Jeremiah’s Biggest Fan (Part 3)

No, he supposed it hadn’t been a very nice thing to do, when he’d thought up the idea the semester before–the first time he’d heard the rumor about Jeremiah’s sexuality. But on closeted football player wasn’t that large of a story–or at least, it wasn’t the story he really wanted. No–it was the corrupt athletic staff and coaches he’d been after–that was the real scoop. Millions of dollars had disappeared from various funds over the last decade, and it was lining someone’s pocket–Jeremiah had been his ticket into the organization, to bust it wide open. But now–well, he’d thought he’d been setting up a honeypot, only to get stung by the hive instead.

He’d woken up a minute earlier, and Jeremiah had told him to go ahead, stand up, and look at himself in the mirror. It was obvious that he’d changed substantially from his real body again–it felt a bit like Terry as far as size was concerned, but it wasn’t muscle he was carting around anymore. No–in the mirror he was looking at a massively obese body–and a tall one at that. He had to be at least six four, and judging by the massive rolls hanging off him, he was close to 400 pounds. He’d never been a hairy fellow before, but now it didn’t look like there was a single hair anywhere on his body, aside from the short buzz cut on top of his head. He ran his meaty fingers over the top, disgusted by his particularly fat face–heavy jowls, three chins, small nose and close set eyes with big ears.

“Yeah, fuck–now that’s a sexy body right there,” Jeremiah said behind him. He was naked and sitting on the bed, looking at Terrance’s new body and jacking his cock–his now ten inch cock. Big enough to fit in his uniform still, but a much nicer tool than the four and half he’d been packing an hour ago.

A bit embarrassed, Terrance checked under the apron of fat hanging off of him, but all he found was a thick fat pad where his cock and balls should have been.

“Don’t bother–you’ve got half an inch now. Doubt you could even reach it if you wanted to. It isn’t your dick your body wants to please anymore anyway, trust me.”

“Look–this…this was a fucking mistake, I admit it. I’m sorry, I was wrong. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

“Of course you won’t,” Jeremiah said, toying with the Chronivac for a moment, “I can make sure of that–but for now, why don’t we pick up where we left off? You wanted to have sex with me, if I remember right. So come on Tubbs, get on the bed, and let’s fuck that wide ass of yours into next week.”

Jeremiah hit a button, and Terrance felt a massive amount of information surge into his head, displacing a bunch of other stuff which just…disappeared. When the sensation disappeared, he was left drooling at the sight of the massive football player just sitting on his bed, with that huge cock–he needed it inside him. He needed it fucking bad. But as he walked over, he caught a whiff of Jeremiah’s musk that remained from his workout earlier, and felt his guts knot up–he lunged and shoved his face into Jeremiah’s pit, snorting and grunting like a pig as he licked up as much sweat and stink as he could, drool pouring from his mouth, his tiny cock leaking cum into his fatty folds below his gut.

“Yeah, fuck! You even sound like a fucking pig, Tubbs. If you make my dick good and happy, I might let you sniff my feet later–how’s that sound?”

He didn’t want it to sound as good as it did, that was for sure. After cleaning out both pits, Jeremiah shoved him onto the bed on all fours, got behind him, and started working his big cock into Terrance’s now very loose hole, his eyes rolling back in pleasure, a chorus of grunts and snorts falling out of his mouth as Jeremiah fucked him deep and rough.

“Yeah Tubbs, that’s real nice. See? This is the kind of bitch I want–not some muscled out guy like me, but a fat fucking pig, tiny cock, who can only get off by being fucked nice and long. You like that Terrance? You like being my fat, disgusting, bottom pig?”

“Oh *snort* oh fuck! *Grunt* just don’t fucking stop, please!”

With his new tool, Jeremiah had plenty of stamina to keep the pig happy–he managed to hold off for fifteen minutes before he came once, but his cock didn’t go soft. He just kept fucking, feeling the massive load of cum leak out around his cock and down the pig’s thighs for another half an hour, until he came again. Terrance had cum twice in the meantime, and the sheets below him were soaked with sweat and cum, his muscles quivering as Jeremiah pulled out, leaving him with the worst sensation of emptiness he’d ever felt. He…he needed it. He needed to get fucked again, just like that, he had to have something in his hole.

“Please…please keep going, *snort* it hurts without you in there.”

“Sorry pig, but I have class in the morning, so we need to wrap this up soon, and you still need some more work, don’t you think?”

Terrance wasn’t really listening–he was reaching around and sliding as many fingers into his ass as he could. Jeremiah rolled his eyes, fiddled with the Chronivac, and a moment later, Terrance’s hole was sealed with a massive dildo–a replica of Jeremiah’s own cock, and that settled him down, and allowed the pig to think.

“Fuck–please change me back–you have to. I can’t just stay like this, no one will believe it.”

“What–knowing what you know now? Sorry Tubbs–but this was always a risk, you know. I can’t change you back, and I…really like that ass of yours, so I’d like to keep you plenty available in the future. So we’re going to have to find a way to keep you nice and compliant for the future–but don’t worry Tubbs, I have just the solution for us both. So tell me Tubbs,” Jeremiah said as he pressed a button and adjusted a setting, “How much do you like football?”

Smoke Spirit (Part 9)

It wasn’t long before Steven got home from class. He was shy and a bit of a loner, keeping to himself in the house. Wiry and short, with medium length hair cut into bangs, he managed to hide from attention more often than not–while he honestly didn’t care much about Douglas’ smoking, he sided with the other two just to avoid conflict as much as possible. And so, when Steven entered the house and saw the thick haze of smoke, his only thought was whether he could get away fast enough to avoid dealing with whatever must be going on inside, but instead, he found the sweet smelling smoke drawing him in, and he shut the door behind him, almost in a daze. The smoke was so thick, he could barely even see, and he started coughing immediately. In his head, he knew he should turn right back around, leave, and call 911, but instead he found himself stumbling into the haze, still coughing, trying to keep the smoke out of him as best he could, pulling up the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth.

“In here, Steve!” A voice called, and it wasn’t a voice he recognized at all. Who in the world could that even be? He…he didn’t know why, but he needed to find out. He needed to…to join them? No, why had he thought that? He froze in the middle of the living room, holding his breath, trying to focus, telling himself he had to leave, that it…it was dangerous in here. The voice called out again, “Steve! Git yer ass in here, Howie’s about tah blow his bladder all over the floor, ya pig. Unless ya wanna lick it all up–I know…I know ya wanna do that sometimes…” the voice started chuckling then, and then groaned. He realized, too late, that his legs had started moving him closer to the doorway into the kitchen, and it was…hard to see, for some reason, like something was wrong with his eyes. But inside, he saw the most disturbing sight of his life–three men, all of them covered with tattoos–the same tattoos, in fact, in the midst of of a sweaty, smoky sex session. He could smell it on the air, the musk, and…and it was making his…his piggy cock so fucking hard.

No–why the fuck was he in here? Something was obviously very wrong, but…but didn’t he need to help out Howie? He always helped out Howie, and Pete, and Doug, of course. He was frozen in place, between his good sense and this strange compulsion, when Doug walked over to him, reeking of smoke, eyes bloodshot and smirking at him. “Don’t think too hard pig–we all know ya ain’t good at thinkin’. Hell, yer fucking dumber ‘n yer dad, ain’t that right Howie? This boy a yers popped out with even fewer fuckin’ brain cells than you did.”

“Yeah boy, git yer dumb ass over here ‘n help out yer Pa with this big ol’ load a piss I been savin’ fer ya. Ya know I ain’t gonna use a toilet when mah nasty boy is thirsty, right?”

No. No, he wasn’t doing this. None of this could be real. Everything seemed so…fuzzy all of a sudden. He tried to step back, but his Uncle Doug tugged him back, and shoved his cigar in Steve’s mouth, and the smoke made his head go light, his stomach turning itself into knots. Did he want to throw up? No…No, he…he was thirsty, wasn’t he?

“Come on, you dumb fucker, git down there ‘n drink.”

Everything seemed even more hazy than before, like something was clouding up his eyes, but one thing he could se was his fat, lazy pa, sittin’ in a chair by the table, cock hanging out, and fuck, that thirst of his was only getting worse. He stumbled forward, his body feeling…too light all of sudden, like he might blow away if he wasn’t careful, but he was down in front of his dad, mouth around his thick cock head, and as soon as his dad started pissing, all his other cares just…slipped away. Why in the hell had he been trying to worry about all of that other shit before? He was no good with thinking stuff–hell, none of them were, aside from Uncle Doug, who called the shots. The smoke was getting thicker around him, and when Pete stepped up and started pissing all over his filthy cousin, he could feel the stream running down his head and his back, but all he could see was Pete’s cock–the rest of him was lost in the thick smoke surrounding them.

On the outside, Doug could see the clouds condensing around the scrawny kid who’d come into the house–he could…kind of remember him from before, like he could kind of remember all of them, but none of that really mattered. No, what mattered to him now, was family. His family. His dirty, nasty, piggy biker family, and fuck, he was so fucking horny, he could just fuck his boy’s ass again, or hell, maybe he’d take a turn with Stew’s hole–that boy’s ass was so fuckin’ loose, but then again, when you got fists shoved up there as often as he did, that’s what tended to happen. Yeah, that’s…that’s what he should do, give his nephew a good fisting–break him in right.

He barely noticed the spirit pulling him over towards the other three, all of them already disappearing into the thick clouds of smoke surrounding Steve, where he was kneeling on the ground, moaning and gulping piss. Doug got down, fished around in the haze until he found Stew’s ass–not quite wide enough yet, but he’d be himself soon enough–and started probing it with his fingers, feeling the boy shove back onto his hand, hungry to have his filthy hole filled up. The spirit was in front of him, his smoky cock right in Doug’s face, and he…swallowed it to the hilt. It wasn’t solid…but it was there. It was energy, it was force, it was…him, in a sense he could barely describe. The thing started pumping smoke into Doug’s guts, and he could feel the heat of it infusing every bit of him, burning away the last remnants of Douglas from every corner of his mind, the spirit slowly losing form, shoving its way down Doug’s gullet until it disappeared entirely, and then, Doug’s eyes–like the rest of his family–clouded over, becoming a swirling mass of smoke even thicker than the others…and he realized that he could feel them.

Method Roleplay (Part 5)

He stumbled out of the bathroom, but felt a strange sense of vertigo–he was in a hall, but not…the hall he should be in. The walls were covered with paint that was chipped and peeling, the carpet covered in stains. There should be a doorway across from him, where the computer had been in Brett’s office, but there wasn’t a door–a bit further down the short hall was one, which led to…the bedroom he and daddy shared together.

No, this had been Brett’s apartment, they weren’t living together yet, right? He opened the door, and saw the messy room covered with clothes, and he could smell them both in there, their musk, their sex…fuck, it was so hot, how much it reeked. It got Evan worked up just like it did Brett, smelling the stale, stinking air. His dad’s cum was still dribbling down the crack of his ass, and he ran one hand up it, getting it good and coated, and started licking it off, grunting and moaning as he rubbed his little cock.

Why…had he come in here again? He’d been looking for a computer, right? But…they didn’t have a computer. They were too poor for that–Daddy just had his smartphone, and that was it–but hadn’t they listened to something together? There had been something, he was sure of it, but it was like the harder he tried to grasp it, the further away it got. He…he should talk to daddy about it. Daddy would remember it right? He had to! Daddy was so smart–he was just a dumbfuck little shithead boy–or at least, that’s what daddy said he was, and daddy was usually right about those sorts of things.

He turned around and walked back towards the main room of their apartment. He could hear the TV on, and smell…smoke. The smell concerned him–was something burning? He found his daddy where he expected him, on the couch, watching sports on TV, a can of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other, but this wasn’t right. This apartment wasn’t right. Brett should be changing back to his old self, but things only seemed to be getting even worse. After all, Evan hadn’t said anything about Brett being a smoker, and now he was sucking down cigar smoke? It was like reality was moving around them, and trapping them in the fantasy they’d created.

“Daddy? I…I know it’s hard, but I think we need to change back now?”

Brett looked over at Evan, a confused look on his face, and belched. “What the fuck are you talking about, boy?”

“Re-remember? We listened to that…thing together? That song, or…or somebody speaking? Maybe it was a book. You remember that right?”

“Boy, ya know yer old man’s memory is pretty shot. Ain’t too bright, ya know.”

“But do ya remember?”

“Boy…” Brett paused, “Boy, I remember a lotta shit, but ain’t none a it makin’ much sense right now. But I’m feelin’ a whole lot better, now that I got a cigar ‘n a couple a beers in my gut, and I’d feel a bit better with my boy next to me eating out my nasty pits, so git over here, sit down with yer daddy,” he said, patting the cushion beside him.

Evan didn’t want to disobey him and get another spanking, so he did as he was told. As soon as he was on the couch, Brett threw an arm around him and pulled him in tight, Evan’s face inches from his sweaty pit, and they reeked of sex. He gave a grunt without really meaning to, and felt a bit of his cares slip away.

“Yeah, that’s my sexy boy, ya make yer daddy real fuckin’ happy, ya know that?”

“No daddy, I’m…this ain’t how I’m supposed tah look–it ain’t how we’re supposed tah look. Ya do remember, I know ya do.”

“I was just bein’ thick boy.”

“No! I was lyin’ before! Ya were right! This ain’t right!”

“People can’t git younger, Evan. I ain’t ever gonna be a kid again–the world don’t work like that. How fuckin’ dumb are ya?”

“But daddy–”

“Boy, shut up–I wanna fuckin’ watch TV ‘n not care about shit until work tomorrow.”

“Ya can’t go tah work lookin’ like that! No one’ll recognize you.”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Brett said, looking at Evan like he was crazy, “I been a mechanic there fer years.”

“Ya ain’t a…mechanic…” Evan muttered, but as he did, he saw his daddy’s clothes change in front of his eyes, becoming a set of grease covered coveralls, his hands coated black, and the scent of oil and metal mingled with the other odors of their apartment. “Daddy, ya gotta stop, or ya ain’t gonna be able tah git back if ya keep goin’!”

“Course not, boy–but I got ya with me, so I’m fuckin’ good.”

“No–No, I’m–this ain’t me daddy, I don’t care what ya wanna be, but this ain’t me,” Evan hauled himself off the couch, and started fishing around for clothes to put on. He had to get out of here–maybe get back to his apartment, where he could remember himself better, and change back. “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ live like this. It was just supposed tah be a game! I don’ wanna live like a fuckin’ nasty pig!”

“Boy, watch yer mouth, ‘n sit yer ass back down this instant.”

“I got a job daddy, I got a future, and a life. I ain’t givin’ that up fer some fucked up fantasy.”

“Please. You? Git a fuckin’ job?” Brett said, standing up, “Boy, yer thick as a fuckin’ brick, ‘n fat, ‘n lazy. They even fired ya from the fuckin’ garage, remember?”

“Daddy, I don’t…wanna remember that…” Evan said, but he could. He could remember how his daddy had gotten him work there after he’d dropped out of high school, but he’d just sat around eating and jacking off until their boss had fired him. And now…now he just…

“All yer fuckin’ good for boy, is sittin’ ‘round here, stuffin’ yer face, jackin’ off like a good pigson, and when I git home ya serve yer daddy like a good little porker should. Ain’t that right?”

“Nuh-uh, ain’t…nah daddy…” Evan said, but his words were slow, and even thicker than they had been. He could feel his body growing, his gut sagging and covering his cock completely, the smells of the room growing more intense. “Mean…I gotta…” and with that, his mind broke. He really was too stupid to figure this out–what the fuck had he been thinking? He knew better than that. He was…he was just his daddy’s pig–he was never gonna be more than that. “S-Sorry dad, I know I’s just a dumb pig ‘n stuff.”

“It’s alright boy,” Brett said, put his hand on Evan’s head, and pushed his 400 pound, idiot son to his knees. “Daddy’s got some nice beer piss fer ya, pigboy–‘n then how’s about we order pizza ‘n git ya fed nice ‘n full?”

Evan liked the sound of that a lot, and he gulped down daddy’s piss, grunting and snorting as he did, and by the time he’d been stuffed full, over two hours later, neither of them would have ever believed that the day before they’d been anyone other than the incestuous pigs they were now.

The Alpha’s Pet (Part 5)

Everything had been going so well.

“I want a fucking answer, you fucking piece of shit–what the fuck were you doing to my fucking jock that it fucking looks like this?” Daryn held up the shredded underwear so Jasper could see it–but he already knew what it looked like–the waistband broken and mostly gone, about half the pouch remaining, several chunks gone and the edges frayed. He’d been stupid to take it, but he’d been so hungry, and he’d done so well for two months–hadn’t he deserved a reward?

He really had done well–even Mr. Wadsworth had said so to him. He’d lost quite a bit of his weight from that first binge, and with a…meager diet every day–a cup of piss water, a few cum soaked pieces of tissue–he’d managed to keep the worst of the hunger at bay, and still keep his wits about him, but it hadn’t always been easy. He’d fallen off the wagon a couple of times–never as badly as that first taste, but enough to know that if he wasn’t careful–and if he didn’t keep Daryn completely in the dark–then things were bound to get much more complicated.

The jockstrap had been taunting him for days at this point, just lying on the floor by the trashcan in Daryn’s room. It smelled…so fucking good, so fucking delicious, and it wasn’t like Daryn was going to miss one of his many, many jockstraps, right? So he’d taken it back with him into his room one night, and started devouring it, unable to believe how good it tasted, and how horny it made him. He savored it, portioned it out–a bit of waistband tonight, a little patch of crusty pouch tomorrow–maybe he should have just disposed of the evidence in one go, maybe then he wouldn’t be here, in this mess, with Daryn looming over him, throat dry, not sure what sort of lie he might even manage to tell.

“You want to know what this fucking looks like?” Daryn asked, “It looks like something has been fucking eating my jockstrap–that’s what it looks like.”

It…maybe a mouse, or something?” Jasper replied.

“And why in the fuck did I find it in your room, hidden under your fucking pillow? This is my fucking jock–you don’t take my shit, you fucking pig.”

“I’m sorry, I just…I was hungry–” Fuck, did he just say that?

Daryn just stared down at him, and then sneered. Without saying a word, he shoved the jock into Jasper’s face, and unable to stop it–he’d never figured out how to stop it–he started drooling, knees shaking slightly, and Daryn mopped it up with the fabric. “I always wondered why you seemed to drool every time you looked at me, you know that? If you were so fucking hungry, all you had to do was ask nicely. So, let me hear you ask, fucker. What do you want?”

Jasper sealed his lips, unable to trust his words.

“I’ll tell you what I don’t want,” Daryn said, “I want you to be hungry, Jasper. I’f I’d known, I would have done a much better job feeding you.”

Jasper’s jaw dropped, and Daryn took the opportunity to push the half-eaten jockstrap into his mouth. “That’s a good little dump–go on and finish your meal, and then we’ll see what else I can feed you.”

It wasn’t hard, eating it. He’d already noticed that his teeth had changed in odd ways, becoming a bit serrated, better for tearing apart fabric and tissue, and his slobber made swallowing the thing down so easy. Daryn was so happy too–why had he been trying to keep this a secret from him for so long? Daryn was only too happy to feed Jasper a load of cum and piss next, and as soon as he’d tasted both of them fresh and from the source, Jasper knew he’d never be able to do without either ever again. June was still two months away, however–if he didn’t push back, then what would happen to him? To them both?

The next day, Daryn was distressed to see he’d wiped away a small chunk of the gains his prior temperance had earned him, and he went out, planning on telling Daryn he couldn’t do this anymore. That he was alright with being hungry, if it meant he could be himself again. Instead, he found himself on his knees, sucking down three loads from Daryn before his roommate had to leave for class. He sobbed on the kitchen floor, both because he was so full and satisfied than he’d ever thought possible, and also because he knew he’d likely lost his one chance at ever getting back into his previous life.

Still, his mind didn’t last long enough to really understand what he’d lost–with Daryn now making sure his dump was constantly fed, within a week Jasper had lost most of capacity for thought. He spent the day wandering the apartment on all fours, heavy gut dragging along the floor behind him, snorting and rooting around for anything his master might have left him to eat. After devouring the contents of his gym bag one afternoon–his cleats included–Daryn was forced to keep his pet kenneled up during the day, and he’d let him out when he got home each day, fed him load after load of cum and piss and the food scraps from dinner, before fucking the thing’s tight hole, and putting him back in his cage for the night. When June rolled around, neither of them could even remember the fact that Jasper had once been human–he was just a pet now, a dump really. Still, Daryn saved a lot of money on his five year lease–especially after Mr. Wadsworth corrected the mistaken “multiple tenant” fee and changed it to a pet fee instead. Yeah, Daryn figured they’d both be staying here for a long time–but Jasper was happy anywhere, as long as he always had a gut full of his master’s filth.

The Alpha’s Pet (Part 4)

When every wad had finally be taken from the can and consumed, and after Jasper had also searched the surface of the desk and the floor for anything he might have missed, he realized he’d eaten everything. He’d just spent half an hour devouring his roommate’s cum soaked trash, like some fucking freak, and here he was, actively looking for more. He felt like he was going to throw up–no, that was a lie. In fact, what he felt was good. He felt somewhat full for the first time in over a week. No, but he knew he should feel like throwing up, that he shouldn’t want to keep any of that filth in his body, and so he stumbled up and went into the bathroom, knelt down in front of the toilet…and realized this was a much worse idea than he’d thought.

The toilet reeked of Daryn’s beer piss from the night before and this morning, and it hadn’t been flushed since. Jasper had added a load of his as well, but it was overwhelmed by the sheer force of Daryn’s stench, and he was so thirsty after eating so much dry filth. He’d tasted the wads of cum and that hadn’t been bad, right? Maybe just…just a little, so he could feel better. He started cupping his hands and using them to scoop water up to his mouth, but it was too slow–he grabbed his water glass from the counter and used that instead, bailing the water out and chugging it down, upset by how week and diluted it tasted, but hungry for it all the same. When he couldn’t get anymore into the cup, he shoved his face in and licked the bowl clean, screaming at himself to stop, to control himself, to do fucking anything other than this.

At last, it was the sound of Daryn’s key in the door which tore him away. He crawled across the hall and into his room, locking the door behind him as Daryn entered. Daryn…couldn’t see him doing that. He couldn’t know. What would he think, if he knew what Jasper had just done? He’d probably kick his ass, right? That…that seemed right, but he could imagine something else. Maybe he’d…take pity of Jasper. He was so hungry after all, and maybe a fresh load of piss and a load of cum right from the source would…would be better. The fresh cum had tasted so much more satisfying than the older ones at the bottom, hadn’t they? These were thoughts he couldn’t afford to entertain, so he climbed into bed, feeling sick with himself, and when Daryn demanded to know where he was, he managed to convince him that he was sick–and in fairness, he did feel sick, finally. Feverish, aching, his guts and body on fire.

“Well, what would you expect, for eating so much disgusting filth in one sitting? You’re lucky your new body is designed for this,” he heard an older voice say over him, “Don’t worry–you’ll feel better in the morning, though you’ll also find yourself a bit worse for wear. Still, one setback doesn’t mean you have to give in completely, right? I’m sure you’ll find the will somewhere to carry on.”

It was one of the most painful nights of his life, but eventually sheer exhaustion allowed him a few hours of sleep–not that his dreams offered much solace. The hunger was still there, along with all of the shame. He shouldn’t be doing this, this isn’t who he was supposed to be, and yet he felt so…well, when he woke up. The pain had lifted, the fever had stopped, and most importantly, the hunger which had been eating away at his sanity for too long now had abated. It was still…there, of course, but he could manage it now, right? One binge like that, and he’d be good for a while. He still felt a bit weak, however, because getting out of bed was more difficult than it should have been–and it wasn’t until he got to the mirror that he realized that more had changed in the night than he might have imagined.

It was the added weight which was the most obvious. After whatever confrontation they’d had, he’d weighed about 225–fat, but not too far out of the norm. Now, however, he had to imagine he was pushing at least 275, if not closer to 300–a fact made much, much worse by the fact that he’d shrunk another three or four inches or so. The fat was rolling off of him now, his gut becoming closer to a proper apron, and when he hefted it up, he was distressed to see his cock and balls had also continued shrinking, and were even a bit difficult to see in the pad of fat beginning to grow around them. His body was hairless now, and there was some…stink coming off of him that was difficult to describe, but which turned his stomach all the same–some vile mix of rot and cum and grime and…and he couldn’t stand it. Is this what he was going to be? He’d rather fucking die, wouldn’t he?

“Now now, I knew you were weak, Jasper, but I never imagined that you might be a coward.”

He turned around, and found Mr. Wadsworth in the room with him, sitting on his bed, watching his surprise register all over again. “What…why are you doing this to me? Please, I can’t do that again, I won’t let myself become…whatever fucking crazy shit you’re fucking doing.” Jasper knew that the words sounded idiotic, but his head seemed to be caught in muck as well, and it was hard putting thoughts into words.

“I’ve just been waiting for you to understand all the rules of the game, is all,” Mr. Wadsworth said, “and it is a game, you see. You can still win, if you’re smart, though I won’t lie–you are at a…significant disadvantage. But you see, your body only changed because it’s processing that alpha’s filth–if you manage to abstain, then you’ll recover in time. After that binge of yours, it would be a month or so, but you’ll be normal eventually, if you can hold out. If you make it to the end of your lease this June, then I’ll have had my fun, and both of you can go on your way, in your old bodies, like nothing was ever wrong at all. But lose too much of yourself and I might just keep you both for a long time.”

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 7)

WARNING: SCAT, INCONTINENCE

I got back to the nasty trailer where Spitty had been hiding out about twelve hours later, and as soon as I stepped inside, I got the strong stench of piss and shit on the air, like I’d been expecting. Spitty hadn’t been able to hold anything in for that long, but he didn’t seem to distressed by what had happened–I doubt, in his current state, that it was the first time he’s messed himself like that, or even if it was, it wasn’t the first thing on his mind. As soon as I got in there, he started begging and pleading–not to let him go, but to help him cum.

I don’t know how often Spitty was cumming a day at this point, but back when he’d been under my thumb, he was blowing fifteen or so loads a day–and chances are he was shooting even more at this point. I could see, on his gut, at least a few loads he’d managed to work out just out of desperation, but it was clear he was aching, but I ignored him–after all, if I was going to make Spitty suffer, then I was going to have to deny him everything he longed for–and that meant he was going to be cumming much, much less in the future. So we got started, and I started feeding him his own shit, washing it down with my piss, and rewarding him with my spit for being such a good little shitfaced pig. For the next few days, I fed him almost non-stop. Food, mostly, but plenty of shit as well. I got him to embrace his lack of control, enjoy the sensation of pissing all over himself, of shitting right wherever he was, but above all, making him understand how worthless his cock was, how small it was, how hard it was for him to cum, how pointless and hopeless. No, he was just horny now–horny all the time, but never satisfied. The only satisfaction he could find now, was pleasing the cocks of others, and maybe–maybe–he’d manage to explode once or twice a month, but that was good enough, right?

He protested, of course. He tried to tell me that he regretted what he’d done, that he’d been fantasizing and longing for me for all these years, that he’d been trying to find me too, that he wanted to be my little whore, just like I’d planned to begin with. I didn’t believe him, of course. How could I possibly believe him, after what he’d done? No–this was better. This is what Spitty really deserved. I gave him another dose of leaf from his special tin, after a week of treatment. He hadn’t been up from the bed in all this time, he begged me to not do this to him, that he was sorry–but I took a sizable wad–a third of what remained in the tin–shoved it in his mouth, and watched him succumb to the pleasure of the leaf. I told him that he was going to be a good pig, a fat pig, that he wasn’t going to be moving much, that he hated moving. That he loved shitting and pissing himself wherever he was, that his cock was so small he couldn’t even reach it up in all his fat, and he was desperate for cock–any cock. He swallowed the leaf, and when reality centered itself again, he was still on the bed–but it wasn’t rope pinning him down now, it was his own massive body.

He woke with a snort, and immediately started begging me for a load of shit–and I knew he was mine again–but I wasn’t finished with him, not yet. No, I started inviting my new circle of friends around. Filthy truckers and bikers–and if they were too grossed out by Spitty to fuck him, a bit of spit or leaf was enough to bring them around to seeing things my way. Spitty never left the bed anymore–he was just on his belly, ass up, ready for a cock, or a fist, or anything to slide inside him, his mouth constantly calling for more shit or piss or tobacco, but pretty soon I had one guy coming around a bit more than all the others. Jack was the biker who’d tipped me off to Spitty and helped me find him, and I felt he deserved a reward. Of course, Jack wasn’t too…keen on the kind of reward I was planning on giving him, but after a dose of leaf from his own special tin…well, he was just the dirty, nasty biker bear Spitty needed. Fuck, watching the two of them go at it–Jack was a beast in bed, with a massive cock, loved getting himself covered in shit and then making his pig lick it off–and when I gave Spitty another dose of leaf from his tin–leaving just one last dose in it…well Jack was more than a regular companion–Jack was his biker master, and Spitty was his raunchy pigslave.

So here we are. Jack living in the trailer now, full time. Spitty is close to 700 pounds, I think–I don’t exactly have a scale to weigh him with. He’s gotta be pushing seventy years old at this point: teeth rotting out, biker tattoos all over his filthy body, too stupid to read–all he cares about is where his next load of shit is coming from, and who’s going to fist his loose, hungry hole. Or, at least most of Spitty cares about that. See, I know there’s that old jock, still in there. That bit of them, it always hangs around in their head. There’s nothing he can do, of course, but he’s in there. Sometimes I bring him forward, and we chat a bit–or rather, he sobs and begs me to change him back, and I fuck his throat and feed him shit until his little cock squirts out a load of cum into his fatty folds. I’m thinking it’s about time for the last dose, however. Spitty is terrified–he thinks he’s going to be some fucking geezer, or just fucking dead, but not quite–no, there’s a reason I don’t usually give anyone a complete tin, you see, but for Spitty? Well, I think it’s a well deserved end–or beginning.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 6)

Things get a bit filthier starting here. WARNING SCAT.

He was the first one who’d ever gotten away. I was so fucking angry when it happened–at him, at myself for being so stupid to imagine that anyone might actually enjoy the shit I do to them. I should have known better. My uncle told me to know better, when he taught me how to grow the shit, but…well, hope springs fucking eternal, I guess. No one on the crew even knew anything had happened–not really. There was an odd hole in reality that everyone had to get used to, but after a few days, it was like Spitty had never even been there–only I remembered him, and I still had his tin of tobacco, and if our paths ever crossed again…well, he was going to be getting one hell of a surprise from me.

Of course, I couldn’t exactly go search him out. I didn’t even really know what the fucker had done to himself. I’m sure that what he’d wanted to do was to try and get his old life back, but it takes some skill and plenty of brains to do that–and hell, the leaf don’t let anyone go backwards anyway! As fucked up as he was, I doubt things worked out how he’d planned. I did, at least, know what he looked like now–I’d gotten into the bathroom in time to see him fade out–the physical change always happens first, before reality folds them in somewhere else…and that fucker is definitely not some football playing college student, you can trust me on that one. No, the fucker I saw on my bathroom floor? Spitty looked to be about 350 pounds, most of it fat, covered in filth, his hair and beard even longer than before. Pale skin, meaning he probably almost never saw the sun, and he’d aged up to somewhere close to 50–or at least he looked 50, but he could have been a bit younger, in all honesty. Still, one thing I could know for sure was that my name had probably stuck nice and hard–names are hard to get rid of. So life went on, but I kept my ear to the ground, corrupting a few truckers and bikers passing through, telling them that if they saw any old pigs around going by the name of Spitty, they should let me know, and I’d reward them handsomely.

A couple of years went by, and I’d figured he managed to get out and escape my net. Either the spell had whisked him away further than I’d thought possible, or he was such a recluse now that he never actually went anywhere. I’d…become a bit meaner, in all honesty. Some of the guys on the crew who I hadn’t fucked with in years were brought over to my house, so I could take them down a few more notches, fantasizing that it was Spitty I was ruining, thinking about some of the nasty shit I could do to him if I ever got my grubby hands on the fucker. I…went a bit overboard with Gary, our foreman. Dude…fucking loves ass now–eating it out, sniffing farts, even eating shit on occasion. I feel a bit bad about it, but fuck, watching that fucker eat a turd, imagining it’s Spitty instead, nothing makes me nut quite as hard as that.

And then, sure enough, someone gave me a tip. They’d heard about some fat pig matching my description who occasionally cruised a rest area ten miles out of town, with a particular thirst for tobacco spit. I’d fucking found him–I couldn’t fucking believe it. Still, I couldn’t fucking scare him off, now that I’d gotten a clue, and so I started pressing other guys for details, had a biker follow the fat fuck home one night, and sure enough–the spell had sent him off into the weeds, a good thirty miles out of town, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Still, I knew where I was going now, and I decided it was time to pay my lost boy a visit.

Heh, the look on his fat, nasty face when I busted my way in though–it almost made my humiliation worth it. He’d honestly thought he’d gotten away with it, and there he was, watching some of his porn, sitting in a lazy boy surrounded by trash, bouncing up and down on some massive dildo, and he looked over, saw me, and he fucking shot his load right then and there. Yeah, he’d missed me–I could fucking tell, not that he wanted to fucking admit it. I pinned him down and fed him spit for a couple of hours–there was nothing he could do to fight me, he’d made himself so fucking weak. I got the rope I’d brought in with me, hauled him over to the bed and tied him down, spread eagle–and then took off. I had to go get some supplies for my revenge, after all. I called Gary and told him I’d need a few weeks off, and he was more than happy to accommodate me–I’d be staying with Spitty for little while, getting him ready. I haven’t used a whole tin on someone in a very long time, but this reunion calls for a celebration. Spitty isn’t going to see it that way, of course, but he’s fucking earned this–and he’ll enjoy it plenty, soon enough.

Daddy Whores (Part 5)

Rumor quickly spread through the house, and out to the barn, about the task set forth for the newest daddy of the boy’s harem, and every single one of them assumed it was a death sentence. It was true, a few of the oldest members of the stable had, on occasion, seen the boy allow a man to rise up from the cellar–but in every case, they were little more than a shell. No one even knew what happened down there–on occasion, the house would reverberate with screams rising up from below, chilling the daddies to the bone, freezing them all in place, until they could shake off their mutual terror and return to the task of tending to the boy. So it was with great surprise that the first daddies to rise in the morning went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, only to find Carson, filthy and covered in grime, leaning up against the cupboards, staring off into the middle distance and unresponsive–but there all the same. He’d gone down, and he’d returned.

He screamed, when someone tried to touch him, looking around, unsure of where he was, of who he was. He could barely speak, and when several daddies tried to ask him what he’d seen down there, his tongue knotted up and refused to answer. Whether it was because he simply couldn’t bear to describe it, or because the boy’s magic literally sealed the truth up in his mind, no one could know. A daddy told the boy of Carson’s return, and he seemed mildly surprised, but not incredibly. Carson had shown, as a man, incredible resilience–and even as a daddy, some of that spirit remained. But the boy knew something else, that merely witnessing the cellar would be enough to…convince Carson to cooperate with him. After all, even this was better than the cellar. Nearly anything, was better than the cellar. He ordered Carson be fed, but not cleaned–he was never to be cleaned, unless explicitly told to do so, and when the boy was finished eating, he would speak with him.

Carson was brought in, shaking and exhausted, barely able to stand or even speak. He fell to his knees in front of the boy on his sofa-throne, and kissed his toe, shuddering in thanks and gratitude at being allowed the chance to return at all. He understood now. He understood more than he’d ever wanted to believe. He wouldn’t fight any longer–he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to, if he could. Something in him had died down there, something indescribable, but the boy held power here–no one else. All he could be was a daddy, and the only way for a daddy to experience anything close to happiness, was through complete devotion and obedience.

“Bring my poor daddy Carson whiskey and a cigar–he needs to satisfy his vices,” the boy said.

“T-Thank you my boy, you’re too kind.”

“I know. Now–as for your assignment. I’ve decided that if I’m going to…expand into the city, as I’ve been trying to do, I’m going to have to find ways to…deal with the police, which don’t require me to leave home–because I hate having to leave home, as you know.”

“Yes boy, I know…”

“So you, Carson, will have two tasks. During the day and afternoon, you will be tasked as a worker whore. You will go around the city and find filthy, disgusting workers–old, young, fat, muscled–it won’t matter, so long as they’re in their gear, and you will…convince them to allow you to service them, as cumdump, fuckhole, and urinal. You have no objection to that, I am sure.”

“No boy, this daddy loves…he loves serving as all of those…those things…” Carson said. He was crying–why was he crying? He shouldn’t be crying, he didn’t want the boy to see tears. The other daddy had brought whiskey–he grabbed the bottle and glugged half of it down, his gut burning, but it was enough to kill the emotion which had begun to overwhelm him.

“Good. As for your second task–you are going to be a drunk. As evening comes, you will settle into a bar, and drink, and drink, and drink. You will convince the bartenders to give you a bottle of whiskey each night, in exchange for a blowjob. When you have finished, you will become belligerent, and attempt to force yourself on the men of the bar, until you get arrested. Once arrested, you will spend the night in the drunk tank of the local precinct, and in there, not only will you service the other drunks–for free–but also any guard and cop who comes in ear shot. And these cops, you will ensure that if they see any daddies, other than you, arrested, they will make sure they are released promptly, and without charges–do you understand? After all, the only daddy they will want to have pleasure them, will be you, do you understand your tasks?”

“Yes boy, I do. Thank you.”

“You will return home Sunday Wednesday and Friday mornings, to make deposits, and so I may be updated on your progress. Now, you should get going, Carson. And remember that guard last night? You will be the daddy meeting him, and collecting his forty dollars for me, understand?”

Carson nodded. He was exhausted, but he didn’t dare ask his boy for permission to rest. He was lucky enough already to even be above ground. “I won’t disappoint you, my boy.”

“I certainly hope not, or you know what will happen, where you will go, and what you will be.”

Carson nodded, and struggled upright. He took the whiskey bottle and lit a cigar, before heading out to his truck and getting inside. The tears he’d held back finally gushed forth, and he sobbed, violently, for a moment or two, before composing himself so he could get at least get a mile down the road before continuing to sob, and as he wept…he couldn’t decide why, exactly he was crying. Party, it was because he loved his boy so very, very much, and was thrilled to be given the chance to serve him in this way. But there was also the terror, and there would always be the terror, of what he had seen. He finished the bottle of whiskey and an entire cigar, and then got back on the road. He had a job to do, after all, and a new family he wouldn’t dare disappoint.

Daddy Whores (Part 4)

He left then, and the two officers helped him up and out of the building–telling everyone Carson was being released from the drunk tank. Everyone still seemed to know Carson, though instead of pity, the officer’s eyes were now mostly disgust. Then he was out the front door and on the sidewalk–alone, confused, horny as all hell…but he had to get home. That’s what his boy had told him to do, and he couldn’t afford to get distracted. But was he going to get home? He…knew that he had a ride somewhere, right? He started shuffling off down the street, the memory dim, but there, until a few blocks later he found himself standing next to a rusted out, beat up pickup truck. This…this couldn’t be his car. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a ring with two keys on it–a car key and a house key–and sure enough, it fit in the door, but this…this wasn’t right.

He could see his reflection in the sodium light reflecting from the truck window, and that definitely wasn’t right. He hadn’t been able to look at himself before, after his boy had…done whatever he did to him at his desk, but his beard hadn’t reached all the way down to his gut, had it? And where…where in the hell had his uniform gone? He had on just a filthy undershirt and grubby, muddy jeans held up by a couple of old suspenders that had lost most of their elasticity. They made his jeans sag down–he reached around to scratch his crack, and with some embarrassment, discover a good amount of his fat, hairy ass was hanging out. He also had on a hi-viz vest and a grungy hard hat, like he’d just gotten off work at a day on a construction site–but he didn’t work for a construction company he…he worked for his boy, right? But hadn’t he just been in a police station? Hell, hadn’t he just been a police officer? His hands were shaking, and his head ached. What in the world was wrong with him? Why did he remember being something so…different? He got in the truck and immediately fumbled around in the glove box, finding one of his cigars and lighting up. He pulled out a hip flask next, full of cheap whiskey, and he slugged quite a bit back, feeling his mind settling back down into its comfortable haze of smoke and booze, right where it belonged. He got the truck started, listened to the engine rattle a moment, and then drove off, heading home.

Of course, he’d never been home before. Still, this body…it knew where he needed to go. He drove for quite a while smoking his cigar and taking occasional slugs of whiskey as he did, until he was well out of the city, even past the suburbs, and he turned into a driveway which led down a gravel road to what looked like a decrepit old farm. The house was still standing, and there were lights on–there was even dim light coming from the barn, and as hard he told himself to turn around and leave, he couldn’t. He was home, for better or worse. He added the truck to the mass of fifteen or twenty other cars and trucks parked in the muddy yard, got out, and went up to the building, using the house key to let himself in, where he was greeted by a couple other daddies fucking on the stairway. He even knew their names–Rob and Dirk. He avoided them, and went to go find his boy–he had a…punishment to receive, after all.

His boy was in the den, on his sofa, naked as always, three daddies tending to him–one was feeding him, one privileged one was sucking their boy’s cock, and a third was in the middle of their boy’s daily tongue bath, sucking on his foot. The boy…was even more beautiful than he remembered, and he nearly started crying at the thought that he’d disappointed him. He’d been such a bad daddy today, and he knew that this was not going to be a pleasant punishment.

“There you are, Carson. Took you long enough. As for your punishment–I haven’t had anyone down to clean up the cellar daddies for a few weeks. If you don’t wish to join them down there, I would suggest you lick them up quick. If you aren’t done by dawn, you won’t be able to climb back up the stairs. Let’s see if I found a new daddy with a nice work ethic. Now get out of my sight. If you’re done by tomorrow, then we can discuss…assignments.”

The cellar daddies? His confusion was only momentary–his mind started cobbling together memories from this new life. The cellar daddies–daddies went to the cellar when they were very, very bad. They often didn’t come out again, ever. No one even knew how many were down there, or what sort of state they were in. He didn’t want to be trapped in the cellar, no daddy wanted to be down there…but that was his punishment, and his booted feet trudged to the cellar door, opened it, and started down the stairs into the dark, listening to the quiet, desperate moans below, and praying he’d be able to finish his task and not be doomed to join them.

Movie Night (Part 2)

Wade and Phil had been using Matt as a clueless fucktoy for close to a year now, after discovering that spell book in the attic of the house, shortly after moving in. As soon as Matt–or Jess–set foot in their house, neither one of them could resist a command from either man. But Matt…had never been very exciting in bed, and that was when, perusing the book one evening, a spell had appeared which Phil thought might be the answer to their problems. They’d tried it the next week, casting it on Matt and their TV, so that whenever Matt saw a person on the screen, Phil and Wade could make him believe he was that character until dawn that next morning–or at least, that’s all they thought it would do.

In fact, they discovered quickly, the spell did more than make Matt think he was that person, he actually became a complete copy of that character in the movie. Over the weeks, Matt had been any number of different porn stars–Wade and Phil had wide ranging tastes, and almost always liked their sex kinky. Matt had been a massively fat pig slut, a twinky stripper, a stupid muscle faggot, several different bear slaves, and when Wade had found this film online the week before, they’d both known for sure that they needed Matt to be this guy next.

The more Matt watched, the more and more his body copied the appearance of the guy in the film, the tattoos coating his body as his hair shrank away, and that hunger in his ass was becoming more and more difficult to deny. Pretty soon, Matt’s memories of his life with Jess had completely faded away, replaced with new ones–how he spent his days and nights as a skinhead slut pig, begging rough and dirty men like the one on the screen to fuck and fist his holes. He moaned on the couch when Wade’s fist slipped into his ruined hole, and when Phil pulled his cock free from his pants, his mouth watered. He kept one eye on the screen for a while longer, until his transformation finished, and then the new skinpig devoted his attention to the cock in front of him, worshiping it happily for the rest of the night, down in the dungeon below the house.

The next morning, Matt left, his old self again, no memory of the night before aside from a pleasant evening watching a movie with his two best friends. Still, he…really wasn’t very happy with Jess–maybe she did have a point. What if he really was gay? Maybe next week, he could talk to the guys about these new feelings he was having. They might be able to help him sort things out.