Tag: pig

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 7)

~~June & July~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 6)

~~May 3rd~~

Timmy stood in the room, where Stanta had invited him to hold their weekly progress meeting, wondering what, exactly, this was concerning. It was rather unorthodox for them to meet in Stanta’s house, and not on the floor of the workshop, where production was ramping up, so they could discuss various bottlenecks and production issues on several new toy lines the elves had developed. But he’d insisted. Stanta wasn’t even in the room at the moment–he’d ushered Timmy in, and the left, puffing on his pipe, saying he’d forgotten something. It was…suspicious, to say the least.

Stanta returned a moment later, bearing a large animal crate with him–and there, in the crate, Timmy could clearly see the small pig which until a year and a half ago had been Marty. He kept his face as cold as he could, desperate to not let any tell-tale emotion seep through. He didn’t think Stanta would have been able to get any information from either pig of that strange urinal, but he couldn’t be certain of anything. “As you recall, back in January, I confiscated some…curiosities from the elves’ workshop,” Stanta said, “I can’t say I’ve had much luck discovering much about what had happened in there. That said, I can say with some certainty that the larger pig is likely my predecessor, and this little piggy here is an elf. Am I correct in my assessment?”

He knew he couldn’t lie, but that certainly didn’t mean he needed to provide the entire truth, either. “That’s…correct.” Stanta set the crate on the floor, a few feet from where Timmy was standing. He concentrated on Stanta instead. “Is there something you’d like to discuss about that?”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Because it didn’t deem it relevant. The previous Santa was unable to serve, and I needed a replacement. Informing you at any stage of any of your predecessor’s…eventual fates would likely have deterred you from taking the position. No Santa lasts forever, and the only things which can dispose of immortals are…generally harsh. You can understand why I’d be reluctant to share that information with you.”

“That’s a rather cold calculation, Timmy,” Stanta said, “You do seem to have a penchant for sneaking behind people’s backs, and laying traps.” With that, Stanta pulled the love gun from small box he had on a table, and examined it. “This, for example. Given to my boy. Why in the world would an elf such as yourself give him something like this?”

Timmy wasn’t quite sure what to say. He’d assumed John simply hadn’t worked up the courage to use the gun–he hadn’t imagined that Stanta would have gotten his hands on it instead.

Still, Stanta didn’t need an admission of guilt. “You know, I did learn a bit about who this little piggy is, from a friend. You had such…passion for him. Why don’t we melt that cold, manipulative heart, and divert your attention to something a bit more warm, eh?”

“No! Wait, just give me a chance to explain!” Timmy shouted, but Stanta had already leveled the gun at him, coating Timmy with it’s soft pink glow. Holding down the trigger, he dragged the beam over to the boar who had been Marty, connecting the two of them together. He held the beam solid for a moment, making sure Timmy’s feelings would be sufficiently intense, and then released the trigger, allowing Timmy to move and think again.

Well, try to think, at least. He had to do something, he couldn’t let Stanta get away with this, but those concerns were overwhelmed by something else–by Marty, by that pig. How could he have been so cold? Marty was still in there, and he’d tried to deny it so much, but he couldn’t anymore–he still loved him, even more than he had as a elf. With a whimper of need, he scrambled for the door to the crate, opened it, and dragged the pig out, trying to embrace it, but the pig seemed…uninterested.

“Oh goodness, I seem to have set the gun to ‘unrequited’, silly me,” Stanta said. “Also, I can assure you Marty there doesn’t have much interest in elves–I have a feeling that if you want that little pig to love you, it’s going to require a few…changes, Timmy. Still, I’m more than happy to help,” Stanta said, walking towards Timmy, where he was trying to kiss the pig, and the pig was trying to shove him off with his trotters.

“Please…” Timmy said, but even he wasn’t sure whether it was asking Stanta to give him his free will back, or asking him to change. In any case, Stanta took his plea as the second, and laid his hand on Timmy’s head. His body began to shift immediately, his slender frame piling on layer after layer of fat. Timmy felt his mind dulling, his rationality draining away and allowing his love to become a single-minded drive, as his feet and hands became trotters, his clothes shredding apart as he grew out of them, and with the last flickers of his mind, he realized something else. He didn’t look like the same kind of pig as Marty–while Marty was a hairy, muscular boar with a huge cock, Timmy was soft, hairless and flabby, with four rows of teats running down his belly. Worse, he felt his cock and balls shrink until they were just nubs, and a new, gaping pussy opened up below them. Marty took one sniff of Timmy’s new cunt, and could tell this sowboi was in heat–Timmy was more than happy to go onto all fours, and allow his new boar to mount him, driving in deep, the pleasure washing all of his other concerns away.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 5)

~~April 26th~~

He’d fucked up–he knew that. But the simple fact was, John hadn’t been able to take it anymore. He…wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. It was the middle of March, when his father had picked up a renewed interest in John, after close of a month of paying him almost no attention at all–and from that first day, when he’d taken on a new form…John had known something was different with Stanta. He had never been particularly jolly, of course, but when he’d laid eyes on John that next time, he’d become an old painpig–obese, coated in metal, hair and tattoos, begging for pain and abuse. But inside–unlike the last times–John had still been inside there, and Stanta had known it, had taunted him with the knowledge that he knew John was in there and he didn’t care. That he wanted him to suffer.

John couldn’t think of anything he’d done to deserve such treatment, and in fact, he hadn’t been guilty of anything at all–but punishing him had been convenient. After his discussions with Santapig, Stanta had been furious. Furious with Timmy. Furious with that little pig who had been Marty. So furious in fact that, with Santapig watching gleefully, he’d destroyed every remnant of Marty’s old self still residing in that pig body, as Santapig had requested. After all, Timmy didn’t have to know what he’d done to use the pig as leverage, if he needed it, and having any chunk of Marty still hanging around was much too large a risk for him. So furious at himself, for being sucked into this entire mess, for bringing his son here, the son he’d always hated. It wasn’t surprising that, after a few weeks of that treatment, John had snapped.

Pushing through the persona, he’d gone for the love gun Timmy had left him, and threatened his father with it. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, however, and Stanta had, after disarming him, beaten him even harder, and made John tell him everything that had happened, leading up to him getting the gun, and he had–everything about his strange encounter with Timmy on the porch, and the gift left the next day for him. After Stanta was satisfied, he’d locked John in this room again, where he was still sitting, weeks later. He’d returned to himself at this point, close to a week ago, now, but his father hadn’t returned to check up on him. So here he was, naked on his small bed, wondering what, exactly, his daddy would do to punish him–because that was the one thing he was certain would happen.

But today was different than the other days–today, he heard the lock on the door falling away–apparently his isolation was over, and his punishment was about to commence. He braced himself for whatever he might become when Stanta laid eyes on him after opening the door–he was certain it wouldn’t be anything good. But it wasn’t Stanta who opened the door. Instead, John found himself looking at a massive pigman, standing upright on two trotter-like feet, staring at him with tiny dark, greedy eyes, and with a lurch, he felt his body shifting around him.

A pig? Who in the world was this? He remembered seeing Stanta bringing those two pigs back with him from the workshop months ago, but…what in the world had he done to them? Was he going to become a pig too, thanks to the amulet? He looked down at himself, expecting the worst, but was somewhat surprised to see that he wasn’t losing his human features. He was shrinking slightly, and growing a sizable gut coated with white hair, with a thick white beard as well. He himself looked a bit Santa-esque, but he wasn’t Santa–his name…his name was Claude?

It was similar to what had happened when Timmy had seen him on the porch–he wasn’t simply assuming a form, he was assuming an identity along with it–one which was…slightly warped, it seemed, as his cock engorged itself, growing over a foot long and as thick as a two liter bottle, the pigman (Santa, his new mind told him, but this pig couldn’t be Santa, could it?) started drooling at the sight. “I’ve…*grunt* missed you more than I even realized,” the pig said, walking into the room and embracing John, “Claude…fuck, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Shut up you pig–I’ve missed you too, and that hole of yours,” John heard himself say, and then shove the pig over the side of the bed, lined his huge cock up with his hole, and slid into him with a long shudder of pleasure, and…and love. Not true love, some strange, warped desire that was close enough to fill in the void, but one which felt…so dirty, to him. John fucked the pig’s filthy hole, disgusted by the sensation, but the pig was pushing back, eager to be filled to the brim. John looked over and saw Stanta in the doorway, watching the scene with a stony face, waiting for them to finish–which took about half an hour. John slid out after he’d shot a massive load of cum deep into Santapig’s bowels, and then the pig whirled around, got down and started cleaning off the massive cock, grunting and snorting while he did, and John looked to his father. “Dad, I–”

“John, you made a mistake, but not an unforgivable one. But my friend here…has been very helpful to me, over the last month or so, and he deserves a reward. That’s going to be you, for the next several months.”

“But–”

Stanta walked over, and put a finger to his son’s lips. “You’re still mine–don’t forget that. He’s merely…borrowing you, right pig?”

There was a disgruntled sound made around John’s big cock, and he felt it bob, as Santapig nodded, reluctantly.

“I have business to settle, and I can’t have you getting in the middle of it. Once it’s settled…” he paused, “I’ll try harder too. I promise. To be the father for you I never was. But for now, I need you to do this, for me, understand?”

John nodded. All in all, it wasn’t that bad, right? He got a cute piggy ass to plow whenever he wanted, right? He was less enthused, when Stanta made them move into Santapig’s room with that…creepy urinal attached to the wall, but he knew, without a doubt, it could have been much, much worse.

12 Months ‘til Christmas (Part 4)

~~March 12th~~

Stanta had named them Big Pig, Little Pig, and Urinal, for lack of better names. He hadn’t been quite sure what, exactly, he was going to do with them all once they were at him house–in all honesty, he’d been more interested in keeping them out of the elves’ hands since they had seemed so interested in keeping them away from Stanta. The question then, was: Why? What in the world was so dangerous about two rutting pigs and a urinal in a messed up workshop that it had been worth locking them all up inside? He’d had a pretty good guess, after the first week–it didn’t have anything to do with what they were–it was about who they all had been.

Stanta, after all, had been recruited under rather quick and shady circumstances. It begged the question of what, exactly, had happened to his predecessor. Timmy hadn’t mentioned anything about him to Stanta, not that he’d really thought to ask much, either. In any case, he didn’t think he could really trust Timmy to deliver him the truth anyway. That meant he’d just have to try and figure out what happened himself–but thankfully, he seemed to have two eye witnesses right here in the room with him. Well, three–but Urinal didn’t have enough of a mind remaining to even try reviving. Whatever had happened to him, there was no fixing it. For the two pigs, however, there was hope, and after a couple weeks of research in the library he’d found in the house, he thought he’d give it a try.

All that was left, then, was to decide which pig he wanted to talk to first. Chances were, Little Pig was an elf. It was probably the elf who’s workshop had been boarded up by the others. Big Pig was a…bigger curiosity. Chances were, Big Pig was the previous Santa…but that brought up some concerns. If the last Santa came back, would he want his old position back? Stanta had read through the contract, and found that even if an old Santa returned, he wouldn’t have any claim to his old position–unless something happened to Stanta in the meantime, which made him unable to perform his duties. In any case, he’d need to be careful, but the risk, in his mind, was worth it. If he was going to figure out what was going on up here, he’d need the story straight from the Santapig’s mouth–assuming that was, in fact, who this pig was.

He grabbed Little Pig by the collar and dragged him over to a small cage, locking him up. Big Pig wasn’t very happy about that–but the fucker wasn’t ever very happy without a cock inside him. Still, maybe with more of a mind, he’d be able to control himself a bit better. Stanta laid his palm on the pig’s forehead, like the book had instructed, and felt the pig freeze. Stanta focused–it was a lot harder fixing things in someone’s head than it was breaking them, and he also didn’t want to fix too much. Still, he started unravelling the pig in him, letting the human surface again–and much to Stanta’s surprise, some of the man’s physical form began to revert as well. The full pig snout retracted until it was much shorter, with a mostly human mouth capable of speech, his trotters becoming somewhat functional hands, the bones in his body shifting until he could, with some effort, push himself up and balance on his back trotters. Big Pig shook his head, and looked around–then looked at Stanta. “Well fuck–guess that means I’m out of a job then.”

So that was one suspicion confirmed. Stanta shrugged, “I’d offer to give it back, but I’m growing a bit fond of it, I must say. The name’s Stanta.”

“Alright, and to what do I owe the pleasure? Last I remember, I was…it was Christmas? What year is it?”

“March, 2016.”

“Fuck, seriously? It’s been over a year? Those little, manipulative fucks!”

Stanta waved a chair into exist, behind Santapig, as he figured he’d be calling him from now on, and motioned for him to sit. “I think I’d like to hear your story, if you don’t mind.”

Santapig sat down, and crossed his flabby arms. “Yeah? But then you have to do something for me. I want you to find Claude for me.”

“Claude? Who’s Claude? Is that the other pig?” Stanta said, looking over at the small one squealing in the cage.

Santapig shook his head. “No, that’s fucking Marty. Do whatever the fuck you want with him…just don’t…let him fuck me anymore. I feel dirty enough already. No, Claude was my…Mr. Claus. They couldn’t just send him away, not as an immortal. So he has to be here somewhere.”

Stanta looked over at the urinal, another piece of the puzzle sliding into place. “I think…I may have found him already.”

Santapig followed his eyes to the urinal hanging on the wall, where the tail had reattached itself to the pipes in the walls. His eyes went wide, and he got up from the chair and went over to him. “No…No, it can’t…You can’t be fucking serious! Bring him back!”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing left. It was…messy, whatever happened to him.”

Santapig clung to the Urinal for a bit, trying to deny it, but…but he could tell. The face was featureless, but he’d rested his head on this chest enough times to recognize it, rubber coated or not. “You can’t trust them. Not for a moment. Not after what they did to me–to us. And him!” He said, whirling on Little Pig in the cage, “I want him gone. Dead, banished, I don’t care. He’s the one who did all of this, who started all of this. As long as he’s here, you’re never going to be safe.”

Stanta considered a moment, but told Santapig he’d wait until he’d heard his story. So they sat down, and he learned what had happened the prior years, ever since Marty had decided to take matters into his own hands and change Christmas forever. One thing Stanta knew, was that he wasn’t safe–not nearly. Especially with Marty here, and Timmy as head elf. The pig was right–he’d have to dispose of him at some point–but if Timmy still harbored feelings for him, then he might also be leveraged. In any case, he should try and make the first move. If he did nothing, then he’d only be playing defense–and the elves had proven themselves…rather capable of dealing with Santas so far. It was time for Santa Claus to be back in charge around here, and Stanta figured he was just the one to make that happen.

Spray 

WARNING: FILTH AND SCAT AHEAD!

The bathhouse wasn’t a place you went often. Only when you got…particularly horny, and were craving something a bit more crazy. Not too crazy, mind you–you’d seen some of the things the men there got into, especially down in the basement. That wasn’t for you, you told yourself. You liked things clear, though you liked a little rough on occasion. But that night, something went askew, didn’t it?

You’d liked him, as soon as you’d seen him. A bit grungy, a bit of a rebel. That mohawk, that…dirty jock he was wearing. He was willing to throw you around, push you up against walls, willing to take it from you too. The two of you wrestling around on the concrete, a few other men watching the scene, curious if there was a chance of joining in. He got you on your knees, and you were expecting to suck cock–instead, he slipped his cock free of his jock, aimed, and sprayed you with a blast of piss. The force of it stunned you–like someone with their thumb over a garden hose. You were soaked in a second. You couldn’t escape the smell, the taste, the thrill of it. You’d never once imagined you might enjoy a scene like this, but as the men circled around you and hoed you down, you found your…mind shifting.

You swore to yourself it was a one time thing, as you walked home in street clothes, your skin still damp and reeking. You didn’t shower when you got home however–you laid down in the tub and jacked off to your stench, and then pissed all over yourself for good measure. After that, the bathhouse became a…regular activity for you, didn’t it? You just couldn’t quite find anywhere else that made you feel the same. You tried to keep away from watersports at first, but as soon as anyone caught a whiff of you, they knew what you really wanted. You felt so…ashamed, walking home, dripping with piss. Knowing that everyone who passed by could tell what you wanted, what you were. But while the shame never faded, you found yourself…enjoying it. You wanted people to know what you were, it made you harder than a gut full of secondhand beer.

You didn’t see him for almost a year. You never even realized you were looking for him, until you saw him again. The lump in your throat–was it fear, or thrill? It was too late to move to another room, he’d already seem you there, in the basement corner–what had come to be known as your “spot” when you were there. You sucked him off for a bit, drank his piss down too, but you could…sense something coming. He spun around, bent over, and before you could do much more than blink, he sprayed the contents of his ass all over your face and chest–and like the piss before…it was more than you could take, more than your mind could possibly handle, and remain whole.

Now here you are, in your corner. You almost never leave the building now–most men only see you as an it, a thing, a toilet, a trashcan, a repository for their shame. He’s over there, your creator. Some man is desperate to fuck his hole–a new top, apparently. Were you unlucky, to have been made into this thing? Could you have been fated to be something else? The man’s in balls deep now, and you’re licking your scummy lips. He’ll feed you, after this–he’ll want you to taste his new creation, right from his own ass. You wish you weren’t hard, you wish you weren’t cumming at the thought of the frothy, cummy shit you’d be feasting on soon, but that you is long gone now, and won’t ever be coming back, not after your taste of this life.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 2)

January 2nd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pigtail (2 of 2)

The physical changes were relatively minor, in the end–the most obvious was the weight gain and your new tail, as well as a few other details–a slight upturn in your nose, a propensity for snorting with little provocation…and a raging horniness which wouldn’t abate for anything, no matter how many times you masturbated. You went back on the website, desperate to find out what had happened to you, but found nothing much, beyond the fact that, apparently, this is what asslickers were designed to do. He discovered that the more pigtails he used…the more piggish he’d become, and the rush of excitement which hit at that thought…was upsetting, to say the least.

But beyond the physical changes, it was the mental shift which caught you off guard the most. Over the next week, you found yourself changing your entire wardrobe, preferring tight rubber and spandex which would show off your chubby thighs and big gut, your tail always sticking out the back. You found yourself unable to say no to any man who wanted to fuck you…and most any man who saw your tail ended up with his cock in one, or more, of your holes.

You also had a harder time controlling your impulses, which you’d always managed to keep under firm handle. You got your cock and septum pierced after a few days–you’d always wanted to, and you no longer had the willpower to resist that simple desire to debase yourself. You grew a beard, finally…and took up cigar smoking after a rather…intense night with a cigar bear you met through one of Arctos’s hookup sites. But every night, you’d look at that three pack of Pigtails on the Arctos website, thinking about it, fantasizing about it…but always fighting back the desire, too afraid to lose even more of yourself, but that resistance is fading now, isn’t it?

Everyone loves your cam shows. Everyone wants to see you humiliate yourself. Everyone wants to see you be a pig. More than one man has simply offered to buy the three pack for you, and finally…you give in. You’re going to do a three video series next week, one Pigtail a day. You don’t know what you’ll be when you finish…but you know you’re going to finally be the pig of your dreams, and you’re going to love every second of it.

Pigtail (1 of 2) – A short variation to “Asslickers” from a month or two ago.

You’re not opposed to a bit of kink. Besides, it’s a just a dildo–no one was going to see it besides you, unless you wanted them to. You’d seen the Arctos label going around, and you’d heard some crazy stories about their stuff before, but it was all just marketing hype, you were sure. Still, something about that just…called to you. It was part of a new line of dildos and buttplugs they were rolling out called Asslickers–and the one you purchased was a six inch, moderately thick pink shaft, with a curly cue tail sticking out the end. You don’t have a pig’s physique, really, but something about being called a pig had always turned you on, for reasons you’d never been able to explain well. Now, in private, you could look a bit more like you you thought, with a laugh.

It arrived a week later, and you’d almost forgotten you’d bought it. You had a free evening when it showed up on your doorstep, so you decided to give it a test drive. You took it out of it’s wrapped, and noticed that the surface didn’t feel like rubber–instead, it was hard and stiff with almost no give. Even the curly tail didn’t wiggle at all, which seemed to defy its purpose. Still, it seems like a waste to spend that money and not at least try it. So you get undressed, hop on your bed, lube it up and work it inside you. There’s a mirror to one side of you, and you can see that pig tail sticking out of your ass, and fuck, you feel sexy seeing that. Then you notice an odd taste in your mouth–or tastes, rather–and your body starts feeling…strange.

Your skin is hot all of a sudden, your gut gurgling. You think about pulling the dildo out, but a sudden horniness catches you off guard, and you helplessly reach back and start fucking yourself harder with the dildo. It’s odd–it almost feels…smaller in your ass, all of a sudden. You look back over in the mirror, and grunt in surprise–you’re…fatter. Not massively so, but you have a soft gut, your ass is thicker, your arms thick. You start grunting more, almost oinking and squealing at times, bucking your ass back…and you can feel you hold doing something…strange. It’s almost like it’s pulling the dildo in all by itself, swallowing it down…and sure enough, in a minute, you see that curly corkscrew slide inside your guts–and the dildo is gone. You never see it again, but you shoot one of the largest loads of your life as something presses it’s way back out of your body. You think it’s the dildo for a moment, but reaching back, nothing came out of your ass–no, a curly pink tail pushed it’s way out above your crack, and is wiggling with glee instead. 

Source: thatonebigchub

The Muse of Fantasy (Part 4)

Nick felt it, the heat of it, burning and searing in his guts, and he screamed. The bull was still cumming, emptying his balls deep inside, and while some cum was dribbling back out, much of it remained within, bloating Nick’s slim belly–but even as the bull’s flow slowed, the bloat kept growing. “Oh god, oh god it hurts so much…” Nick said, panting with exertion, his skin sweaty and clammy as the heat expanded through him. It swallowed his groin, his balls and cock on fire, down his thighs and ass which began to expand, the bones swelling and cracking into new positions, and up his chest, filling out with muscle and more and more fat. “Oh god, what…what am I becoming?” he moaned to himself.

Oliver wasn’t quite sure–he hadn’t been that specific in his fantasy, and he was as eager to find out as any of them in the room. He checked under Nick, and saw his cock, now covered by a sheath, lose it’s human shape even as it grew, balls purging the remaining humanity from them even as they swelled with monstrous seed of their own. It looked like, as it grew, the shaft was twisting, almost as a corkscrew. “It would seem you’re going to be a very handsome piggy.”

“No–No no no!” Nick said, “No, I’m not going to be some fat fucking pig-*Groink*!” he squealed, as a shirt tail erupted above his ass, slightly curled and whipping too and fro. “No, please, you have to help me.”

“There’s no helping you Nick. In a few minutes, you aren’t even going to exist anymore–you’ll just be another dumb, mindless animal, like your boyfriend back there.” Oliver could see the changes becoming clearer, Nick’s skin becoming rough as large patched darkened to a deep brown, leaving him with a clear piebald pattern on his skin. His haunches had filled out as his legs shortened–still thick, but certainly no longer capable of holding up his mass on two legs. His hands changed less–the finger’s shortening, his palms coated it hand black bone to keep from ripping up as he crawled about on them. All that remained of Nick was his head, but even that was losing the battle–his hair falling out in clumps, ears growing larger and floppy as they shifted to the top of his head, breathing more and more labored as his mouth and nose twisted and pushed out into a stubby snout. Nick tried to speak, tried to plead, but he could no longer make recognizable words, just grunts and squeals.

“Hush now, piggy, I know what you need,” Oliver said, pressing the tip of his cock to Nick’s snout, watching the drool form immediately, the pig’s tongue licking the head, hungry for it, even as Nick fought against the beast destroying his mind. His resistance didn’t last long, and the beast crawled forward, the still fucking bull inching ahead with him, to swallow Oliver’s cock, hungry for cum, and cum at all. “Look at me–fucking look at me!” Oliver shouted, and the pig looked up as it slobbered all over his cock–he wanted to look into it’s eyes, watch the awareness dull as the last shreds of humanity left them, and when all traces of Nick were gone–he pushed deep into the pig’s mouth and fed it a load of cum, listening to it gulp everything down. Only then did he step away, and realize from the moans in the room that Amoredie had been enjoying the display as well, and they stood up, crossing the room to Oliver, pressing into him, kissing him, and the desire he felt at that moment–it was indescribable.

“You are the mortal I have spent millennia searching for,” they moaned into his ear, and Oliver wanted them. To fuck them, to be fucked by them, to imagine with them, and when they slipped away, out of his grasp like water, he was only left with an indescribable need, but they had moved over to Oliver’s creations, the two beast still fucking, as the bull had found a second wind, the pig mindlessly thrusting back, eager for more. They touched them, explored them, examined them, and suddenly, they began to dissipate, and in a few seconds they were gone.

“Where did they go?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, I’ve sent them to a pocket of forest. Far enough from civilization that they won’t be slaughtered, but close enough to encourage..legends, and the growth of the herd. Don’t worry–if you would ever like to visit, we can arrange that, but don’t consider joining them–after all, I can’t lose my greatest artist in generations to his own work quite yet.”

They approached him again, sliding back into Oliver’s embrace, and he felt a fantasy of his own filling him. He lost a couple of decades, his body filling in with muscle, his cock growing larger. “Consider it a reward,” they said. “Now, your muse has needs, my artist. You have other clients, don’t you?”

Oliver did indeed–and quite a few wouldn’t object to an unexpected appearance by their favorite makeup artist and fantasy enabler. But he was done with their silly, idle desires. No–Oliver had a new mission for himself, and his muse. From now on, he would be enabling his own fantasies–and he had so many stored away, he was neither sure where to begin, or whether he could ever plumb the depths entirely.

“Calm yourself, my eager artist,” Amoredie said, “Bed with me first, my love, and then we shall see about improving this dull world of yours with your best dreams and nightmares.”

Deal of a Lifetime (Part 7)

*Knock* *Knock*

“Room service!”

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

“Daddy…Daddy, that’s your cue. Get the door.”

He just moaned, burrowing deeper into the pig’s shit chute with his tongue.

“Daddy! Get the door!”

He blinked, and sat back on his heels, trying to remember what was going on. He took a suck off his cigar, but realized it had burnt out while he’d been eating out the pig’s hole–how fucking long had he been at it?

*Knock* *Knock*

“Is anyone there?”

He stumbled up, a bit off balance, and stumbled towards the hall, hauled open the door. “The fuck do ya want?” he said, and the young woman who’d brought the two full carts of food up gasped at the sight of him, and backed up a step, at a loss for words.

“T-Thanks,” he said, and pulled the two carts inside, shutting the door behind him, feeling a bit embarrassed at the woman’s obvious disgust. Wondering what she’d seen, he slipped into the bathroom and turned on the light, only to shout at the sight. That wasn’t his face–he didn’t look like that! The beard he’d sprouted had lengthened, running down to his chest, and his hair had grown out long as well. They were both greasy and tangled, more grey than his original brown at this point–well, aside from the area around his mouth, which was slimy with the pig’s juices and his own slobber. His leather gear (was it even his? He’d always despised leather and the fake masculinity it seemed to inspire in the men who wore it) was no longer crisp and new as it had been earlier, when he’d found himself in it. The leather vest was well worn, and now bore a number of biker patches, his chaps and boots equally worn, and the jock–fuck, his jock was putrid yellow and crisp to the touch.

“Oh good choices all around, daddy,” the little pig had gotten off the bed and was inspecting what the woman had dropped off. “I bet you’ve worked up a bit of an appetite, right?”

“What the fuckin’ hell have ya done tah me, ya little fuck?” he exclaimed, pointing at his reflection in the mirror.

“You honestly didn’t expect a dirty, disgusting pig like me to want to play around with the cute little cub you were before, do you?” Carmichael said, grunting and chuckling to himself, “No–I only play with guys who are just as disgusting as I am.”

“No–No, I’m not fucking like you–this ain’t me! I ain’t this disgusting fucker! Change me back, right fuckin’ now, or I fuckin’ swear, I’ll–”

The pig interrupted him, shoving a cupcake in his daddy’s mouth, watching the older man’s eyes roll back in his head in pleasure, his larger gut growling with approval. “That’s what I thought. Come on now daddy–let’s get you fed.”

He laid the daddy down on the bed, propping his head up with a couple of pillows, and then pulled both carts up alongside them, before climbing up and straddling, grinding his ass against his daddy’s bulging jock, listening to him moan. “Be a good daddy, let the little piggy fatten you up, and maybe you’ll get to feel that cock in my hole tonight.”

Before he could respond, he shoved another cupcake into his maw, and the feeding began. It was slow going at first–the daddy was still fighting pretty hard. They took the occasional break to feed each other some smoke, to let the daddy’s hunger catch up, the pig’s pipe so much sweeter than the rough cigars he preferred smoking. The breaks weren’t necessary before too long, and the pig quickened the pace. Cupcakes, pudding, ice cream, doughnuts–all of it went into daddy’s gut–they could feel it heaving up between them until a certain point when it lost its firmness, and settled around him in a pile of soft flab. It was around that point, daddy started sobbing–pleading and begging with the pig to just let him go, refusing to eat another bite.

“Do you want to fuck my hole or not, daddy? Keep eating.”

“No, please, no more. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You can too–I believe in you! You can be the biggest, most vile daddy in the world, I know it. Now open up.”

But he stubbornly refused, the little pig letting off a squealing sigh. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to this until later, but you’re just not cooperating. Still, this will help move things along.” He fished his piggy cock out, aimed for his daddy’s mouth over his flabby gut, and let loose a burst of piss which landed right in his face. The stench alone made his head spin–he licked his lips and got a taste of it, and groaned. The pig let loose a longer stream then, his daddy chasing the golden piss as the pig soaked him down, watching his daddy’s hair and beard grow longer, his body stinking and unwashed, the musk stronger than most men would be able to handle. The pig started stuffing his face again, helping him wash it down with more and more piss, watching him grow older and older still, his hair entirely white aside from where it had yellowed around his mouth from his cigars, teeth rotten and crooked, eyes hungry and desperate, losing their will to fight. It wasn’t too much longer before the carts were both empty, and while his daddy moaned, the little pig spent a while licking him clean, tasting his daddy’s filth while the older man smoked his cigars, trying to muster some resistance, but…but he wasn’t entirely sure what, exactly, he was fighting against anymore. All he really wanted, now that he had stuffed himself, was a turn at that little pig’s dirty hole.

“Alright pig, I did mah part. Now you’s get bent over the bed, ‘n let daddy plow that nasty hole a yers.”