Commission: The Secrets of Fitzroy Abbey (Part 1)

Commissioned by Anonymous

It was late in the evening, the midsummer sun still setting through the west side windows of the abbey, and Mr. Rudolph Windsor was downstairs in the servant’s mess, finally getting a chance to eat dinner. The abbey’s guests had already eaten, their needs attended to, giving him a moment to sit quietly, and try to remember his old name. Today he believed that it had begun with the letter “H”. Perhaps Hal? Or had that been a character on a TV show? The abbey had no television, and even then, Rudolph’s mind had been made to forget much of what the outside world contained, beyond the abbey grounds. But a name–it seemed so simple, and yet it was gone. Perhaps Henry, or Harry. Those were both nice names, at least.

Another servant came in, an older gentleman named Mr. Livingston. Rudolph had no idea how long he had been a servant of the house, only that he had been working here long enough to forget the truth of things entirely, or to at least pretend forgetfulness. “Good evening Mr. Windsor,” the older gentleman said, beaming at the sourer face of his fellow servant, “The master certainly has found a nice crop of guests for the summer, eh chap?”

Mr. Windsor didn’t reply. He hated speaking, and did it as rarely as he could. His voice–it wasn’t his anymore.

Mr. Livingston was unfazzed–he’d seen many men come into service at the house in his years here–it wouldn’t be long before Windsor was a cheery old chap like the rest of them. “Is that all you’re eating?” he said, looking at the small salad in front of Mr. Windsor, “Do be careful, or you might start wasting away.”

“Wasting away is the goal,” Mr. Windsor said, “I’d very much like to try and rid myself of some of this belly–I don’t particularly enjoy being this rotund, to be honest.” His sentence faded away as he spoke–nothing came out of his mouth right anymore; he was always so polite now. What he’d wanted to say was something more like:

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking bastard! I may be trapped in some old fat body, but fuck you if you think I’m not going to try to lose some of this fucking disgusting gut and be slightly less disgusting to look at in the mirror!”

“Oh goodness, I don’t think Master Fitzroy would be very keen on the idea of any of us losing weight. You know he’s very particular on how us servants present ourselves.” Mr. Livingston loomed over him, his own gut, restrained by his livery, mere inches from Mr. Windsor’s face. “I won’t make any mention of it, for your own sake. You are still relatively new here after all, but do keep yourself fed. I won’t have anyone starving themselves around here for no good reason.”

“No good reason?” Mr. Windsor said, “I do believe, sir, that there are numerous good reasons for why we should do whatever we can against Master Fitzroy. I don’t particularly care whether I make him upset or not. What could he possibly do to me which is worse than what he has already done to me? To all of us?”

Mr. Livingston didn’t move, and said nothing. The disapproval was palpable. “I should go tell him what you’ve said, Mr. Windsor. You would be sent to edification immediately.”

“So then go tell him, after…after who he brought here, as a guest…” Mr. Windsor stuttered–his proper tongue unable to twist what he wanted to say into anything dignified, and so remained twisted tight. A bell rang on the wall, signalling that one of the guest rooms had requested service.

Mr. Livingston, checked the bell. “It would appear that a guest on the third floor would like service. One of your guests, I do believe, Mr. Windsor. Room number 307?”

Room 307. Of course, it would be that one. “Yes, that is indeed my room. I’ll go attend to him.”

“Well, do try to find some positivity along the way–then again, that dour face of yours is only making your nose glow brighter, and it isn’t even Christmas season. So at least that can cheer everyone else up.” Mr. Windsor scowled. The bulbous ruddy nose was another one of the master’s jokes at his expense–and it didn’t help that whenever he drank it would burn a deep red. The fact that this body shook if it didn’t get enough alcohol didn’t much help matters–he alleviated the worst of it by carrying a flask in his vest, but that insured his rose was red almost all the time. When he’d give his full name to a guest, they generally replied with a snicker.

He hefted himself up out of his chair, straightened his vest and coat, but before mounting the back stairs to the third floor, he took a moment to examine himself in the mirror, making sure he was well groomed. He had some crumbs in his thick bushy mustache–he pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it through the hairs, and then examined the rest of his face, and sighed. Jowls. His fat red nose. Wrinkles. The ridiculous glasses he had to wear, now that he could barely see anything without them. The uniform grey hair, which he was compelled to groom into a comb-over. It did nothing to hide his baldness, and in fact accentuated it. He scanned his eyes down the front of his servant’s livery, mentally checking that everything was still in place. He’d never worn so much as a suit before all of this happened, but now he felt absolutely naked in anything less than his starched uniform. He heaved a sigh, watching his jowls shake and his mustache flutter, and then started up the stairs of the abbey to the third floor.

Room 307 was the summer home of the last person Mr. Windsor had ever expected to see here, and the last person he had ever wanted to see him like this. Tanner Marcus–the young man who had broken up with him the year before, back when he’d had that other name (Huck? Harvey?) and that other body, and that other life he could barely remember. And now Tanner was here, in room 307, just another young man for the master to toy with all summer long, and all Mr. Windsor could do was watch–and wait on him hand and foot. He knocked on the door, and after a moment, a deep voice shouted for him to enter. It wasn’t Tanner’s voice, however–it was Master Fitzroy.

Mr. Windsor opened the door and stepped inside, finding Tanner bent over the side of the bed, Master Fitzroy behind him, his hairy gut hefted up onto the small of the younger man’s back, his cock buried deep in his hole. “Good evening Mr. Windsor,” Master Fitzroy said, he huffed and puffed a moment, “I am sorry, I had hoped to be finished by the time you came in–please give us a moment. Mr. Marcus and I became rather close over dinner, and he invited me to his room, isn’t that right Tanner?”

“Oh yes, Master Fitzroy, I…I invited you here to plow my hole good, sir.”

“Would…would you like me to wait in the hall, sir?” Mr. Windsor asked.

“Oh, no need–I’d rather you watched this. Closely.”

“Y–Yes sir…” Mr. Windsor said.

Contrary to what Master Fitzroy had said, he was nowhere near finished–he continued fucking for a good fifteen minutes, encouraging Tanner to moan louder and louder, and narrate what it felt like to be fucked by a real gentleman. Unable to look away, Mr. Windsor stared at the scene. It was not the first time he had walked in on Master Fitzroy having his way with one of his guests, but that did not make this any easier to digest. Worse was the fact that, despite all that had happened, he was still very attracted to Tanner–and yet, this old, worthless body given to him by the master couldn’t even get hard, not that it would have mattered. His two inch button cock wouldn’t even be able to get into an ass if he were allowed to try. Master Fitzroy preferred his servants celibate–he didn’t want any of them spoiling his guests after all.

Tanner was moaning louder, the older man behind him thrusting faster, and with a loud groan, the master finally came deep inside Tanner’s ass with several violent shudders. When he was certain that he was finished, he removed himself and stepped back from Tanner’s behind. “Mr. Marcus, while Mr. Windsor helps me dress, would you be so kind as to jack off for me? I’d like to see you cum before I leave. Mr. Windsor, if you would please.”

He began gathering up Master Fitzroy’s clothes, which had been scattered about the room, and helping him put his suit back on. Several pieces were rather wrinkled, and Mr. Windsor did his best to smooth them out as he did. Tanner was on his back on the bed, his hand wrapped around his cock, jacking wildly–he was so close, but he had to wait until permission had been granted. Once he was fully dressed, Fitzroy allowed him to cum, and Tanner shot his load up onto his smooth body and face, back arched. Mr. Windsor had never seen him so…thrilled. Was he angry? Sad? Did it even matter? There was nothing he could do, so what did it even matter how he felt?

“That was quite a pleasure, Mr. Tanner–I’m thrilled you’ll be staying here for a few weeks, I’d love to spend some more time with you.”

“Oh thank you, Master,” Tanner said, “I’m…I’d love that…that too…”

“Mr. Windsor, perhaps would you kindly help Mr. Marcus clean himself up, and get into bed for the night? I seem to have fucked his brains out for the moment,” Master Fitzroy said, and excused himself from the suite.

Tanner was lolling and groaning on the bed; Mr. Windsor went into the adjoining bathroom to start filling the tub, and then returned to help him up. He had indeed been fucked out of his mind–Tanner could barely stand unassisted, meaning Mr. Windsor had to carry-drag him into the bathroom and heave him into the tub. By the end of it, he was nearly as wet, and had smears of the master’s cum across the front and side of his suitcoat and vest. He helped Tanner wash himself, neither of them saying anything, and slowly the guest returned to a quasi-awareness. He couldn’t quite remember what had just happened, but was equally certain that it was nothing to worry about, and Mr. Windsor assured him that was certainly the case. And then, Mr. Windsor leaned over to get the bar of soap which had dropped to the floor, and Tanner saw the end of a dark birthmark snaking it’s way up past the collar of Mr. Windsor’s neck, to the base of his ear–the exact same birthmark he’d seen on the side of Teddy’s face countless times, Teddy who he’d broken up with the year before, Teddy who had gone on a winter vacation for Christmas and disappeared without a trace.

Mr. Windsor got the bar of soap and went to return it to Tanner’s hands, only to be greeted by a face of shock. “Is…is something the matter? Mr. Marcus?”

“T–Ted? Is…is that you?”

His name? Is that what it was? How had Tanner even recognized him?

“Your…your birthmark, I know that birthmark, you’re Ted, what the fuck happened to you? What’s going on here?”

He stammered. He couldn’t tell him the truth–the Master’s programming had made certain of that. How could he tell him what had happened? What kind of danger he was in? “N–No, I’m afraid…I think you must have mistaken me for…for a younger lover,” he said, managing to slip in a sign that he knew what was happening, and he saw that Tanner had understood him loud and clear. But why was he standing up? Why was he leaving the room? Master Fitzroy, he was going to see Master Fitzroy, he was going to have to tell him what just happened, he’d broken the rules, he’d broken the rules, and he had to be punished.

Tanner was trying to get out of the bath, but his body still wasn’t fully cooperating. “God damn it, Ted? Where are you going? Don’t go! Let me help you!”

“I’m sorry to excuse myself sir, but I must go report my indiscretion to the master of the house. I’d…I’d suggest you forget about what I said as soon as you are able, for your own sake,” Mr. Windsor managed to say as he left the suite, and he hoped Tanner would take his advice. His legs took him back to the servant stairs, continuing up to the top floor of the abbey, where the master’s apartment took up the entire top floor. He found Fitzroy speaking with Mr. Livingston in his study–they grew quiet as he entered.

“I apologize for interrupting, sir, but I had to come immediately in order to report a personal indiscretion. Mr. Marcus recognized me while I was bathing him, and rather than lie, I confirmed his suspicion that I am in fact…am…I…” Mr. Windsor stammered. His name, he’d just heard it? Tanner had said it, it had been…been…how could he have forgotten it so quickly?

“Please excuse us, Mr. Livingston. I believe I need to have a delicate discussion with Mr. Windsor.”

Mr. Livingston bowed, and excused himself. He wouldn’t look Mr. Windsor in the eye as he passed, and he realized his fellow servant must have been reporting to the master on his scant eating habits and earlier outbursts. Master Fitzroy sighed, and crossed his hands over one knee, staring at Mr. Windsor through his spectacles. “What am I going to do with you, Mr. Windsor? You certainly aren’t the most stubborn servant I’ve taken on, but you do seem bound and determined to become the most irritating.”

“My apologies, sir.”

“It does put quite the kink in my plans as well. You, me, and Mr. Marcus were going to have such fun over the next several weeks. I was confident that by the time he left, you would have given up this silly resistance of yours. Now, I suppose, we will have to try something else.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “No matter, I have an idea. Report to the dungeon for edification every night until further notice. You’re excused.”

Mr. Windsor bowed out of the room, a knot in his gut. Edification–a kind word for the extreme brainwashing and hypnosis programs the master of the house employed to keep his guests and servants under control. He’d hoped to toe the line, manipulate his situation as best he could to avoid further hypnosis, but now what? He’d overplayed his hand. Who knew what Master Fitzroy would instill in his mind now? His hands were shaking, he paused at the top of the stairs to guzzle down as much whiskey as he could swallow, and then took the stairs all the way to the basement dungeon–the only space in the abbey which had kept pace with the modern world, it seemed. A riot of wires and screens, he saw a number of guests and servants were already reclining in chairs, helmets over their ears and eyes, zoned out for the night. The servants on staff were expecting him–with few words, they directed him to a chaise of his own, and put the helmet over his head. A flash of light from the helmet burned into his retinas, and everything was gone.

To Be Continued

Rick took another drag off his cigarette in the alley behind the club. Tuesday, and a slow night even for a Tuesday, and another three hours before his shift was over. Hopefully someone in there would get drunk and rowdy, give him something to do. As boring as bouncing could be, when it was fun–well, it was fun. He thought about his little pet project back at home that he’d been working on for a couple of weeks now, and massaged his half hard cock through the denim of his jeans, when he heard some voices coming down the alley towards him.

“Dude, this is a gay bar though!”

“I fucking know that, but this is where he’s been going.”

“So wait, Max–big butch defensive line Max has been a closet fag this whole fuckin’ time?”

“Look, let’s just try and find him, alright?”

Rick watched the two kids from the local college some down the alley towards him. They were well built. Probably athletes, and at this time of year, most likely football. They were probably looking for his project. “Something I can help you boys with?” he said, “The alley’s off limits.”

The two football players were big–but neither of them were a match for Rick as he stood up from the steps, all six foot five and two hundred and seventy five pounds of muscle staring down at them both.

“Oh…fuck. Sorry man, it’s just…we got a bit turned around, and–hey…uh…do you work here? In the bar?”

“I’m a bouncer–why?”

“Well…a teammate of ours. His name’s Max. He was coming here off and on, and well, we haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Coach said he dropped out of college, but…well, he won’t even answer his phone, and his parents think he’s still at school. We’re worried something happened to him.”

The bouncer slipped a hand into his pocket where his phone was. “Huh…well, what’s the guy look like?”

“Well, he’s on the defensive line, so he’s kind of chubby. Redhead. Bushy beard.”

“He’s really loud, and he can get pretty rowdy when he gets drunk.”

Rick thought for a moment, and then shook his head, “Nope, can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that…hey, hold on, I’m getting a phone call.”

Rick pulled his phone out of his pocket, and the speaker was emitting a high pitched whine. The two students winced at the sound, but within thirty seconds, their eyes had gone blank, and both of them were swaying where they stood. “Now boys–what’s your names?”

“Alex.”

“Trevor.”

“Alright Alex and Trevor. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to forget all about Max–he did drop out. In fact, you both talked to him last week, and remember him telling you that, don’t you?”

Alex and Trevor nodded.

“Good. Now, I’d like both of you to give me your phone numbers please, so I can call you if I need anything.”

He entered their numbers into his phone, and then turned off the noise his phone was making. Both of the students shook their heads like they were waking up, Rick finished a fake phone call and hung up the phone. “Now, you boys wanted to know something?”

Alex and Trevor looked at each other, neither of them sure what they were doing in this alley with the huge bouncer, shook their heads and retreated, trying to figure out what had just happened. Rick chuckled–the meatheads were always so easy to fuck around with. His break was over, so he stamped out his cigarette and headed back into the club to finish his shift. It was as boring as he’d hoped it wouldn’t be. Finally, the club closed for the night, Rick climbed into his truck, stopped by the local pizza shop (it stayed open late just for him) picked up his five pizza standing order, and headed home.

He let himself in, setting down the pizzas by the door, and walked over to where Max was tied to a chair, eyes blank, earbuds stuffed in each ear, playing a loop of Rick’s homemade hypnosis tracks and subliminals, but he took a moment to admire his handy work, especially after seeing Alex and Trevor earlier. One of his first tasks had been to get rid of all the fucking hair on Max’s body–and now, after some special treatments, his body would be completely smooth for the rest of his life. Tonight was going to be special though–the mix he’d put on for Max to listen to had a new track he was excited to test out–finally, he pulled out the earbuds, and after a couple of minutes, Max shook his head in a daze, and looked up at Rick. The look was dread. Week one had been anger. Week two had been fear. But now, Max was learning to dread. Rick always liked that look–but he really liked what would happen in a few more weeks, when Max would start to enjoy it. When he’d look up at him eagerly, excited to find out how Rick had chosen to twist and warp his mind that day.

“How are you doing, slave? Hungry?” Rick asked.

“Yes–S–sir…”

“Still fighting that one, eh?”

“N–No sir, sorry sir…I’m not fighting anything sir.” Max had learned that resisting the hypnosis would only lead Rick to entrance him further, usually with some extra suggestion as punishment. Max had fought calling him Sir and Master at first–and so, as extra incentive, Rick had hypnotized him to feel someone squeeze down on his balls everytime he forgot. He’d figured it out pretty quickly after that.

“Well, I have dinner for you, pig, but first, I want to see how today’s files worked out. See, I thought of something special to do to you today, and I’m curious to see how it worked. So, shall we?” Rick reached down and grabbed a hold of Max’s limp cock, and Max got an odd look on his face, and then just stared at Rick.

“Well? How does it feel, pig?”

“I can’t…I don’t…what did you do to me sir? I can’t…it’s just…numb.”

“So, if I start stroking it, you mean you can’t feel any of this?” Rick said, as he toyed and stroked Max’s cock, but it stayed perfectly limp the entire time. “That’s good–very good. Just what I wanted.”

Max sniffled, holding back tears, unable to believe it. He couldn’t feel his cock at all–as far as he could tell, it’s like he didn’t even have one.

“Don’t worry pig, it’s not that I don’t want you to feel anything–I just want your attention focused somewhere else, is all,” Rick said, then reached up and ran his finger over Max’s nipple. It immediately hardened, and Max let out a sigh of pleasure. “See? A nipple pig–well, nipples and something else too.” Rick wormed a hand between the chair and Max’s ass, a finger sliding against his hole, and again Max gasped in pleasure. “Very nice, very nice indeed. I’m very happy.”

“Please…please sir, just let me go, I’m sorry…”

“Oh piggy,” Rick said, and set his hand on Max’ shaved head. Max shivered and groaned, feeling immediately submissive, his thoughts suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to serve his master. Rick unzipped his fly with his other hand, letting out his hard cock, and allowed Max to suck it. “Oh piggy, I will let you go, eventually. You’ll be your own man, although very different from the man you were. But that old, closeted Max will be gone, and instead you’ll be a horny, kinky pig bitch, begging for cock, happily tugging on your nipples all the time. But I have some news to share, pig. It’s my day off tomorrow, you know, so guess what? We’re going out on the town–you’re gonna be getting your first tattoos. Isn’t that exciting?”

Max wasn’t really listening. He was too focused on sucking his master’s cock, on serving him. The sensation of a hand on his shaved scalp–something about it made him so docile. He couldn’t help but obey whoever was palming his skull.

“But here’s what I’m really excited for. See, I’m so happy that file worked as well as it did, because I have plans for that cock of yours, pig. I’ve already made an appointment with the plastic surgeon even–we’re gonna cut this cock of yours down to size–by the time we’re done, it’s gonna be a one inch nub, permanently soft and numb. Not even a clit–cause you aren’t going to be feeling anything down there.”

Max could sense Master was getting close. His own cock was soft though–still, that didn’t matter. His cock was worthless after all. Why, he didn’t even need a cock, really. What good was a cock that couldn’t feel anything?

“And when we get to the office, if you ask me real nicely, I might ask the surgeon to go ahead and throw in a castration, turn you into a proper hog. Maybe put some steel balls in there instead to weigh down that sack of yours, keep you weak and docile for the rest of your life. Oh fuck yeah–you’re gonna fuckin’ beg me to take your balls–that’s gonna be so fuckin’ hot!”

Master was cumming, and Max sucked it all down. He was starving–he hadn’t eaten all day. Between his master’s hypnosis and his nightly binging, he was already packing on the pounds. Rick removed his hand, and Max felt some semblance of freedom return to him, but it was too late to spit out Master’s cum–not that he wanted to anyway…right? He…liked how cum tasted.

Rick stripped down to his underwear, and then pulled a chair over beside Max, and fed him all five pizzas, slice by slice, and as he did, he told Max about Alex and Trevor, and how they’d been looking for him in the alley. He wasn’t sure which one he’d start with once he was finished with Max–in fact, he might do them both together. He hadn’t made many tops lately–he kind of liked the idea of turning them into identical muscle twins. But before that, he’d be sure to invite them both over a few times so they can fuck Max at both ends for fun. Max didn’t want to think that was hot, but he did anyway.

Finally, the pizzas were gone, and Rick yawned. “Alright pig, it’s time for me to go to bed, and for you to listen some more. I have another new track for you tonight–I hope you’ll like it. I’m very excited to see how it works in the morning.”

Max begged him to not do it, but both of the earbuds were back in his ears, and in less then a minute, the pig was zoned out, listening to his master’s voice. Rick went over to his computer and adjusted the playlist, and then went to bed. He was going to have a nice day tomorrow, at least–he always liked giving these pigs their first tattoos. And with Max suddenly feeling pain as pleasure–he had a feeling Max would enjoy it quite a bit too.

I can hear him in his room, jacking off again. I don’t really want to get involved–I mean, what father wants to talk to his son about masturbation? But it seems like it’s all he’s been doing lately, and I think he’s stopped showering too. It’s so strange. I mean, he’s going through a rebellious phase, sure. There’s that tattoo he got with his friends a few months ago, but he’s just a senior eager to get out from under his parents. I was the same way, after all. Still, how can I not worry about him? Besides, he’s so loud, I’m worried the neighbors might hear, especially the freak next door. In fact, Ben’s room shares a wall with him, doesn’t it?

***

Ben had his hand down in his filthy jockstrap that he hadn’t changed for a week, and through the wall, he could hear his perverse neighbor whispering through the small hole he’d drilled through the wall, the one Ben had covered up with his dresser to make sure his dad didn’t find it.

“You smell good jock pig, fuck yeah. You like how you reek, don’t you?”

“F–Fuck…”

Ben shot his load up onto his stomach and rubbed it in there, groaning loudly. He hoped that his dad hadn’t heard him, but he couldn’t stop from making these humiliating groans any longer, licking the rest of his tacky cum off his fingers.

“Got something for you piggy, come on piggy, I know you want it.”

Ben got up and shoved the dresser to one side, and the pervert’s crusty, uncut cock popped through the hole. Ben was on his knees with it down his throat as fast as he could move. Piss came first, faster than he could swallow, and it ran down the front of him, where he rubbed it into his skin, grunting, his cock hard again already, the old man’s cock growing hard, and he sucked until he got a reward of sour old cum, and then he pushed the dresser back and tried to keep from smelling his filthy pits and getting started all over again.

***

I’m getting really worried now–it’s only getting worse, and now he’s gone most of the day too. I’ve been getting calls that he’s missing school, but he doesn’t listen to me anymore. In fact, it seems like he doesn’t listen to anything I have to say, like he’s a zombie when he’s here. In his room, he jacks off and snorts and grunts, and then he leaves and doesn’t come back for hours. I don’t want to invade his privacy, but I have to find out what’s going on–just a quick investigation while he’s gone won’t hurt, right?

I don’t find anything, but what the hell is that pervy neighbor doing next door? It sounds like he’s fucking someone, but who in the hell would have sex with someone as nasty as him? I don’t feel real good all of a sudden though…there’s this…smell in here, but what…what is it?

Dirty laundry everywhere…it smells…fuck. So fucking sweaty, damn…and kind of like cum. A bit stiff…too, makes me want to gag, but it smells kind of good. What the fuck am I even thinking, and why am I hard? This is ridiculous. Can’t stop though, smells so fucking good…fuck yeah, oh fuck just one quick jack, that’s all.

***

“Who’s my nasty jock pig?”

“Me sir,” Ben moaned, his filthy neighbor’s cock buried deep in his filthy ass.

“Who’s my piss drinking, ass licking piggy?”

“Oh fuck, me sir!”

“That’s fuckin’ right!” he spanked Ben’s ass, the jock groaning and unloading a fifth load from his balls into the grungy carpet beneath him. The pig had no control anymore–one sniff of his filthy master’s pits was enough to have him cumming sometimes.

The perv was speeding up now, getting close himself. He unloaded into his pig’s loose hole, and then pulled out, watching his cum dribble down Ben’s crusty ass crack. “Fuckin’ sexy pig.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Now get going–I’m done for now.”

Ben stood up and left his master’s apartment, slipping back into his father’s apartment next door, returning to his room, one hand wiping his master’s cum out of his crack and licking it up, when he saw his father naked on his bed, surrounded by his filthy laundry, his cum rag shirt pressed against his nose as he jacked off, body sweaty.

Ben went to the hole in the wall, “Master, my father’s pigging out sir, what should I do?”

“Oh really? How about you feed him my cum from your nasty hole, pig?”

“Oh fuck sir, I’d love to do that…” Ben got up on the bed and squatted over his father’s face, and unable to stop himself, his father ate the pervert’s filthy cum from his son’s hole. Unable to fathom what was happening, but unable to stop for the life of him.

***

Oh fuck, look at them go! My pig son’s so fuckin’ hot, especially now that he’s working out almost constantly. Fuckin’ ripped, and master just reams his ass with that fist of his. Wish it wasn’t so hard to jack my cock, but I’m just a fat pig, gotta keep eating, so fuckin’ hungry. Master wants me at least 400 pounds here soon, and I’m gettin’ so close. So fuckin’ nasty, fuck.

Gotta piss, yeah, pissin’ my son’s nasty jockstrap. Smells so good, I’ll suck it out of the carpet later, I don’t wanna miss this. Love watching master fist my pig son, almost as much as I love feeling his fist up my fat ass, maybe Ben will fist me when he comes home, fuck that’d be hot.

Master says he’s gonna start training me to be a proper toilet pig soon, gonna have me eating my son’s filthy shit before too long. Can’t fucking wait to be honest, I already love having my tongue buried up filthy shit chutes, tastes so fucking good. I’m gonna be such a good toilet for master and my pig son, fuck yeah. Where’s my fuckin’ dildo? Wanna cum, gettin’ fuckin’ close, gotta get fucked to cum though, such a fuckin’ pig. Yeah, that’s it, nine inches stuffed up in me, fuck! Fuck I’m fuckin’ cumming, such a nasty fuckin’ pig, fuck, fuckin’ love being a pig, love my master, I love my fuckin’ pig son so fuckin’ much, fuck yeah…

The Smoker Tapes (Part 2)

Pictured: The Smoker’s victim (1) at Pride, (2)in his dungeon, and finally (3)living his new life.

***

<The door opens, Eric walks across the room. The sound of him sitting down again.>

The Smoker: Feeling better?

Eric: How do I even know that you are The Smoker, anyway? How do I know that you aren’t just jerking me around?

The Smoker: Like I said, when the owner of this apartment gets here, I’ll be happy to offer a demonstration, provided he’s interested.

Eric: Well, you have to admit that this is hard to believe.

The Smoker: Of course it is. But just because something is unbelievable doesn’t mean it can’t be true. Hunter existed. All of the men I’ve helped existed. I exist. Why the sudden bout of doubt? You seemed inclined to believe me when we spoke on the phone.

Eric: A journalist has to be skeptical of his sources.

The Smoker: Ah yes. The only way to maintain your integrity is to challenge mine.

Eric: You don’t have to get upset. If you can’t corroborate any of this, then you’re no better than the men spreading legend on the street. You just seem more interested in offering embellishment.

The Smoker: I would call them details. Embellishment implies that I’m lying.

Eric: As far as I’m concerned at the moment, you might as well be lying. I think you’re just trying to shock me into believing you.

The Smoker: If that’s really what you believe, then we might as well stop this interview now. If my testimony has no worth, why seek me out in the first place? You were, after all, the one looking for me. I only contacted you after I heard that someone wanted the truth of things. Like I said, I’m happy to offer you proof when my friend returns. Why not give me the benefit of the doubt until then? At worst, I’m just a fool telling tales. At best, I’m the best story you’ve ever found in your rather lackluster career as a lifestyle journalist.

Eric: It isn’t lackluster–

The Smoker: It is lackluster, and you know it. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say that you aren’t particularly interested in your career as a journalist. But if that were true, why pursue a story as big as this one, right?

Eric: …Right.

The Smoker: So, while we wait for my friend, I assume you have a few more questions to ask.

<The sound of a notebook’s pages being flipped.>

Eric: How do you choose your…patrons? What do you look for in the men you change?

The Smoker: Well…that’s a bit complicated, actually.

Eric: Complicated how?

The Smoker: I don’t really choose my targets, exactly. I mean, that’s not precisely true. To say…maybe here’s a better way to put it. I can’t just walk down the street, smoking a cigar, changing men left and right. There’s only a small set of men who are even receptive to my assistance. And even then, not everyone in that set is interested in being helped. Not everyone in that set even has a problem that I can solve for them. So to say that I choose anyone isn’t the best way of putting it. It’s more like…there are some people who need help, and I’m the only person who can help them.

Eric: Alright then, so who can you help? What qualities do all of your patrons share?

The Smoker: Well, they’ve all smoked at some point in their life. I can’t do anything to someone who hasn’t tasted smoke before. While it isn’t a requirement that they be gay, I can’t do anything if the person isn’t at least open to the prospect of becoming gay.

Eric: So you make all of your patrons gay?

The Smoker: Considering the sexual nature of my work, it’s hard to imagine how they could turn out any other way.

Eric: Anything else?

The Smoker: Well, they all have a problem. Or rather, they all have a problem I can solve. A problem with themselves…..Again, it’s hard to explain. They have to be dissatisfied with their lives, or with their bodies, but it’s more complicated than that even. They have to be willing to sacrifice, they have to give up and not look back.

Eric: And how do you know when you’ve found someone who you can help?

The Smoker: Well, usually they find me. Or rather, I attract them. The legend attracts them, rather. But when I meet them, I…well, when I meet them, it’s not that I can read their minds exactly, but I can sense their problem and how to solve it. That’s a rather inelegant way to put it, unfortunately, but the details of the process aren’t really…it’s rather unconscious.

Eric: None of that made much sense, unfortunately.

The Smoker: Well, it isn’t something I try and articulate very often. You do something so many times, it becomes a part of you. You don’t think about it anymore. It can become rather dominating at times, and you forget that things could have been any other way. So trying to explain it, is difficult. Perhaps if I used an example.
Last year, during the summer–during pride weekend, actually–I wandered through the street fair in the afternoon. That’s usually how it starts, I end up wandering somewhere with no particular goal in mind, but I’ve come to recognize the sensation of being pulled towards someone who’s looking for me. And in the mob of people, in the street, I saw a young man, beer in hand but not comfortable with it at all. Not comfortable at all, with any of it, and looking at him, I could just tell everything about him. Just started college, but uncomfortable in his own skin. Gay, a virgin, no confidence, desperate for attention and control over his life and situation but he was too busy doubting his own ability and desire to actually attain anything. Overbearing mother, distant father, seeking approval from older men and hating himself for it. Unhappy with his body, but lacking the discipline and determination to change it. Caught at a crossroad, unable to decide where to go. He was lost, and he saw me standing there, smoking a cigar, and I saw this flourish of jealousy there. He wanted what I could give him–well, what he actually thought was, “I want what he has,” but he got the next best thing.
I don’t know if that actually clarifies anything or not. But that’s what it feels like, finding a patron.

Eric: And what happens then?

The Smoker: Well, then I offer them help. In that young man’s case, he was rather belligerent. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that he needed help. Actually, he was one of the harder cases I’ve had recently.

Eric: What was so hard about him? From the way you talk, it doesn’t seem like there’s much anyone can do to stop you.

The Smoker: Well, I do require consent, but even with consent, there has to be acceptance. There has to be a desire to leave the old behind and welcome in the new. But once consent is given, and once the process begins, there’s no going back. It just makes it all the more difficult for me. Hunter, and men like Hunter, the easy ones, they take a matter of minutes or hours. The hard cases, like that young man, they can take days. The longest I’ve ever had took close to three weeks to finish up. Anyway, when we talked in the street, he refused help, but I offered him my phone number and he took it. A few days later, when he was drunk, he called me and wanted to know more. He eventually consented at my home, but in the middle of the process, his doubts and fear stepped in and fought back. I had to go to some…extreme measures.

Eric: Like what?

The Smoker: Well, I have an extensive dungeon in my basement, something I’ve assembled for hard cases. I kept him locked in a cell–he’d already changed quite a bit at that point. His body had grown heavily muscled, but completely hairless. In fact, his body was almost there–it was his head that was fighting back. And so…I made him start masturbating his brains out. He was jacking off almost constantly, and as he came, over and over, the air saturated with smoke, he just got dumber and dumber, and eventually he just lost the will to doubt. He lost all reason to fear. I had to put something else in there of course–he grew into a very aggressive, domineering top. Skinhead, dresses all in leather, keeps a number of slaves now, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes. He’s very happy, but it was a lot of work getting him there.

Eric: That doesn’t sound like consent, that sounds like kidnapping and torture.

The Smoker: Well, perhaps, but that’s all the consent I require.

<The sound of scribbling, a page turns.>

Eric: There seem to be a lot of rules involved in your work.

<A short silence.>

Eric: What?

The Smoker: Nothing. Nothing at all. What’s your next question?

Looking through my own archives, I’ve found a few captions that could use some sequels. Hope you enjoy them. If there are any you’d like to see extended, you can always ask or submit a link.)

Everybody in town loves the Sheriff—which is pretty rare, even he admits that. He knows everyone in town, and has a habit of dropping in on families unexpectedly, like he did with the Robinson’s just last week. It was late—after dinner, and Mr. Robinson was enjoying a bit of whiskey, when the door opened (everyone left their doors unlocked, in case the sheriff wanted to stop by) and he said hello to Mr. Robinson, and then found the Misses getting dessert ready in the kitchen.

“Betty,” he said, stroking her cheek with a gloved hand, “Be a doll and skip dessert at home tonight. Why don’t you take the kids out for ice cream? And don’t come home until I call and tell you to.”

“Yes sheriff, of course!” Mrs. Robinson said, and bundled up the kids and left the sheriff alone with her husband.

Mr. Robinson wasn’t the healthiest of men, but then again, all of the men in the town had started packing on weight since the sheriff came to town. The Sheriff walked into the living room and started running his gloves over Mr. Robinson’s body. “Strip down, I want to see those fat rolls of yours, Mr. Robinson—and then we’re going to eat that whole cake your wife just baked. After that, I’m going to plow that fat ass of yours all night—how does that sound?”

“Sounds fucking hot, Sheriff, I can’t fucking wait,” Mr. Robinson said, moaning as the Sheriff rubbed his hard cock, and stuck one of his gloved hands into the citizen’s drooling mouth.

The sheriff got up off the bed, Mr. Robinson groaning, his belly covered with icing, cake fragments and streaks of cum. “That was very good Mr. Robinson, I wish all of my citizens were as law abiding as you are.”

“Thank–thank you sheriff, I try my best….ugh…” He was so stuffed, but he couldn’t question the sheriff. Still, he hoped it was at least a week or two before he stopped by next–he felt like he wouldn’t eat for days. The sheriff showed himself out, and got back into the uniform he’d discarded around the living room downstairs. He pulled out his cell phone and called Betty.

“Hi Betty, why don’t you bring the kids back home now. None of you will find anything strange about your husband. But Betty, I think his appetite has increased. Be a doll and add a sixth meal for him, would you? Thanks.”

He left before Betty could return. He’d needed a chance to vent his frustrations a bit, but watching Mr. Robinson devour that cake, watching him plead when he thought he was too full to carry on, that had given him an idea that might solve his little problem. There were, unfortunately, a few men around town who had resisted the powers of his special gloves. He couldn’t dominate them entirely, and he’d been forced to repurpose the lockup as a place for them to stay out of trouble while he figured out how to help them join in his society.

But maybe he’d been tackling them from the wrong direction. He’d been trying to break down their intellect–render them unwilling to resist his mental commands. He’d been worried that they were all just too smart for their own good. However, maybe he should be getting them to want to belong. Maybe he simply hadn’t shown them how wonderful it is to be hungry.

“Mr. Hubert, good evening.”

“You fucker, get the fuck away from me!” the man shouted, yanking at the manacles that kept him chained to the wall.

“Now Mr. Hubert, if you keep lashing out like that, you’re going to be stuck in here for a very long time.” The sheriff approached and stroked one of the man’s cheeks with a gloved hand, watching him shiver, but resist the magic. “I just think you would be so much happier if you were a bit more agreeable. Now–how about we work on that a bit, eh?”

The sheriff grabbed Mr. Hubert’s head with both hands, driving his will into the man’s mind. But rather than assault his intellect, he started exploring elsewhere. Down deeper, instinct, desire, craving, emotion–here was something he could work with! Yes, here everything was very pliable, down at the foundations. And with the right structural shifts, he was confident the castle of Mr. Hubert’s mind would begin to crumble in due time.

He pulled his hands away, wiping his gloves together, satisfied.

“What did…what did you do? That was different…oh…oh fuck…”

“What is it Mr. Hubert? Is something wrong?" The man’s jaw was trembling, and the sheriff heard a great growl emerge from the man’s stomach. "Sounds like someone is getting hungry…”

Mr. Hubert whimpered. He was starving. He was hungrier than he could ever remember being in his life. The sheriff smiled and left the cell.

“Wait! You can’t just leave me here! I’ll starve!”

“You won’t starve, Mr. Hubert. Breakfast will be served in the morning, as usual. Make sure you eat it all up. You and I will talk again tomorrow.”

He heard a whimper, and then a sob. Music to the sheriff’s ears. He would break them all down, now. He would build the world he’d always wanted, right here, in this little quiet town. A sheriff and his flock of pigs.

Sal’s Sons

[Pictured: Top left – Jack. Top Right – Sal. Bottom – Sal’s twin sons.]

“It’s odd, I didn’t even know he was moving out.”

“Well, sometimes people just need a change, right?” The older man who’d introduced himself as Sal, when Jack had approached down the hall. They were standing outside the apartment across from his, while Sal’s twin sons tromped up and down the stairs, hauling boxes and furniture, dressed in identical jean shorts and white wife beaters. Neither of them had said anything, and Sal hadn’t offered him their names. Every time they passed them, Jack couldn’t help but notice that they moved at a very careful tandem. Once, he saw one twin about to drop a box, and the twin walking in front of him swooped around and helped steady him. They could be acrobats, Jack thought idly, Well, they could be acrobats if they weren’t so fucking fat.

Sal was short and plump and his glasses seemed perpetually ready to slip from his too short nose. Jack towered over him awkwardly. No fan of small talk, Sal had him conversationally cornered into details about how long he’d spent looking for an apartment with enough room for him and his sons, how he worked from home while they went to college nearby. Jack eventually managed to slip away with the excuse that he had an early morning the next day, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He could already tell he would have to do his best to avoid running into Sal if he could help it.

Over the next few weeks, however, their encounters seemed predestined. Either coming home from work or the gym, or when he was leaving with a date for the movies, he would invariably run into Sal outside the apartment or on the stairs, and the old man would forcibly engage him in conversation. It was so boring that Jack rarely remembered what the man was saying for long afterwards, but he managed to speak rapidly enough that Jack’s chances to slip away without insulting the man were few and far between. Before long, Jack would just say hi and keep walking, Sal sometimes pursuing him with his thoughts on the dinner his sons had cooked the night before, and other times just shout at him as he walked away about how he was disappointed that the apartment pool was going to be out of service until mid-summer.

Sal never seemed perturbed by this disinterest, and Jack assumed he was lonely. Three weeks later, he realized he still had no idea what the twins’ names were. He hadn’t even seen them nearly as often as Sal, and he assumed they spent much of their time at the college and away from their dad–he couldn’t blame them really, the guy was a bore even if he meant well. The worst encounter came one day when, somehow, Jack locked himself out of his apartment without his keys or his cell phone. Luckily, Sal was home to call a locksmith, but unluckily, he had to spend an hour waiting for the man to arrive in Sal’s apartment.

That something strange was going on between Sal and his son’s was dreadfully obvious, or rather, that there seemed to be something very strange going on between his sons. The twins never spoke, and Sal rarely acknowledged their existence, even as they bustled about, serving them coffee and some leftover cake. The twins moved fluidly, finishing each other’s actions, stopping and starting in perfect symmetry. Sal treated all of this as perfectly normal, and the few times Jack, attempted to engage them in the conversation, Sal interjected. “They’re very shy and don’t like speaking if they can help it, but I can answer that for you…” The locksmith finally arrived and Jack resolved to never go over there again if he could help it.

After that, jack was caught up in a wave of problems that drove any concern about Sal and his son’s to the side. Missing clothing. Items found in places where he would have never put them. He asked the landlord to change the locks on his apartment, afraid that someone had gotten his keys and copied them somehow, but without any real evidence, the lazy owners did nothing. Even if Jack was uninterested in him, Sal was omnipresent, talking at him every day in the hallways and stairwells. Laundry day was the worst, when Sal would corner him in the building’s basement for the entirely of both cycles. It was on one such day that Jack, trying to be polite, accidentally accepted an offer for an afternoon snack in Sal’s apartment. It was another awkward hour with the mysterious twins serving them coffee too sweet and creamy, and he idly wondered how Sal could speak at such a clip for so long about everything so trite. He finally escaped, returned to his apartment, and two hours later was shivering with a fever of one hundred and five, his stomach vomited empty.

Unable to sleep because of his body burning from the inside, he could only manage intermittent dreams of varying lucidity. He thought, once or twice, of calling work but the thought of first finding and then using his phone filled him with such nausea he abandoned the idea. He hallucinated that he wasn’t alone, that he was surrounded by strange beings pinning him down, ripping away his covers and examining him. Aliens? Spirits? He entered a period of weightlessness, a sensation that he was hovering through the air on a pillar of wind, a cloud, a couch. He became aware of voices in his head, or perhaps one voice and an immediate echo. The burning subsided into a perpetual, full body ache stuttered with spasms and cramps. He screamed, not as often as before. He was aware that they sounded only in his head, or perhaps he simply couldn’t hear his own voice any longer.

He woke to the sunshine on his body and it didn’t burn. He was human again, but not unchanged. He felt heavier, weaker. The voices that had been dampened by sickness hadn’t disappeared but had only gained clarity. His mind felt thick and undone. The voices told him to get up from the bed. He didn’t believe that he had the strength, and found himself caught between the echoing voices and his failure of a body. He spent hours rising, first rolling to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over (such heavy, thick legs) and pushing himself up to sitting. It felt like there was no room in his head for any thoughts of his own. Looking up, he saw a mirrored closet door, and the sight of himself–fat, short, hairy, the spitting image of one of Sal’s sons, could not raise any reaction in him because he had no room to consider it in comparison to anything else. He was no longer certain he’d ever looked different. He was no longer sure what different might mean. He had to stand up. He had to stand up and go out into the living room.

His body was recovering, but his mind continued to dissolve. His past and history was melting down and the voices reclaimed their space. He finally stood on shaky legs, adjusting naturally to the heavy gut in front of him, and slid his his feet out of the bedroom and down the hall of Sal’s apartment, father’s apartment, his apartment, to where his two brothers sat on the couch. Having fulfilled his task, his mind went quiet, allowing Jack a moment to surge back, far weaker than he should have been, he’d lost so much of himself already.

His words, he had no words for anything any longer. Before he could even mutter, the voices commanded him to never speak or else father will punish us, and his lips sealed themselves forever. Father is out, he learned. Father wants us to train today, and tonight we must be ready. His brothers began masturbating each other on the sofa, and the pleasure surged into Jack’s mind, overwhelming him once more. His own cock was as hard as theirs, and he stroked it in rhythm for a few minutes until his brother’s stood up and approached him. In a circle, they jerked each other off, their pleasures uniting as one for the sake of their father, and Jack receded further until he merged entirely into the triplet mind.

That evening, Sal returned to find his three sons patiently waiting for his return. As one, they undressed him, and he led them into his bedroom. They served him for hours, each taking their turn nursing at their father’s small cock, abusing and degrading themselves and each other for his amusement, their biological nature able to anticipate their sire’s needs and desires before he could even voice them. The youngest of them was, by now, indistinguishable from the other two in both body and mind. After his final climax, one son’s tongue buried deep in his father’s ass, while Sal sucked another’s cock and the third sucked his father, they disentangled.

“Time for dinner boys,” Sal said, “And while you’re cooking, I’ll start looking for another genetic match. I’ve always wanted to have quadruplets.”

Bob was always on the hunt for a good workout music mix, something that would keep him going, but nothing that would draw his focus away from his workout. He’d been working out for a few months now, and he liked the progress he’d made, dropping some weight off and gaining some energy, but the weekly routine was starting to wear on him. He tried a few playlists over the next week, but he didn’t really enjoy any of them until he found a link to a “Zone Out Mix” on a weightlifting website.

He gave it a try during his next workout, and zone out was definitely an accurate description. He accidentally ended up staying at the gym for an extra hour, and he hadn’t even noticed. He couldn’t actually recall what the music on the playlist had been, and the thing came as one long playlist, so he couldn’t break it apart. Still, it became his regular workout track, and before long his four days at the gym had become six, and his hour and a half routine had grown to three. In fact, the gym had started cutting into some of his friendships, and he ended up cutting off his girlfriend of two years. She’d been harping about him going to the gym all the time, but he needed to get bigger, right? That was all that was really important.

It was soon after he’d broken up with her that the insomnia started. He was getting maybe two or three hours of sleep a night, and it was getting hard to focus at work, and the zone out mix was the only thing that kept him going to the gym. Now, he could barely remember being at the gym anymore. He’d put the mix on as he left his apartment to jog to the gym, and would come to back in his apartment three or four hours later, exhausted, every muscle on fire.

On one sleepless night, on the internet, he found another file by the guy who’d made the Zone Out Mix, a track designed to help people sleep. Desperate for a good night’s rest at this point, he downloaded it and listened to it on his earbuds, and had the first restful night he’d had in weeks. Thankful, he also found a second Zone Out Mix, and downloaded that as well. Before too long, his periods of lucidity were growing fewer and farther between. He woke up in the bathroom staring at his muscular body, and saw that he’d shaven off all of his hair–all of it. His scalp, his beard, his body, his pubes. Still, it looked real damn good.

Another time, he came to on his bed, a thick, seven inch dildo rammed deep in his ass. He yanked it out, terrified of what he was doing, but zoned out again almost immediately, and came to hours later, coated in his own cum, and from that moment on, going without something in his ass was nearly impossible. He never met his master–eventually, he simply zoned out so deep that he never came back. He abandoned his apartment and moved in with his master across the country, just another muscle beast working out all day, and pimped out to wealthy men every night, eyes empty, mouth drooling around the parade of cocks that were rammed down his throat, happy as could be.

“Hey, Fuckmeat!” the voice called out, and Ralph stopped short in the mall and turned around, startled, to find a loose cluster of young hooligans in a small alley between stores leering at his chubby body stuffed into his mall cop uniform.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” Ralph said, stalking over to them, angry. He was, and always had been, a hothead about his size, and he wasn’t about to let a bunch of punks get away with a bunch of fat jokes.

“I called you Fuckmeat,” the ringleader said, stepping forward as Ralph can closer, and as the guard came close, he found himself looking into the young man’s eyes, and they were so captivating, he couldn’t quite look away for a few moments. He slowed down and came to a stop a foot in front of the thug, the two of them just staring at each other for a few moments before the guard jostled himself and managed to look away.

“What…what the fuck was that?”

“What was what, Fuckmeat?”

“Don’t…don’t call me that. My name’s not Fuckmeat.”

“Sure it is, you don’t have another name anyway, do you? Go on–tell me your name, and if it’s not Fuckmeat, we’ll leave you alone.”

“My name is…” the guard said, but his head was coming up empty. He knew he was supposed to have a name, something his parents had given him, but his eyes widened as the thug made contact with his eyes again, and the answer rolled off his tongue, “Fuckmeat. My name’s Fuckmeat.”

“Sure is,” the young man said, not allowing the guard to break his gaze this time, drilling in deeper, watching the tent form in the front of the older, fat man’s pants as his eyes turned glassy, his thoughts turning to how much he wanted to be fucked, how he wanted to be used, how he was just a worthless dump, a sack of meat for other men to use, and he followed the gang out of the mall, never to return.

“Gosh, I sure do love these chances we have to visit together, don’t you?” Ray says.

You moan in response, and shove your dirty jockstrap deeper into your mouth, sucking your piss and dried cum from it while you stroke your cock.

“We have so much more time too, now that you’ve quit that silly job you insisted on going to the past few weeks, but you don’t want to go to work now, do you? You like this so much better, just lounging around, jacking off all day, in your filthy clothing…”

You try to say something through your jockstrap, but Ray can’t understand you, and he takes it as assent. You don’t disagree with him very much anymore–most of your brain is mush by this point, so he doubts you have many thoughts going on in there at all really. Still, he liked it more when you were disagreeable, he liked pinning you down to the carpet, and shoving your face into his armpits or his ripe crotch, feeling you struggle, relishing that moment when his stench finally shut your brain down and you turned into his pig again, the pig who would do anything for his filth, beg Ray for his cum and piss and rank asscrack.

And then, when you’d wake up again, slowly, only recalling bits of what you’d done–you were horrified, but Ray always made sure you knew that every time you fell back into your piggy space there was less of you that made it back alive. That your brain died, bit by bit, every time you became disagreeable. You couldn’t stop fighting though, and now you’re just a pig, barely capable of speech at all, but you don’t need to speak really. You just spend your days wallowing in your own filth, waiting for Ray to come visit, like he visits everyone on the block, all of his piggies, in all of their own houses, their personal filthy sties. A suburban barn full of filthy animals for Ray’s personal enjoyment.

Sometimes Rudy hated the subway at night. He was a member at a twenty-four hour gym, and with his work schedule it was just easier to work out late at night or in the early morning. On occasion it was wonderful–an empty car maybe, or just a couple other people, being quiet or reading a book. At worst, in was a group of young hooligans or creepy homeless guys, or old faggots leering at him–and tonight that was what he was dealing with. Some old retired guy–saggy body, wrinkled skin–sitting across from him on the subway, just eyeing him up and down as they rode. Rudy did his best to ignore him, but there was one thing he couldn’t seem to ignore–the light on the guy’s phone kept blinking like a strobe light, and he couldn’t…quite seem to look away…it was getting hard…to…

***

What was he doing here?

“Just give me one more moment, you stud–I’m almost up and ready.”

He looked around at the shabby old apartment he was in, and then looked down, and realized he was naked. “What…what the fuck?” he shouted, and a moment later, the old man from the train came through the doorway, his cock the only thing solid about him.

“Oh, a strong willed one, eh? Don’t worry, we have all night to wear you down,” the old man said, and then his phone was blinking again…he tried to look…away but couldn’t…

***

Why did his ass hurt? What was happening?

“Say it–say you’re a whore for old man cock!”

“No…” Rudy managed to squeak out, but why was he so weak? The light…just look at the light…so…

***

Rudy moaned and rolled over in the bed, and found himself looking at one of the hottest geezers he’s seen in his life. The saggy skin, the wrinkles, the lecherous smile–everything was just right. The man was standing up at the side of the bed, his cock hard as a rock, and Rudy licked his lips.

“Hungry, boy?”

“You know it, daddy.”

“Then get over here and suck me off. And make it quick, I have five more old guys coming over who want to fuck you, so that hole of yours had better be ready slut.”

The man reached over and started probing Rudy’s tight hole, and he groaned. God, he was such a whore for old man cock, and he fucking loved it. Riding the subway can be the fucking best.