Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 1)

Peter pulled into the Oak River Retirement Center, parked, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, tried to figure out what in the world was going on. He was here to visit his dad–he knew that somehow–but his dad didn’t live here, did he? Didn’t his dad live on the other side of the country? Yet, here he was, sitting in his parked car, about to go visit him, and trying to figure out what in the world was missing. For the last couple of days, it had felt like there was some gigantic hole in his life, one he could barely begin to fathom or understand, and so he had just been hiding from it this entire time– trying his hardest to pretend it wasn’t there…but now that he was here the feeling was only getting stronger.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and yet he didn’t have a choice; he had to visit his father. The father who shouldn’t even be here, as far as he could even recall. Full of apprehension, he got out of the car, walked inside, and followed the signs to his father’s room upstairs. Outside, there was some…smell coming from the door, something like smoke. He knocked, and after a moment the door opened, and Peter found himself facing the same nurse who had been so nice to him a few days before.

“Ah, Peter! There you are. We were beginning to get a bit anxious,weren’t we Harry?”

There was some sort of grunt from inside the room, but if it was words, Peter hadn’t been able to make out what his father had said.

“How is he doing?” Peter asked.

“Well!” the nurse said, then paused, “Or at least better than he was doing when he arrived. I’ve gotten him all settled in, and now that he’s surrounded by his things, he’s doing much better recalling memories, names, that sort of thing. But…well, I still don’t think he remembers you very clearly, so don’t be…shocked if he says some stuff that seems out of character, or…well, outright mean. Your dad does have a…gruff streak, I’m sure you’re familiar with.” The nurse gave him a wink. “Oh, and my name is Ferris, I don’t think I properly introduced myself before.”

Peter shook his hand, and then followed him into the apartment, and Peter found himself feeling…confused. None of these things were his father’s…and the man sitting in the recliner, watching TV was most certainly not the father he remembered. He could see the same look of confusion on the strange old man’s face as well–clearly he was not in the right place. But before he could voice his confusion, apologize for intruding, and leave, he looked up and found himself caught in the nurse’s eyes…and then nothing else particularly mattered beyond that.

“Say hello to your father, Peter,” Ferris said.

“Hi…Dad…” he muttered, and the old man looked at Mr. Elory like he was an idiot.

“I thought you said that my son was coming over. That is not my son, he can’t be.”

“Now Harry, we discussed this. You said you would be nice when your son arrived, even if you didn’t quite remember him exactly.”

“That,” Harry said, pointing a finger very forcefully in Peter’s direction, “That fellow can not be my son, Wilbur! You know that as well as I do. What kind of game are you playing, trying to pull a fast one on me? I…I might not remember much very clearly, but I know I’d never raise a limp wristed little faggot like that!”

The words stung, but Peter didn’t really mind–but why had his dad called Ferris, ‘Wilbur’? His dad obviously wasn’t in his right mind. “I, uh, can come back some other time, when he’s feeling more like himself.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Elroy said, wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist and pulled him deeper into the smoky sitting area, and sitting him down on the sofa there, to the side of Harry’s recliner. “This is just what he needs. He’s never going to remember you of you don’t spend some time together. Why don’t we all discuss some of our favorite memories? I bet that will help your dad remember you better.”

But Peter wasn’t listening. Peter was just staring off into space, a happy little grin on his face, not really here nor there. Satisfied that Peter was occupied for the moment, Mr. Elroy turned to Harry, “It is a bit disappointing, isn’t it? I would have expected your son to be more like you too, Harry. Strong, with a good work ethic. Someone who’d want to be working with their hands, not at a computer all day.”

“He don’t even smoke,” Harry said.

“That he doesn’t,” Mr. Elroy said, “But you know, maybe we can do something about that, Harry, just you and I.” He walked over to where Harry was sitting, put a hand on his shoulder, and heard Harry moan slightly at his touch. “See, I don’t think your son remembers you too clearly either. I think that if he had a clearer memory of his childhood…well, that might clarify a few things for him. He might even end up with a whole new perspective on who he is. Family can do that, you know, and memories are such…a powerful thing.”


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Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 6)

“No!” Harry said, and crossed his arms, “I’m…I’m not hungry.” He was, in fact, a bit peckish, but as far as he was concerned, this was one hill he was willing to die on.

“Not hungry, eh? Something else you’d rather do on our lunch break, then, buddy?”

That hadn’t been Mr. Elroy’s voice. It had been Wilbur’s, but it had come out of Mr. Elroy’s mouth. Just…hearing him again, filled him with such longing, but Harry pushed back, as best he could. Wilbur wasn’t real. None of this was real. “You’re…not him. You can’t be him…” Harry said, shaking his head, hand shaking and dropping the ash of his cigar onto the floor beside him, where Mr. Elroy stamped it out, before plucking the half smoked cigar from Harry’s hand.

“Careful now–if you can’t be careful, I won’t let you smoke in here anymore–you’ll have to do it outside.”

“I don’t…I’ve never smoked before in my life…” Harry said, staring at the cigar, trying to remember where it had even come from.

“Nonsense–you smoke like a chimney, Harry. Now–you said you didn’t want lunch–but don’t you at least want a snack?” Mr. Elroy unzipped the fly of his pants, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and pulled out his cock. It was erect, and inches from Harry’s face in the recliner. “Go on then, you old faggot.”

“I’m not a faggot!” Harry said, bristling at the word. No–he wasn’t a faggot. He was…straight. What he’d had with Wilbur, that was something else. He’d never really known how to explain it, and he’d never dared tried to talk to Patricia about it…though he suspected she’d known something was going on between them. No–but not one of those limp-wristed faggots. But Harry pushed those thoughts aside too. He’d never been married–hell, he’d never even had sex before! He…honestly didn’t know if he’d been gay or straight, not anymore. Everything just felt so muddled in his head, and just impossible to untangle. “I’m…not a faggot…” he said again, less certain this time.

“No?” Mr. Elroy said, and then…something happened. It wasn’t Mr. Elroy standing in front of him–it was Wilbur again, and he wasn’t in that apartment, he was in his old living room. Was it…a memory? Was it something else? “What about for me, Harry–think you could be a faggot for me?” Wilbur said, and stroked his bearded cheek. He looked…so young, like when they’d first met, and when Harry looked down at himself, he saw that he was young too, his leg uninjured, his body strong and vital, and he was so…happy, and so hungry, he leapt on his lover’s cock and started sucking on it. “Yeah, that’s it–I never could keep you off this thing, even if I wanted to try.”

Harry didn’t care–he was happy. He was happy here, in the past, where he…where he felt like he belonged. “Fuck Wilbur, I’ve…I’ve fucking missed you so much,” he said, licking around the head of his cock.

“Yeah, I know how you get without a good fucking, buddy–now come on,” Wilbur said, and hauled Harry into the bedroom, getting his suspenders off his shoulders and his pants down, pushing him over the bed. “This is what you want, right you fucking faggot?”

That…that didn’t seem right to him. Wilbur would have never called him that, but fuck, he did want it. He was so fucking horny for his cock, it felt like ages since he’d been fucked properly. “Y-Yeah, give it to me Wilbur.”

“You old fucking pig–I’ll give you what you fucking need.”

It was rough, and it hurt. He tried to pull away, tried to get Wilbur to slow down, but he just grabbed hold of Harry’s hair and tugged him back onto his cock, told him to take it like the man he claimed he was. It hurt, hearing that…but he was so hard, all the same. He just let it happen, let Wilbur have his way with him, the room filling with his cigar smoke, and when he came, deep inside him, the bedroom scene around him evaporated, and he was back in the apartment bedroom, his leg aching, Mr. Elroy’s cock throbbing inside his ass, laughing. “Yeah, that’s a good old fuckpig–faggot is right. No man would moan like that with a cock deep in his ass, right?”

Harry tried to crawl away, and Mr. Elroy let him, Harry trying to sort out what was real, and what wasn’t. Wilbur…Wilbur had never treated him like that. No, that wasn’t really a memory, was it? It was so hard to tell, like he didn’t even know his own life–but of course he didn’t, because none of it was real! He had to remember that, Wilbur wasn’t real, none of this was real. “You…That wasn’t real. I know this isn’t real.”

Mr. Elroy shrugged, “I suppose. But what’s real, Harry, really? What do you know is real?”

“I’m…I’m not supposed to be old. I’m a fucking kid, goddamnit!”

“Oh? And where’s the evidence? Real things should have evidence, right? But your dad doesn’t even remember you, Harry–or your son, I should say. That’s just a fabrication of a feeble, senile mind. But don’t worry, we can make you better, Harry, if you want to get better. We can help you remember everything. And what you remember–well, that will be more real than anything else, soon enough. So tell me, Harry, what’s real? Is it this?”

Mr. Elroy reached out and touched him, and a fantasy came back. Wilbur was there, they were in bed, a rare moment alone, just…being close, just loving each other in the small, cramped, secret spaces of their lives. It was tender, and it was so…tender. It felt like it would crumble at the slightest touch, if he wasn’t careful. Then, before he could really appreciate it, it was gone, and Wilbur was on top of him, ramming his cock in deep, demeaning him, threatening him, humiliating him–he hated it, and craved it, all at the same time. Then, he was back, and Mr. Elroy pulled his hand away.

“What’s real, Harry? It’s up to you–depending on how much you want to…cooperate.”

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 5)

The meal ended, and Mr. Elroy told him it was time for them to get back to the room, so they could get to unpacking. Harry forced himself back to his feet with a grimace, leg shaking–he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it all the way back there, not like this. “What’s wrong Harry, need some assistance?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, through gritted teeth, hobbled over to the wall and used it as a prop to get down the hallways, and back up to his room. Mr. Elroy followed a few steps behind, saying nothing, but always being just loud enough to make sure Harry knew he was there–that there was nowhere for him to go, not really. “Why are you doing this?” he mumbled to him in the elevator, panting a bit from the pain in his leg.

“Because I have to. Because I can,” Mr. Elroy said with a shrug, “Bigger reasons than you’ll ever know, really.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all the answer you’ll get. Besides, I suggest you worry less about me, and more about you.”

Harry didn’t know what he meant by that, exactly, but the elevator arrived at his floor, and he was at the home stretch. He made it to his door and opened it, making a beeline right for a chair at the table in the kitchen, and he sat down in it with a grunt. Mr. Elroy entered behind him and shut the door, and checked the clock. “We’re behind schedule, Harry–if you can’t keep up, then I’m going to have to make you use the cane.”

“Fuck you–just…fix it. I won’t run.”

Mr. Elroy shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that, Harry. There’s no going back, not for you.”

Harry did his best to keep his face neutral…but what if he was telling the truth? He’d want him to think that, no matter what though–so even if it was true, it wouldn’t do him any good to believe it.

“Look, everything will make much more sense in a little while. Why don’t we get some of the sheets here uncovered, eh? I’m sure you’ll be feeling more like yourself in no time.”

Mr. Elroy went around the room and began pulling sheets off the furniture. Everything looked like an antique, and to Harry’s confusion, every piece also seemed…familiar to him, somehow, like he’d seen them before in a store, or some stranger’s house. No–that wasn’t right. He knew them because they’d been in his house!

That wasn’t right. He knew that wasn’t right. He’d never owned a house–hell, he’d never even moved out on his own from his parent’s home. Yet…his mind was telling him something else, that all of this furniture was his. That he’d had it all in his house, and moved as much of it as he could into this cramped little apartment…but the context was simply missing from all of it. “Stop…Stop!” he shouted. “I…how are you doing this to me? Why do I know everything about this stuff?”

“Because it’s yours, Harry,” Mr. Elroy said, “I mean, if you don’t want to remember this, we can do that too. But let me tell you Harry, it can be very, very lonely, not recognizing anything around you. Never knowing who the person at your bedside is–the nurse, your son, your grandson. But we can do things that way, if you want.” He walked over to Harry, and looked down at him, “But trust me–it’s better to have a life like this, than nothing at all. If you’re good, I might even let you forget about that old you–give you a bit of peace. If you beg.”

Next, Mr. Elroy opened a box and started pulling out framed pictures, took a hammer, and started hanging them up around the room. First, his wife–Patricia, who’d passed away close to twenty years ago. How…how could he have forgotten her? Then, a photo of him and several other men in front of an old factory–the factory he’d worked his entire adult life, until the accident, which had mangled his leg, and left him disabled. Lastly, there on a shelf, a smaller photo of him…him and another man, back when he was in his thirties, both of them smoking cigars.

Wilbur. Fuck. His heart broke, looking at him, all over again. Losing Patricia had been hard, but losing Wilbur–he’d never felt like the same man again, after burying his best friend in the ground. No–more than his friend, they’d been…lovers. Lovers since the day they’d met on the factory floor, sneaking around behind their wives all their lives, but fuck, they hadn’t been able to stop themselves. But he was gone, and Harry was alone now. He got up, went to the humidor and pulled out a cigar, lit it, and sat down in his favorite recliner, lost in his resurgent memories, reliving his life as it sprang up around him, feeling those old thoughts and memories begin to recede away into the depths of his mind. Mr. Elroy let him stew for a while, and went about unpacking more of the apartment, arranging things around Harry, until it was a little while before noon, and he went up and gave him a light shake of the shoulder. “What do you say Harry, ready for lunch?”

Harry gave a start–he’d been so lost in his memories, between this life and his old one, that he’d completely forgotten Mr. Elroy was there at all. He looked up at the nurse beside him, and his breath caught in his throat–how…how had he not noticed it before? Smiling down at him, he looked…exactly like Wilbur. Well, not…exactly, but it was so close that Harry muttered his name under his breath, as he stared up at him, trying to sort everything apart in his mind.

“Something wrong, Harry?”

He shook his head, and looked away. “No, it’s a trick. This is all just a trick!”

“Sounds like someone’s a bit grumpy without their meal. Now come on, let’s go eat some lunch.”

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 3)

He did, and whatever junk Mr. Elroy had messed with in his head–he did want this. He wanted it bad. As he sucked, he could sense that the changes to his body were slowing down, but they were by no means over. His frame filled out with a few more pounds of fat, his potbelly becoming a proper gut, and the last of the color drained from his hair, leaving it just a dingy grey, including a mustache which grew in over his lip, brushing the surface of Mr. Elroy’s cock as he sucked, making him shiver, groa, and then grab the back of Harry’s head and start fucking his throat for real. He choked and sputtered, but didn’t have to last long before Mr. Elroy came, cum flooding into his mouth, and he swallowed it all down, like Mr. Elroy wanted him to do, before letting the cock fall from his mouth.

“Yeah, look at you–that’s real nice. We’re gonna have a real nice time here, you and I, trust me,” Mr. Elroy said, stroking his wrinkled, jowled cheek.

“Please…I…just let me go, sir…” Harry muttered, shocked by how weak and pitiful his voice sounded, “I’m sorry, if I did something wrong, I just…this can’t be right. This can’t be real…”

“Oh, it’s very real, trust me,” Mr. Elroy said, “More real than you realize.”

There was, suddenly, a knock on the door. Hoping for someone who might save him, Harry went to shout, but the voice locked up in his throat. “Now now, don’t go making a scene, Harry. Let’s get you up and situated,” Mr. Elroy said, “Your son can wait a moment, right?”

Mr. Elroy helped him up to his feet, and pushed him into a sheet covered armchair, before telling him to stay put–then he went and answered the door, and to Harry’s surprise, his father walked into the room. “There you are, Mr. Willis. I was just getting your father settled in.”

Harry could see a moment of confusion on his father’s face, but it softened in moments. He had to–this was his only chance! “Dad! Dad, it’s me, It’s Harry!” he said, weakly, trying to get out of the chair, but he couldn’t manage to stand on his own, “Don’t…don’t listen to him, don’t!”

Peter looked at Mr. Elroy in alarm, but as soon as he met his eyes, he relaxed again. “Don’t mind him, Mr. Willis. Your father has had a long day moving in–he’s just tired, and confused. Why don’t you come in and say good night.”

Peter stepped into the apartment, and walked over to Harry. “Alright dad–Mr. Elroy is going to take it from here, alright?”

“I sure will–give us a day or two to get him unpacked and settled down, and then you should come by and visit.”

“No, dad, I don’t want to stay here, not with him.”

Peter looked at Mr. Elroy apologetically, “I’m sorry, he…doesn’t quite know himself anymore.”

“Well, that’s why he’s here, Peter. Don’t worry, these sorts of episodes come and go, but it’s good you brought him in early, before the dementia really sets in. It will make the transition easier.”

“I’m just…surprised. He was always so sharp, and now seeing him like this.”

“It can be a shock–you need some rest too, Peter. Now go on home, and come back the day after next for a visit–I guarantee your father will be in much better shape.”

“I work all day though. I don’t known when–”

Mr. Elroy shushed him. “The day after next. Come after lunch, around two. Don’t worry about work, family is more important, right? I’m sure they will understand.”

Peter nodded, thanked Mr. Elroy, and then left the apartment. Harry just stared at the door, aghast, unable to believe what had just happened. His dad…hadn’t even remembered him. No–he had remembered him, but not as his son–his dad somehow thought Harry was his father! “I…What did you do to him?”

“That young Harry you think you remember is gone now. He never existed. You’re Peter’s father now. It will take some getting used to, I know, but trust me, once we get you all unpacked, you’ll remember everything you need to remember, and you’ll be much more pleasant to your son the next time you see him, without sounding like a deranged old coot.”

“But I’m not crazy! I don’t have dementia, I’m not even old!”

Mr. Elroy smiled at him, but it had no warmth. “That is true–I’ve gone rather easy on you, so far. But trust me, Harry–if you give me much trouble, I can make sure that brain of yours looks like swiss cheese in a few hours. You’ll be bedridden for a few months, barely aware of yourself, pissing and shitting in a bedpan until you finally expire. It’s all the same to me, really. So, do you want to cooperate, and enjoy the now substantially abridged life you now have, or should I go ahead and call the nurses to take you to our hospice wing?”

Harry shook his head no, and with Mr. Elroy’s help, he got out of the chair, and allowed the man to lead him down the hall, to the small bedroom at the end. Like the rest of the apartment, sheets covered most everything, but Mr. Elroy uncovered the bed, helped Harry out of his clothes, and then shoved him over the side. “Now, how about a good night fuck, and then we get you tucked in?” he said, and slid his cock into Harry’s ass, “We’ll get you all unpacked tomorrow, and get you more…familiar with your new self. It’s my favorite part, really–I can’t wait to find out who Harry Willis was, can you?”

House Arrest (Part 3)

He was back. Zack looked around him, looked down at himself. He was back to himself, back to who he was supposed to be, dressed in the clothes he’d shown up in and everything. He looked around at the unfamiliar room he was standing in–the foyer of some large house–but it wasn’t Sidney’s house. He…knew that. He knew that because…because he could remember everything from the entire weekend of hell he’d just been put through. All weekend as that musclebound fuckbuddy, doing everything–and everyone–Sidney had told him to do. He’d…he’d fucked his son. His son had fucked him. Sure, they hadn’t been in their right minds, or in their right bodies, but still, what the fuck had he just done?

Saturday and Sunday had been spent with Sidney engaging with several business partners of his, who’d all been avoiding coming by as long as Zack had been watching the place. And he’d…serviced them all. He’d wanted to, it had been so thrilling and exciting to be used by so many different men. Just remembering how it felt, Zack’ cock had gotten half hard in his pants, his stomach turning–he found the bathroom after a little searching and threw up in the toilet, disgusted with himself. But why was he alone? Where was Sidney? Where in the world was his son? Whatever was going on, he was getting the hell out of this place for sure. He went to the front door and flung it open, stepped out onto the front step, and…and all he felt was the most gut wrenching fear of his life.

There was just…just so much space out there. So many people, so many dangers. He was back inside, the door shut and locked behind him, heaving for breath. What in the hell was wrong with him? He tried again, and with some focus he managed to get a few steps outside, but the terror was crippling. He vomited again off to the side, onto a patch of ground between a couple of roses, and retreated back into the unfamiliar house. He had no idea what was wrong with him, but he couldn’t be out there. Instead, he decided to look around the house. There had to be a reason he was here. He didn’t have his cell phone or his keys. He didn’t have a wallet either, or his gun. Nowhere in the house was there a single phone, or a computer. The house looked lived in, mostly because it’s interior was well decorated, but the cabinets and fridge were empty and half of the rooms were unfurnished. But he did find one piece of the puzzle. In one of those empty rooms, he looked out the window, across the well kempt yard and over the fence, to where he could see the side of Sidney’s home.

He was right there. He was in the house next door to the fucker, but he couldn’t fucking leave, he couldn’t call his precinct, he couldn’t do anything. He fought the urge to cry, and instead he went downstairs and hurled a vase at the wall, and started sobbing anyway. He’d fallen for it. He didn’t know what Sidney was doing, or how he was doing it to him, but he was trapped in that sick fuck’s nightmare, and he didn’t know how to get out. Then, the doorbell rang. He hurried to the front door and opened it up, finding himself face to face with a young man holding a gift basket. “Please, you have to help me!” Zack said, “Call the police, the man next door kidnapped my son.”

“Oh, Master filled me in on the situation,” the young man said in a chipper voice, which made Zack’s heart sink, “He made you this housewarming gift, and said to be sure to watch the video.”

Zack didn’t know how to respond to that, and when he made no move to take the basket from him, the young man shrugged, set it down, and walked away like…it was the easiest thing in the world, to be out there in the terrifying world. Just standing in the open doorway he was beginning to shake; he grabbed the basket, trying not to think about it, and brought it in with him, shutting and locking the door behind him. Inside the basket were some cookies, some flowers–likely intended for the vase he’d just shattered–and a DVD. He got the video, found the widescreen TV and turned it on, but instead of a random TV channel, he found himself looking at the footage of a security camera. And from the looks of it, it was a camera inside of Sidney’s house. He changed the channel, and found himself looking in another room. It wasn’t until the seventh channel that he found the master bedroom–where Sidney had his still hulked out son bent over the bed, and was…plowing his ass.

He’d gotten hard immediately at the sight, and changed the channel again–his worst fears confirmed. Found the DVD player and loaded the disk, and hit play. After a few moments, Sidney’s face appeared on the TV, and started speaking:

“Hello Zackary. I hope you’ve started making yourself comfortable here, because you’ll be remaining here with me for the rest of my sentence, under a form of house arrest of your own. I must say, I admire your tenacity, but I simply can’t afford to have someone like you meddling in my affairs again. Don’t worry–you will find the house I purchased for you rather comfortable, if a bit lonely. You’ll have food delivered to you every few days, and if you so desire, a delivery slave can spend some time with you for…a price. There is, lastly, the issue of custody. As per the agreement, you’ll be permitted to stay with your son and me every other weekend, and we’ll all have so much fun together, I promise. I’m sorry your space is so sparse, but I’m sure you’ll always be able to find something to watch on TV. See you in a couple of weeks!”

“Please wait while neural interface is established…”

The screen of his computer froze while the small box plugged into the USB port flashed. Lucas sat at his desk, cock hanging out of the fly of his slacks, massaging himself half hard, eager for the session to begin.

“Participant: Nathan Oberlik, has been uploaded, transferred.”

Nathan was one of Lucas’ coworkers–or rather, one of his subordinates. When Lucas had discovered that Nathan was gay, he’d invited him to have a shared session with him through The Network, and Nathan had been his playmate ever since. It helped that Nathan was naturally submissive–he was perfectly happy to allow Lucas to select the bodies they would inhabit for a few hours of sex. There was a buzzing in his ears growing louder, and suddenly his vision faded to static. A moment later, he was sitting on some ratty couch in what looked like a single wide, wearing a ballcap, wifebeater, and some shorts that he shucked off immediately.

Lucas was staring, inhabiting the body of some bearded roughneck, licking his lips. The additional request seemed to have been honored–The Network could, in the process of a download, alter the thoughts and fantasies of the people it was processing. Nathan had requested that Lucas be implanted with an insatiable desire for cum, and the perverse desire lick clean filthy, sweaty bodies–like the one Lucas was now residing within.

“Don’t just stand there, pig,” Lucas said, rubbing his new body’s cock to full mast, “Get sucking.”

“F–Fuck…” Nathan said, and got down, “I…I must have been hornier than I thought, cause…” but he never finished his thought, focusing on swallowing Lucas’ cock to the hilt. While he sucked, Lucas took a survey of his borrowed body, running his hands through his furry chest, feeling the young muscles flex. It was a pity that it was only temporary. He shoved Lucas off his cock and back onto his ass.

“What gives man? I’m fuckin’ thirsty!”

“Beg for it.”


“Go on pig, beg for my cock.”

Lucas’ face turned a bit red. “Please…please can I have your cock?”

“Network, pause Lucas.”

Lucas froze suddenly, his pupils flickering with static.

“Please give Lucas’ voice a southern inflection. Also, make him turned on by verbal humiliation.”

Sparks shot out of Lucas’ body for a moment, and then he unfroze. “Please, can Ah suck yer cock, man? Fuckin’ hungry fer some cum…”

“Tell me your a horny pig for my cum.”

“I’m…I’m a horny pig fer yer cum man…fuckin’…please…”

Lucas stood up and began skullfucking Nathan, calling him a cocksucking faggot pig, listening to his coworker grunt and jack off his own cock while Lucas humiliated him. They both shot their loads, and they spent the rest of the session in a pleasant afterglow, Nathan happily cleaning off Lucas’ sweaty body with his tongue, and he made sure he spent extra time on his body’s asscrack.

Their two hour session was coming to a close, however, and they began to prepare for departure, watching the clock, a bit eager to get back into their own bodies. However, two hours passed and nothing happened. Then, two hours and five minutes. “Network,” Lucas asked, “End session.” No reply. “End session!” he shouted, and then added, “This wasn’t part of the fucking deal, and you know it!”

“Deal?” Nathan asked, “What fuckin’ deal, man?”

Lucas was silent, but Nathan just stared at him.

“What the fuck did ya do?”

“I…I didn’t have the money to pay them, alright? They were going to come after me, and I threatened to out them to the Justice Department.”

Nathan just gawked, “Wha the fuckin’ hell man! ‘N ya thought we could jus’ continue on as fuckin’ normal?”

They offered a free session on the house!”

“Yer a fuckin’ idiot, I oughta–”

Before Nathan could finish speaking, he froze in place, his pupils full of static. His mouth opened, and a voice which was not his own came from his mouth. “I know this wasn’t part of the deal, Mr. Henderson, but Chuck and Trent are so happy in your bodies, and they were more than happy to agree to a payment plan to cover your debt. I’m afraid this session will not be ending anytime soon, for either of you.”

“No, you can’t fucking do this! I’m the vice president of a huge company! They’ll know it’s not me.”

“Yes, which is why I will be needing to download your memories, like I have for Nathan here. It’s a pity you had to drag him into this. Still, I think he’s going to enjoy his new life with you, once I finish these personality alterations. Oh! And we have a new process which is currently in testing, but you two will make such good subjects. Did you know that we have discovered how to alter the bodies of our clients now too? The central nervous system is so full of wonders. It takes several hours for the changes to fully manifest however. Now, I’m almost done.”

“Please, I’ll do anything, please don’t do this to me, don’t take my mind.”

“Oh, Lucas,” the voice said, “While I am deleting Nathan’s mind, I have a feeling yours…well, you’ll just have to wait and see. But how about this? Let’s play a game. When I’m finished with Nathan here, he’s going to be very, very horny, and I have a feeling he’s going to want to fuck your ass very badly. If you can keep your hole virginal for, say, ten minutes, I’ll give you your freedom.”

“Just fucking let me go.”

“Oh, but then who will Nathan–I mean, Chuck here, his name is Chuck now–fuck? Alright? Ready, set–go!”

Lucas watched Nathan stumble on his feet, before he caught himself, blinking, trying to figure out what had just happened. “Fuck–fuckin’ horny, man…” he looked up and saw Lucas standing there, and smirked, “Oh…hey Pigg, when did ya get here? Eh, who fuckin’ cares–turn the fuck around, I wanna plow that greasy hole a yers.”

“Nathan,” Lucas said, backing up a few paces, “Nathan, you have to listen to me, it’s the Network, they fucked with your head. You just have to trust me, I can get us out of here.”

“Nathan? Who the fuck’s Nathan? My name’s Chuck, but you can just call me sir, Pigg.”

Chuck advanced on him, and Lucas looked around, spying a baseball bat leaning against the wall. He grabbed it and swung it right into the side of Chuck’s head–he crumpled to the ground, eyes blank, blood leaking from an ear.

Lucas panted and dropped the bat to the ground–at least his hole was safe. It was too bad about Nathan. Still, he could figure something out.

“Oh Lucas,” a voice said. He looked down, and saw that The Network had taken over the body once more, “You’re so violent! So vicious. Murdering your friend here. Well, don’t worry, I can fix that. Still, I don’t think Chuck is going to be too happy about that, right Chuck? Heh, Chuck can’t say anything right now, but he agrees. Now, how about we try that again? You still have…nine minutes and fifteen seconds.”

Chuck groaned and started picking himself up off the floor. Lucas went to grab the bat, but Chuck beat him to it, wrestling it from his grip. “Bat…” Chuck muttered, his mind still knitting itself back together, “Bat…P-Pigg, yer gonna get a fuckin’ beating, I fuckin’ swear.”

Lucas turned and ran the length of the single wide, but realized the door out was the other direction–past Chuck. With nowhere else to go, he locked himself in the bathroom, and in moments, Chuck was hammering on the cheap wooden door with the bat. “Open up Trent! I’m comin’ in there to get your hole!”

The door cracked apart, splinters flying into Lucas’ face. Chuck ripped open the door, grabbed him by the neck and dragged him out, Lucas fighting for breath. He tried to fight Chuck off, but his friend landed one solid punch to his eye, sending him reeling back and crashing to the floor, and then he was on top of him, Chuck’s hard cock pressed against the small of his back, one hand with a vice grip on the back of his neck, pinning him to the floor until he could find his hole and start working his dry cock into it. Lucas let out a weak scream, unable to catch his breath. Tried to claw himself away, but Chuck was inside him, he’d lost, and he felt his body freeze in place, his vision static, but a voice, he could hear a voice in his head.

“Oh Lucas, that really was a good try. Well, I shouldn’t call you Lucas anymore–you’re new name is Pigg–with two G’s–it really was smart of your parents to give you a name like that, eh? It’s almost like they knew from the time you were little, that the only thing you’d want is to serve a nasty roughneck like Chuck here as his filthy pig slave. So here’s what I’m doing. I’m going to hardwire you with all sorts of new, wonderful instincts. The instinct to serve men, the instinct to sniff out and eat cum, the instinct to drink and bathe in piss. And as for that whole bat incident earlier, well, let’s just say you’re going to have a very different relationship with pain from now on, Pigg.

“Oh, and this body of yours? Well, I don’t think it’s very pig like, do you? I’ve already slowed down your metabolism–so in a few hours, well, I think you’ll find yourself quite a bit more curvy. As for Lucas–well, how about this? I’ve already copied your memories off for Trent back in your old body, but I’ll go ahead and leave these with you, to think about. And I mean that you should think about them. I went ahead and rewired your brain here, so that your long term memory is more like a sieve than a bowl. Why, if you don’t pay attention, you might just go ahead and forget everything! You might end up an empty headed pig slave, operating on instinct alone, no thought, no memory, just an empty shell. I know that must scare you. Goodbye Pigg–it’s a pleasure to know we’ll never meet again.”

The voice and the static was gone–he was alone, Master Chuck ramming his huge cock into his piggy hole, and Pigg pushed back, hungrily, unable to stop. The motion was simply bypassing his head–he had no control over himself. Instead of thinking about the pleasure coursing through him every time his master smacked his ass, he tried to hold onto his memories, these memories that weren’t his, but he had to keep them. His name Lucas, his job, his old life, but things were slipping away faster than he could hold onto them. It didn’t help when Chuck, after blowing his load, took the bat Pigg had assaulted him with and worked the head deep into Pigg’s asshole. It hurt so good that Pigg forgot to keep thinking for a moment, all he could do was grunt and snort and squeal and feel his shrinking cock shoot load after load of cum onto the bathroom floor.

Later, after slurping his own cum mindlessly off the floor, the bat lodged deep in his ass still, as he licked and cleaned his master’s feet, feeling his gut growing as he knelt there, rubbing it with his hands, toying with his sensitive nipples, he tried to sort through what remained of himself. The hazy face of some old man. A flickering, frozen computer screen connected to something called The Network, but that probably wasn’t important. A name, “Lucas”. That’s not his name though, his name was Pigg. He decided to just let them all fall through. Thinking was too hard. Better to just serve, and fuck, and eat like a good piggy slave for master Chuck.

Leon wanted to be big. Ever since he was young, he’d wanted to work out, and when he was a teenager, all he asked for for Christmas and birthdays was weight–lots and lots of weight. He converted the shed into a workout room, and would spend hours out there, doing all he could to become as big as he had always wanted to be, but he just couldn’t get to where he wanted. And so, after graduating from high school, he decided to turn to the internet.

He found his way through forums, looking at the various drug cocktails guys promised would do the trick, but the honest truth was that he didn’t want to get big that way–he wanted to get big by himself. However, he befriended someone on a forum who recommended a research group working on a way to build mass. He’d participated in one of the last studies, and promised Leon that it was everything he’d been looking for–he’d be more massive than he’d thought possible.

At the laboratory, he didn’t understand why they needed to restrain him. And when they’d put the mask over his nose and mouth, he fought them for the few seconds of consciousness he had before he blacked out entirely. The next thing he knew, he was back in the hotel room he’d been staying in while the research study was going on–and when he saw himself in the mirror, he let out a squeal of joy. He was big! He was so damn big, just like he’d always wanted to be!

He jiggled his massive apron and admired his triple chin. He cupped his moobs and tweaked his nipples and let out a soft moan. He admired his huge, wide ass, and shivered as his cock hardened up through his gunt. Gunt–he had gunt. He’d always wanted gunt, for as long as he could remember. The rest of the night he spent jacking off on the bed, reveling in his flabby body, becoming familiar with it in every way, and then he got the call from the clinic. He’d been so receptive to the treatment, they wanted to know if he’d be willing to sign up for another dose. He said yes–after all, he was big. But what if he could get even bigger?

Into the Night of God – Part 3


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

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 3 – The Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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