two inch long nipples, running down the front of his body. His cock was nowhere to be found–just a nub over a sack of balls larger than anything Ben had imagined possible, larger than a basketball, resting on his thighs. Wade ran his hands over his body, trying to process what had happened, but his mind was suddenly too dull to do much thinking at all. There was…something about a gun, something important, but it was already fading as he started twisting his nipples with his fat hands, milk spurting from the onto the couch, his nub of a cock spurting as well, while he let out a loud, surprisingly authentic moo from his gaping mouth.

Ben was still staring at what he’d done, when Jeff (that was his name, but Ben had no idea how he could possibly know that…except how could he not? The two of them were inseparable, of course) walked up to him, and gently lifted the gun from his hands. “What…what did I just do? I didn’t mean, I…”

“Hey man, it’s alright, I know,” Jeff said, turning the dial on the gun, “Hold still, this will make everything better.”

Ben turned in time to see the gun fire, and everything disappeared in a blaze of light.

The Fetish Gun (Part 3)

He was enveloped in light again, but a different sort of light than before, not that he was able to really explain what that meant. If forced to try, he might have described that first light, in the alley, as a kind of pressure, pushing itself around his body and into him–permeating his body from the outside. However, this second shot felt like an odd warmth, like how he might imagine a plant reacting to sunlight, spurring him to grow, working on him from the inside out, encouraging him, rather than forcing him. It felt so good he held the trigger down for longer than he had initially intended to do so. When he did finally release it, the light dissipated and he shivered, looked at himself in the mirror, and his jaw dropped.

This wasn’t better–this was worse. In fact, it looked like the gun had simply taken who he’d been, and just dialed the knobs up to eleven, like an even kinkier version of his already kinky self. He was even shorter–probably just an inch or two shy of five feet tall, but incredibly wide and heavily built–his head sitting directly on two thick shoulders, his arms hanging off at an angle, like his musculature couldn’t quite let them rest at his sides. He looked like he used steroids…and now that he thought about it, he did…use steroids. He’d used them for years, along with…with some other things he couldn’t quite remember. His head felt so sluggish, suddenly–thinking had been a bit harder before, but now he felt even dumber.

His balls, however, had been stretched down to an obscene length–at his height, the length from his groin to his knees was a bit shorter than average, but he reached down and found them swinging between his knees, each of his balls the size of an orange. The stretchers he’d put on earlier now appeared to be permanent–there was no way he could fit his balls through the opening, and looking closer at the metal weights, he saw that they appeared to be soldered into place…and, and he couldn’t wait to get his next one. He tugged his balls down, looking at the space between the highest weight and the top of his sack–he could almost fit another one on right now. It would hurt, of course, but he’d get used to it. He fucking loved getting used to it. Maybe if he called Rick in the morning he would put another on him tomorrow afternoon.

Tugging on his balls had made his cock start leaking–then again, when wasn’t it leaking? His cock was…larger, but not because it had grown. Rather, it looked thick and inflamed, like it had been pumped larger over time. It had a massive ring through the head, however, and his cum simply ran down the ring, dribbling from there to the floor, and he had two other massive rings through his nipples, and they looked to be even larger than his engorged and pumped cock. The rings he had on were all connected to thick chain, and the three chains were tied together below his pecs with a heavy padlock–guys at the club fucking loved tugging on his chains, getting him all riled up and leaking…but there was something…off about his nipples, and his pecs. Sure, he was a massive roided muscle freak, but there was no way his pecs could be that big, and they felt…kind of soft. He twisted a nipple and felt it immediately become wet between his fingers, and he moaned, his hand moving to his other nipple. Fuck, he loved milking himself–when the steroids had started fucking with his pecs, he’d decided to just roll with it–sure, the hormones were experimental, but the feeling he got from them–it was almost better than his little puny cock, and guys fucking loved his man milk. In fact, he felt pretty full–he should probably give himself a milking before going to bed.

He waddled away from the mirror, forgetting the gun on a side table, and went into his bedroom, where a couple of milking machines he’d ordered especially for himself were set up in a corner. After unlocking the chains and disconnecting the rings from his flesh, he put two tubes leading to one tank on his nipples, and a third around his cock, and turned on the machine. The sensation of all three milkers sucking on his tits and cocks overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees, one hand reaching around behind him to start pumping the huge, eight inch dildo crammed in his loose hole in and out, working his prostate and forcing even more cum out of him.

A part of him was horrified. A small part, growing smaller. His new mind simply didn’t have much room to feel much of anything beyond pleasure, and he rode the waves of his near constant orgasms for hours, until his cock and pecs were finally empty. Exhausted, he disconnected the tanks and carried them to the huge fridge in the kitchen–milk on the shelf, cum in the door–and then slumped off to bed. But he felt better in the morning–in fact, he felt great. He took his shots, ate a huge protein heavy breakfast, and then brought the milkers out to the living room, hooked himself up, and milked himself empty while he worked out all morning and into the early afternoon. It wasn’t until he got up to make himself a shake that he saw the gun on the table where he’d left it, and dimly remembered that as natural as this might feel, this wasn’t him. He knew he should do something about this, should try to fix this, but fuck it. He…liked this. Why fix what ain’t broken? He didn’t need fixing, he loved this body…but he could always try and…and fix some other people, right? In fact, he had a few neighbors that could use some fixing, and he still had a few settings on the gun he hadn’t tried yet…why not see what those could do, eh?

The Fetish Gun (Part 1)

The life of a lowly intern–first into the office, and nearly always the last to leave–it was well into night by the time Wade freed himself from his menial work, packed some things up in his briefcase, and started the walk home. It was friday night and the streets were busy–he had to pass through a hub of bars and small concert venues to get to his apartment, and while he always imagined on Fridays that he’d just go straight from the office to the bar, he was almost always too tired to do much beyond walk home and fall into bed–he could always go have some fun on Saturday night, right? Miranda had seemed to enjoy their last date–maybe he’d give her a call and see if she wanted to go out, if he wasn’t too tired. Fuck, twenty-five, and he already sounded like he was middle aged.

He turned into an alley which cut between a brick wall and the back of a small nightclub…though the clientele seemed a bit strange tonight. Usually there were a few straight couples smoking out back, talking quietly, but as he walked down, he saw that the small crowd was all men, and they seemed to be especially…fetishy. Leather, rubber, guys on their hands and knees in dog masks. It was almost enough to convince him to turn around, but there was no reason he couldn’t skirt the edge, right? He moved around the group, and felt everyone…staring at him. As he tried to escape the crowd around him, someone inside shouted, “Hey Greg! There’s one, out back.”

Some odd light covered Wade’s body for a moment, holding him in place, and then it was gone a second later. He stopped, trying to figure out what had just happened…and why he was so much colder all of a sudden. He looked down at himself and quickly saw why–he was nearly naked. The suit he’d been wearing (Suit? Had he been wearing a suit? It seemed…hard to imagine, him in a suit…) had simply disappeared, and in its place he was wearing a leather bulldog harness, a leather jockstrap, and two boots–nothing more. He gawked at himself, and then looked at everyone else around him–their eyes…some looked at him eagerly, but others…it looked like pity, or maybe just resignation.

“Did I get him?”

“Fuck yeah, your aim is impeccable.”

“Oh please, it’s just the guidance system, but thanks anyway.”

Two men emerged from the club, both of them nearly six and a half feet tall, heavily muscled, and wearing identical black leather uniforms. The men standing around and smoking all ducked back into the club almost immediately, aside from a few who hung back, and Wade tried to figure out what he had been doing. He’d been going home, right? Or…or had he been in the club…this whole time? He felt rather uncomfortable, his body bared for these two men. He wasn’t in very good shape–or rather, he had almost no shape at all–and the harness did nothing to hide it. He wasn’t exactly fat–though he did have a bit of a potbelly. More, he just looked like he spent his days behind a desk, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about the men in front of him…he’d never felt much attraction towards men, but suddenly…looking at these two huge muscle gods, he’d never felt this horny in his whole life.

“How’s the ratio in there?”

“I’d say make him a sub,” the other replied, and lifted up the strange looking gun he had in his hand, adjusting some of the knobs on the side, “Can always use more subs, right? Any preference?”

“Eh, surprise me.”

Before Wade could ask what was going on, the man pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger–the same light enveloping him as before, and disappeared a moment later–leaving him mostly the same, but with…several differences. His…physique, for one thing, and gone through a remarkable improvement. It looked like he had spent hours in the gym, bulking and building muscle–but with a sudden loss of height, he’d become a stout fireplug. Unfortunately, as he’d grown bigger, his cock had shrunk to a nub, while his balls had exploded in size, each nearly as large as a lemon, forcing the jockstrap to bulge out. With a grunt, unable to control himself, Wade dropped to his knees, the man with the gun releasing his seven inch cock from his pants. Wade felt drool immediately start flowing from his mouth, and he walked forward on his knees and swallowed it to the hilt.

“Nice muscle pig.”

“Thanks–he’s got a very nice mouth too. But try squeezing his balls.”

The other man knelt down, reach down and gave Wade’s sack a squeeze–immediately Wade felt a series of spasms and grunts wrack its way through him, his tiny cock releasing a massive amount of cum right into his jock.

“Dang, that’s pretty sensitive man–like, what would happen if I did…this?” He stood up again, and delivered a solid kick right to Wade’s massive balls with his boot.

It hurt–it hurt so much that he crumpled to the ground away from the cock he’d been sucking and curled up on the ground, but the pain eased away and pleasure took over–his cock pumping out blast after blast of cum for half a minute, his seed soaking and overflowing the jock he had on until it formed a puddle on the pavement beneath him as he shivered, grunted and groaned.

“He could go further though.”

“What would you suggest?”

“How about a complete pain pig? Piercings, tattoos.”

“I could see that, but what if we–”

He had to get out of here. he had to get away from these guys, but even if he did, he’d just be trapped like this…wouldn’t he? Wade took a few deep breaths–the men were still talking…or plotting, rather, what to do to him. The man’s grip on the gun was loose, and a plan formed in his mind. He rolled over slowly, to his knees, and as quick as he could, grabbed the gun from the man’s hand, and before either of them could stop him, he fired the gun at them both, watching their nuts swell in their pants–perfect targets. While they both gawked at their crotches, he pummeled each of them into submission, until they were sobbing on the ground, their cocks pumping cum into their pants, and then he took off running as fast as he could towards home, gun in hand–praying he could figure out how to fix what they’d done to him.