Tag: pigtown

“I would say I’m sorry, but I think we both know that it’d be a lie,” Jamie said, shoving the plug deep into Sam’s hole again, giving it a twist for good measure.

Sam yanked at the ropes binding his hands to the gate. He’d woken up here a few moments before, tied and gagged, and when he’d tried to scream, it was Jamie who had come out of the darkness. One of his coworkers, and one of his competitors for partner at the firm. Everyone knew Sam deserved the spot, of course, but he’d always known Jamie had resented him. Now he was discovering just how much.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be sticking around for long, just gotta get the place smelling a bit, wait until the pigs come out for the night to find you. Try not to worry too much about it, you’ll be as happy here as the rest of them. He slammed the dildo in and then left it, wiping his gloved hands off with a towel he’d brought with him, and then dropped it to the ground. “I took the liberty of putting in your notice at work–after all, you won’t be coming back again, I don’t think. Certainly none of the other’s have.”

Sam could hear something in the darkness around them, something alive.

“Ah, that would be them. Like I said, try and enjoy yourself Sam, you’ve earned it.”

Jamie picked up his case and walked towards the staircase, climbing up out of the abandoned subway station in the middle of Pigtown. He turned back in time to see the things coming closer, sniffing at the sacrifice he’d left them, Sam staring up and back at him, pleading through the gag, but one of them was already ripping the plug from his ass and mounting him. Jamie continued climbing–the first time, he’d watched for a bit, but it no longer had much appeal. But he slowed towards the top of the steps, where a heavyset man was waiting, smoking a thick cigar. “Hello Jamie. Come to drop something off again?”

“You promised me safe passage, Rod.”

“No, I promised you save passage for a price,” Rod said, “but that was a few years ago. Don’t they teach you about interest in business anymore?”

Before Jamie could reply, Rod stepped closer to him, locking lips, exhaling a thick, greasy plume of smoke into his lungs, forcing him to hold it, tonguing around the inside of his mouth a moment, before pulling away, Jamie coughing and gagging.

“Here,” Rod said, “You’ll be wanting these.” He tossed a couple of cellophane wrapped cigars and a lighter to the ground, and Jamie collected them, lighting one up and taking a deep breath, the scratch in his throat immediately relieved.

“That wasn’t the damn deal!” Jamie shouted, as Rod walked off.

“Just a reminder whose terms and conditions you’re operating under, Jamie. I’ll be needing a tribute every month from now on, if you don’t want to see me again real soon.”

Source: gospodarzarobove

It had always been Dave’s dream to retire early. Hit his fifties, get out of his boring middle management job, and do everything he’d always wanted to do. Travel the world! Play as much golf as he wanted! Get back into shape! Fix up his house! He could do anything he wanted, but when it finally happened…he discovered that more than anything else, he was bored.

His wife resented him for being home all the time. he had enough money to live comfortably, but not enough to really fulfill his wildest dreams…which it turned out, weren’t really all that wild. They fought, he felt restless. Two years after retiring, he decided that he needed a job again. Nothing big, nothing like what he had. Just something to pass the time and give his weeks some structure.

He picked up a job as a bartender downtown. He’d done it before, in his youth, to help him pay his way through college, and the skills were still there, even if the drinks were a bit more complicated now. He enjoyed the bullshitting, he enjoyed the long nights when he didn’t have to worry about seeing his wife, he even liked flirting with the women a bit. He wasn’t a cheater of course, but he was a handsome older man, and it boosted his ego.

Then, another chain of bars bought them out suddenly, looking to expand into a new neighborhood. The promised that all of the employees would keep their jobs, but the entire atmosphere changed. The redecorated, making everything darker and dingy. The clientele became almost entirely men, most of them dressed in some of the strangest clothing. He discovered then, that he was working at a gay bar…and that he was changing too. Men were flirting with him…and he found himself flirting back. He tried to bring himself to quit, but every time he confronted Rod, the new manager, the big brute kept talking him down, and even gave him longer, later shifts–telling him the more he worked, the more he’d fit in and enjoy himself.

The late shifts were worse. The later it got, the rowdier the men became, groping and catcalling him. He told himself he hated it, but he sucked his first cock on his second night, and kept sucking, raking in more in tips than he imagined being possible. He’d try to leave the house in casual clothes, but each time he came home, he discovered his casual, conservative attire have become some strange leather or rubber garment. He had a thick beard and a shaved head. He picked up smoking, trying to ease his growing panic. The tattoos and piercings…he couldn’t even remember where they’d come from. And now, she’d left.

She’d left, and here he was. Smoking, ready to go out, another night working at Pigtown. This house…why did he even come back here anymore? He didn’t belong here. Every night, someone wanted to take him home and plow his nasty hole…why did he keep saying no? Why did he keep leaving? He couldn’t remember, and that was the last time anyone saw Dave again.

***WARNING: SCAT***

Marco hadn’t had a bender like this in a long time, not since college. He surged awake, his head pounding, mouth dry, gut twisting into knots. Throw up–he was going to throw up. His vision was blurry, but he’d fallen asleep in his bathroom at least. He crawled over to the toilet, grunting, gut growling, unable to believe how terrible he felt, but when he got there, he discovered that whoever had used the toilet last hadn’t bothered flushing it–and he also realized that this wasn’t his bathroom.

He looked around, the room spinning a bit slower now, and found he was in a tiled restroom somewhere, but his gut pulled his face back around–he thought he was going to finally hurl, but instead he shoved his face down into the toilet’s filth and started chomping and slurping away at it, terrified at what he was doing, but unable to find a way to make himself stop. 

His mind was coming a bit clearer. His balls ached, and with one hand he explored back, discovering his balls were a good six inches lower than they had been, kept there by two thick, steel stretchers. His cock was studded with metal, and he found himself stroking it, running his hand over the jacob’s ladder, toying with his PA, his mouth still hopelessly chomping up the slurry of piss and shit from the toilet. It wasn’t until he heard the door to the bathroom swing open behind him that he scrounged up the willpower to haul his head up, splattering shit around him as he spun, eyes wide with terror, face coated in brown, and found himself looking at a huge man, clad all in leather, smoking a cigar and groping his own cock.

“Looks like a pig didn’t make it out last night,” the man said, with a laugh, “Stuck here for now. Don’t worry though–old Rod here knows how to take care of pigs like you. By the time we open, you’re gonna be the freakiest pig around, and you’re never gonna want to leave.”

Marco tried to object, but all his words fell out as grunts and moans, his head pulled back around, lulled back to the filth, and he was stuffing himself again by the time Rod lined his own, ten inch cock with Marco’s already well bred hole, and gave his newest Pigtown hog a good, long, filthy fuck.

Source: hairypisser

Everyone told me to just leave it be, that the truth of Pigtown wasn’t worth the risk. But what kind of journalist would I be, if I let something like that stop me? I knew from the beginning it would be hard to crack–the first time I went to the bar and started asking questions about the place, no one would give me any kind of answer, just smile at me. It was infuriating. Still, even then I noticed the stairs, and the door. They were guarded by a bouncer–a man named Rod–and when I asked what was down there, all he said was it wasn’t for me to see. That sort of place had to have the answers I was looking for, but I wasn’t going to get there without some undercover work.

So I…created a part for myself. I admit, I may have gotten a bit over invested in it. Shaving my head and buying a whole new wardrobe. Getting those tattoos and piercings might seem extreme, but I remember Rod’s…contempt, when he looked at me. When he saw how normal I was. Well I’ll show him. I can be a freak too, like all the other disgusting freaks around here.

Still, he wouldn’t let me past when I showed up again. He even fucking recognized me! I thought I’d done pretty well with my changes, but I refused to let down my guard. I offered to blow him, if he’d let me through, and after some cajoling and flirting, he relented. I sucked my first cock at the bottom of those stairs, and after he came, he unlocked the door, and I scrambled through.

The room was massive, and completely dark. Quiet, except for the thud of the DJ above me.

“There’s…nothing here…” I said.

“Nah,” Rod said, “You’re here, and that’s enough for them.”

The last thing I saw was him framed by the light of the door, that same fucking smile on his face, and then he slammed it shut, leaving me here, in the dark.

I tried screaming for a bit, but now I’m quietly huddled in a corner. They know I’m here, whoever they are, whatever they are. They keep brushing past me, whips of leather and rubber, vapor trails of cigar smoke and musk. I’m terrified. I don’t think they’re human anymore, and they’re hungry. Rod hasn’t been feeding them much lately, I don’t think, and they’re going to savor this meal for quite a while.

Source: thinkragelive

If you’re going to work at Precinct 17, then you have to respect Pigtown. At least, that’s what the longtimers always try and tell the new police recruits, when they arrive, first day on the job. Of course, they also can’t be too specific–they wouldn’t be longtimers at the precinct without having made a few deals with the devil himself–but by now, the chief can usually tell, as soon as he meets them, which officers will survive a year so they can transfer out of this insane place, and which young hotshot the brass sent their way, so he won’t be with the force too much longer.

Recruit Donny Scrimm was one of those. Football jock bully in high school, dumb as a brick but the army wouldn’t take him for whatever reason, thought he’d become a police officer so he could get a chance to shoot a fucker and not get in trouble. He showed up, took one beat around the neighborhood, and was disgusted. What the hell was this place? Everywhere he looked, there were guys in rubber and leather, prowling the streets, their cocks hanging out. None of them approached him, and he didn’t know what to do about it. When he asked the chief, and the chief said to leave them alone–all of them–and to especially stay away from the bar called Pigtown, Donny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He left, furious, and marched back out onto the street, ready to bash some of these disgusting queers back into their place.

He was missing for three days. When he finally did resurface, he was sobbing, crawling up the precinct steps, looking quite…different from when he’d left the building before. He’d put on about fifty pounds in his gut, a scruffy beard across his face, running up onto his chin, his uniform coated with who knew what. The recruits who saw him, well, now they knew why you didn’t fuck with Pigtown, and why Precinct 17 wasn’t like any other police station they’d ever been to. Donny went to the chief, asking for help, but the chief told him there wasn’t anything he could do–beyond take his badge and his uniform (which revealed Donny’s now hairy body was coated from foot to neck in lewd, filthy tattoos) give him a long fuck over his desk, get him dressed in some rubber, and throw him back to the streets, where he belonged now.

You can still see Scrimm on occasion, down in the alleys. He doesn’t remember being a police officer now–hell, he doesn’t remember much of anything. His entire body is tattooed, but oddly enough, the tattoos seem to change and shift over time–and anyone who takes a load of his pigseed finds a new tattoo of their one on their body, one that seems to grow a bit larger whenever they aren’t looking at it.

“Get in there, fucking get in there, pig.”

The door is open, but before I can step in, he gives me a hard shove into the unknown. Still wearing the hood someone forced onto me at the bar, I stumble forward, trip over something, and manage to break my fall on the hard floor, badly, with my wrists.

“Dumb fucker, fuck.”

He clomps over as I roll onto my stomach, but before I can push myself up, he lands on top of me. He’s heavy, a huge gut pressing into the small of my back. He fumbles with his fly and let’s his cock out, so he can grind it against my ass. I grind back. He reaches under me, undoes the fly of my jeans and yanks down my pants, runs his cock up and down my crack between the straps of my jock. One hand on the back of my head, shoving my hooded face against the floor, he works the head of his cock into my ass.

I wonder if I should say anything. Would I turn him off, if I speak? I have no idea who this man is or where we are. Should I be scared? He doesn’t speak as he fucks me, and I stay silent. He cums relatively fast inside me, and I wonder if he’s finished, but when I reach up to take the hood off, he yanks my hands back down.

“Not yet…Not finished yet,” he pants, stands up, and yanks me up. I fumble with my pants for a moment, but end up just stepping out of them and my shoes, and he drags me along, through a doorway, and pushes me against a low ledge. I stumble over it, and hear the hollow thud of a bathtub. He shoves me to my knees, and then he starts spraying me with piss. I open my mouth, he lets me drink, I let it run down through my goatee. “Yellow pig, yeah. Fuckin’ hot,” he mutters. The flow stops after a couple of final pulses, and I hear nothing else. I wait for him to heft me up, or face fuck me, or anything, I’m ready for all of it, and yet nothing comes. Tentatively, waiting for him to lash out, I reach up and remove the hood, and find myself in my own bathtub, soaked with a strangers piss, and he is nowhere to be found.

Disoriented, I get up. Did I tell him where I lived? Did…was it someone I knew? I’d never told anyone at Pigtown where I live, and I’d never invited anyone over to my place before who’d want to do all of that to me. I leave the bathroom, cum running down the inside of my thigh. The apartment door is still open to the hallway, and I hurry over to shut it before anyone walks past and sees me. The clock says it’s nearly six in the morning, and dawn is just creeping through my east facing window. Somehow I’d been out all night, but it had only felt like a few hours.

I sit for a few moments, and then go shower myself off, and get dressed for work. I leave the piss soaked jock on under my slacks–I enjoy the memory, and it will be dry by the time I reach the office. I grab my backpack, and let myself out, locking the door behind me. The elevator is out, I take the stairs, but on the second flight, I stop and stare at the man coming up towards me from the flight below. The cigar in the corner of his mouth like a flare of light, he streams smoke from his nose that curls through his huge red beard. He has on a leather vest, and nothing else, his thick cock hanging soft above a hefty sack covered with red hairs. Is that him? Is that the man? Will he fuck me again? Piss on me again? I hope so, come and get me, I’m your pig–

“I’m your pig,” I gasp out loud, and my neighbor, Charlie stares at me from two steps down.

“Excuse me?”

I look down at him, the older irish man who lives two doors down from me. Divorced, angry, smokes cigarettes. Always has a fine coating of red stubble across his round face. I’d suggested he’d grow a beard before, but he’d never seemed interested. And now this? What had I even seen?

“S–Sorry, I was talking to myself.”

“About pigs?”

I blushed, but couldn’t get past him on the stairway easily to escape.

“You look terrible. Were you up all night or something?”

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep well.”

He looked back down, sniffing. “I think some homeless are pissing in the stairwell–it stinks in here.”

“Yeah, it’s probably that.”

He’s quiet, and stares at me for a few moments, until I clear my throat, tell him I’m late and need to catch my bus. Charlie makes me push my way past him to get down the stairs, and I can feel him watching me as I leave.

I run the conversation through my mind all day at work, wondering what it could have possibly meant. If it could have possibly meant more than was said. He was straight, wasn’t he? Then again, who was really straight? I’d thought I was straight, after all, but Pigtown had shown me the truth. The day went poorly, I returned home. I had to pass his apartment on the way to mine, and I smelled smoke, cigar smoke, inside, even though I had never seen him so much as touch a cigar.

It took me a couple of days to work up the nerve to ask him. I would walk over and knock on his door when I knew he wasn’t home, just to practice. Finally, I knocked when he was; he answered.

“Hey, would you…like to get a drink with me this weekend sometime?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me, cigarette hanging from his lips. A cinder of ash tumbled to the floor, I thought about getting down and eating it, but stopped myself. “I don’t go out much,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what else to add. I scratched the back of my head, but didn’t accept his excuse. “I like to go out, you see, but I don’t have many friends, so it’s usually just me by myself. You drink, don’t you?”

“Well yeah, but–” he paused and sighed, “I guess…hell, why not, right?”

I smiled, relieved. “How about Friday night? I know a great place.”

He shrugged, and then glared, “This isn’t some faggot shit, is it? You making a pass on me?”

I assured him that I certainly wasn’t, that I was just a straight guy, as straight as him, just looking for a straight drinking buddy for some straight drinking, no homo at all. He reluctantly agreed to meet at eight, and shut the door. I had a feeling that if Pigtown could do what it had done to me in a few visits, Charlie would be a new man before too long too–just the kind of man I’d imagined.