The Pig Squad

Week One Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

Look, I’ll be the first to admit that the squad had some issues, alright? But we weren’t any worse than any of the other squads in the state patrols, I can tell you that. Harrison could get a little rough with folks out on the highways. Everyone knows that Klein is a racist, though he can keep it in usually. Ricci does his best as sergeant, but his heart isn’t really in it. His dad was a cop, so he had to be too, you know? Sure, the lawsuits look bad, but most of them got settled easily enough. Hell, I’ll point you to five squads in this state with records worse than ours, but hell, one high profile chase goes wrong, and suddenly we have to do something about it. Something being, of course, this fucking psycho bullshit re-training.

I heard from Lewis that this is all because the quack doctor is some friend of the governor’s brother or something. Someone’s always greasing someone’s shaft, right? So the whole squad has to spend five fucking weeks off patrol, and instead we’re locked up in a classroom all fucking day long, with this old fuck prattling on and on at us, making us watch these boring ass movies about how we can work better as a team, how we can better serve the community, it’s all a bunch of horseshit. I’ll tell you this right now, after one week, I’ll gladly get the squad to shape up just so I don’t have to sit through this trash ever again.

And now, we have to keep a journal too, whatever. Something about helping the doctor assess the course’s effect over time. Well here doc, when you read this in a few weeks, here’s what I want you to know. You’re a fucking piece of shit quack, with no fucking idea what it takes to be a police officer. How about that for a baseline? Five weeks from now, we’ll all be back on our bikes, laughing about what a fucking waste of time this all was, and you’ll have your chunk of government money–that’s what this is all about I bet.

What else was there–oh right, the drugs. We have to take these pills too, apparently. Don’t know what they are, but they give them to us at the start of the day, and make sure we all take them. Harrison got found out when they tested our piss for it on Wednesday–he’d been hiding the pill under his tongue and spitting it out later. Had to have a “private” session with the doctor about that. More bullshit I think. At least they’re feeding us well–though without going to the gym, I look a little flabby. Wish they’d give us some time for physical activity at least–then this wouldn’t be quite so mind numbingly boring. We even had to watch a bunch of videos over the weekend at home–they were so dull I can’t remember a thing about them. Whatever–nothing else to fucking report this week, other than to say, go fuck yourself Doc, you fucking queer. As for me, I’m heading to the strip club with a couple of other guys from the squad. I know I could use a good fuck right about now, after a week of this shit. Just four more to go.


Week Two Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

Alright, so I think something strange is going on with those drugs they’ve been giving us, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. They don’t give us a lot of private time–we always have the doctor or one of his various assistants watching us throughout these sessions, but the few times we’ve been able to talk to each other, we’re all reporting the same things. All of us are eating more. We just can’t help ourselves, and the fact that the doctor always has a full snack bar for these sessions isn’t helping. I’ll look down in the middle of one of his boring videos and discover I’ve demolished a massive load of candy and other snacks without even realizing it–and worse, I’m still fucking hungry, every time!

Fields said that he was taking a shower the other day, and when he looked down, a bunch of hair was clogging the drain. He’d just lost all of the hair off his body in a single shower, and apparently a bunch off his head as well. I hadn’t really thought about it until he said something, but I realized that I couldn’t recall the last day I’d needed to shave my face. I don’t grow a lot there, so I can usually get away with every other day, but I couldn’t think of when I’d shaved over the last week my chin and cheeks are perfectly smooth. When I checked the rest of my body, it was smooth too, and a lot of my muscular definition had been swallowed up in a thick layer of fat. My hair was even looking thin, and receding higher than it should have. It has to be those drugs. None of us want to take them, but when the doctor gives them to us, we can’t stop ourselves. I’ve…noticed that a lot, actually. The doctor gives us orders, and we all follow them, without even really thinking about it. It only got worse with the physical exam on Friday.

We all had to strip naked, together, and hell if it wasn’t obvious that something was happening to us. All of us were smooth as a button. Klein had lost his goatee entirely, and looked 50 pounds heavier. Hell, all of us looked 50 pounds heavier, if not a bit more. We were ushered into the doctor’s office, poked and prodded by his assistants, and then we had to answer all these…sex questions while we had electrodes hooked up to our cocks! It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with police work, but while I…I wanted to say something, I wanted to stop it, I couldn’t do anything at all. Just answered his questions like some stupid dolt, and then they gave me a new uniform to wear for the rest of the re-training. We could wear our civilian clothes home at least, but we’d have to change in the locker room every day before the sessions started.

I wore it the next day. We all did. The shirts and breeches are so tight on all of us, with all of the new weight we’ve put on. It’s more like a dress uniform, but the tightness–the rigidness…it made my cock a bit excited. We even have to wear perfectly shined leather boots, gloves, and a hat while we sit in for sessions now. In it, I feel like I’m sweating so much, but during one session, I caught myself grabbing my crotch while the Doctor spoke, and looking around, I wasn’t the only one doing it.

I’ve heard rumors that a few guys are going to try and push back. I don’t know what they’re going to do exactly, none of them are guys I tend to run with–Klein, Harrison, a few others, Ricci probably, since he’s always one for bad decisions. I don’t know if they’re going to go to the chief, or if they’re going to try and take matters into their own hands…but I’m staying out of it. I…I just, it’s so hard to think now, that I’m sitting here at home. Last week I went out to the strip club, had a session with Sonja afterwards, and I couldn’t even get hard. She offered me a blue pill, and I just left. But now, I think it’s…smaller. My balls too. And I haven’t gotten hard thinking about a woman in…days? Just at these sessions, in my new uniform…fuck, what’s wrong with me? I need to fucking eat something, fuck this. Why am I even writing this down? I don’t want the doc to read this…


Week Three Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

I don’t know what to do. I feel like…I know that this is wrong, but…but fuck, sitting here, rubbing my gut, smoking one of my cigars, feeling my little dick get hard, it all just feels so right, all of a sudden. 

I read what I wrote last week, and it feels so far away now. So much happened since I wrote it, but I…I just keep hearing Doc’s voice, and…and fuck, he makes me feel so good, thinking about him. I like feeling good, I just want all my brothers to feel good too, right? Why wouldn’t I? If we just relax, and follow the program, I can tell everything will be alright, but part of me is telling me I have to fight this. That this isn’t my body. That I don’t smoke cigars, that I don’t want to be fat, that the feeling of my leather gloves on my cock isn’t heaven on fucking earth. But I don’t think we can fight it. Hell, look at what happened to Klein and the others when they tried.

It was Tuesday. Wednesday? I don’t know, they all blend together. I saw Doc yesterday, I know that, and it was two, three days before? I was already dressed, in the main room, had taken my pills and gotten in my seat. A few guys on the squad were all missing at this point, the ones I knew had been planning something, and a couple others that didn’t surprise me. Most of the bad apples, you might say–the ones who were causing the bulk of the issues in the first place. A few minutes after I noticed that, the assistants (I call them that, but they’re guards, aren’t they? Keeping us there like that, controlling us) dragged them all in, kicking and flailing. Fuck, that was a sight. Doc came out, asked them why they were late, and Klein ripped into him, yelling and shouting, accusing him of all sorts of shit, trying to hypnotise us, warp our minds, fucking with our bodies. The rest of us just sat there. I was scared, honestly. I knew he was right…I think? I don’t know, I just feel so out of it.

Doc tells the assistants that they all need a special group sessions with him for the day, and the rest of us just rewatch some of the videos we’d already seen, while the assistants watch us. I try and focus on them this time, really hard, but by the end of the day, hell if I can remember what the videos said–though I knew they were ones I’d seen before, somehow. I knew that I…I knew what they’d said, even if I couldn’t say it, or think it. We change out of our uniforms at the end of the session, and the rebels are there, eyes…glassy. They’re smearing some weird cream on their crotches, vile smelling shit. Harrison bent over, and I swear I saw something in his ass. A plug or a dildo, who knows what. None of them said anything, and the next day, all of them were on time, fully dressed, took their pills like good hogs, and sat down.

Hogs–why did I just write that? Reading it makes me so fucking hard, why the fuck…I can’t think about that, I can’t handle this.

I know what I have to do. I just gotta cruise through. Make sure no one notices me. But then, yesterday, Doc holds three of us back. Wold, Fields, and I. We all go into his office, he…talked with us, about stuff. Then Wold and Fields left, and it was just the two of us.

Now, I’m scared. I’m scared, because this is the first time I can really remember something Doc said to me, clearly. He asked me why I’d never pursued a leadership position in the squad, and I told him the truth, that I didn’t want the trouble. That it was easier to just go with the flow, rather than try and push back against a bunch of shit that will never change. I learned years ago that you can fight the racists like Klein, or the fascists like Harrison, or the legacies like Ricci, but there’s always more of them that show up. Doc just nodded. Then he handed me a bunch of cigars and a set of videos. Told me to watch them this weekend, and smoke at least two cigars a day for the rest of training.

Everyone else was gone, when I’d left. I didn’t notice until I got home that I was still wearing my uniform–it was the first time I’d worn it outside of the training. I looked at myself in it, in my mirror, and I hardly recognize myself. Smooth face and head, fat body squeezed into the thick cloth and shiny leather. It made me leak. I’ve gotten through half the discs, I think. I don’t know what they’re doing to me, but thinking about Klein and Harrison, how stupid they’ve seemed for the last few days, thinking about that…plug in Harrison’s hole, fucking hogs. Need a good boss to tell them what to do. Yeah, plug their hogholes, make ‘em squeal, that’ll–

Fuck, what a fucking mess. Filled the front of my fucking breeches with a load, just thinking about those stupid hogs of mine. Fuck, why am I writing this? What is he doing to me now? And why the fuck do I keep farting so dang much?


Week Four Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

I broke him. Fuck, and it felt fucking good doing it, fuck.

This week was different. Instead of group sessions, Doc scheduled individual meetings with all of us. Mine was early on, which kind of surprised me, since I’d just had a personal session with him a few days before. He asked me how I’d liked the cigars that he’d given me. I’d smoked them all over the weekend–I hadn’t really been able to stop once I’d started them. They didn’t really hit me like the few cigarettes I’d had before. There was a bit of a nicotine rush of course, but mostly I felt…powerful, when I was smoking one. Powerful, and dominant, and I’d usually found myself thinking about my squad brothers, about how they looked in their uniforms, and more and more, how they might look out of them, kneeling in front of me, and…

Fuck, is this me? Has this always been me? I can’t really remember how I used to look, you know? I try. I look in the mirror, but I can’t picture myself with hair on my head. I can’t imagine what I’d look like if I managed to lose the weight I keep putting on somehow. 

I told all that to the Doc. He just nodded, and then he asked me whether I’d noticed myself farting more. I blushed–I’d been passing gas the whole time I’d been sitting in his office, trying to keep them quiet, but more than a few had been at least a little noisy. I’d belched a few times as well, when I was trying to talk. I told him I didn’t know what was causing it, but assumed it was just how much I’d been eating lately, but he told me to relax. He was my closest confidant, after all–I could be myself around him, if I wanted to.

Well, apparently “being myself” meant leaning back, groping myself, sniffing my own farts while I told him all of my…disgusting fantasies I’d had about the other men in the squad. As horrified as I was, I couldn’t stop myself–and more than once, I came in the front of my uniform, and Doc just smiled at me in the oddest way. I don’t recall a lot after that. He spoke a lot, but as always, I just zoned out when he was speaking, though it had been a full hour when I finally realized what was happening. He told me that for the rest of the week, I would be leading workouts with the squad while he was having individual meetings. I asked him why Ricci wasn’t doing them–he was the squad’s sergeant after all. Doc told me not to worry about it. As I left, I remembered that he had been one of the guys involved in the little revolt, so the answer was obvious, in the end.

The next day, with a fresh supply of cigars, I started putting the rest of the pigs through their paces in the gym. It had been relatively unused in the training up until then, but now, all of us were sweating up a storm, and for all the weight we’d put on, I was surprised to find we were all…stronger. I could bench 200–I’d never been able to do that in my life, though I let a massive fart rip when I did. The rest of the guys were a bit…confused as to why I was put in charge, but I whipped them into shape well enough, and as more and more guys went to see the Doc, their attitude towards me changed more too.

I found Lewis in the locker room after a workout, rubbing his shiny boots against his tiny cock, moaning and grunting…and when he saw me, fully dressed in my own uniform, his jaw just about dropped. I…I don’t know why I did it. I ordered him to get down and lick mine clean. He was reluctant, but once he sniffed my farts, he went into a bit of a frenzy, eventually humping my boots, tongue hanging out, smooth flab coated in sweat until he came all over them, licked them up, and told me, “Thank you Sir, for letting me serve you.”

I was horrified. But that night, sniffing my farts and belches, all I could think about was how hot it had been, and how I wanted to do it again, as soon as I could. Other guys were picking up interests of their own. A few confessed to me that they’d started using dildos–it was the only way to get their little cocks to cum any more. Harrison needed to be fisted, apparently–the Doc had prescribed him some drugs to help him get stretched out enough so he’d be ready by the end of training, and I wondered what it would feel like, my fat fist shoved up his hole, making him beg for mercy. Some just wanted to smell me, my farts, my belches–they couldn’t get enough of it. By the end of the week, I had the whole squad eating out of the palm of my hand, and fuck if that wasn’t a powertrip. Then I realized I hadn’t seen Klein in a couple of days. I asked Doc, but he avoided the question–then, on Friday, during a video, he had me follow him instead–and he showed me where Klein was through some one way glass.

He was in a small room, staring at a screen flashing a seductive series of spirals into his face. He was clearly zonked out–eyes unfocused, drool rolling down his first and second chin. He was completely naked as well–and that was when I saw the result of that strange cream all of them had been using. Klein’s cock and balls were…gone. Just a piss hole in the middle of his crotch, and nothing else. “Hog”. I thought it again, and now I knew why I had thought it the first time. There were the pigs in the squad. Then there were the hogs like Klein, Harrison and Ricci–and then there was me, something else entirely. A pig too–but the head pig, I guess.

Doc turned off the screen, and after a couple of moments, Klein came back to himself, shouting and yelling, trying to get out of his restraints. Doc told me that this was a leadership test–Klein was ready and primed, all I had to do was get him in line, and show him how a hog ought to behave. I protested, but the assistants shoved me into the room, undid Klein’s restraints, and he charged at me.

I just…reacted. I was so much stronger than him, I just…knew I was, and I had him shoved up and pinned against the wall in a few moments, grinding my crotch into his ass, cigar tip warm against his cheek. It felt good. He deserved it. He had to be put in his fucking place. It didn’t take me long–just a few belches to knock him off balance, get him horny, then a blast from my ass, and he couldn’t stop himself–he dug in and started eating out my smelly hole–and fuck, it was the best feeling I’d ever had. Ten times better than an orgasm, as Klein’s thick tongue dug deep into my ass. By the time I was finished with him, he was well broken, face glazed with a few loads of my cum. He kept thanking me for letting him have his favorite snack–his Sergeant’s hole.

That’s right–I’m the squad sergeant now. It makes sense, I guess. I do have the biggest cock of the whole fucking bunch, even though mine’s just a couple of inches. Doc gave me the honor of letting me grow a mustache too this weekend, with a special cream–a thick, dark walrus over my lip–a sign of my authority and maturity. I feel it too–everything else is fading faster and faster. I don’t care if it goes, really. I’m ready. My squad is ready. We’re gonna be the best fucking motorcycle cops in the state, me and my brothers. I’ll make sure of that. And really, we have Doc to thank for all of it.


Week Five Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

Fuck, I’m so damn proud of my squad of pigs! You know, when we started this training, I didn’t really know what to make of it, but looking back on it, and seeing how far all of my pigs and hogs have come, I really couldn’t be more proud. Fuck, just thinking about all of them at the retreat this weekend has my little pig cock all hard in my breeches again. 

Doc announced my promotion, officially, on Monday. None of the pigs were surprised of course–it was just natural that I ought to lead the squad–after all, I’d like to see one of those pigs try and grow a mustache–much less get harder than an inch! The hogs couldn’t really care less–but then, the hogs aren’t really much for caring, or thinking really. The six of them usually sit in a little cluster, drooling and rocking back and forth, riding their plugs like good little hogs ought to do. Klein, Harrison, Ricci and the rest–they were good brothers, and they’d be good cops too, but like Doc said, the more some guys think, the more trouble you get. Best to just smooth them out all over–brains included.

We spent the rest of the week going over the new order of things. No more unnecessary stops, no more racial profiling, no more use of force. Mandatory community service events. We were gonna be good pigs, like Doc said, and do everything by the book. We were here to serve, after all. Service is the cornerstone of what pigs like us do–that’s what Doc says all the time. Serve like good little pigs, and everything will be just fine. 

Then came the weekend, and the big retreat. As a reward for doing so well on our training, we were going to spend the whole weekend at a campground in the woods, that Doc had reserved just for the squad, the assistants, himself, and a few special guests that he wouldn’t even tell me about. We all got in our uniforms and piled into the bus. I had Klein next to me, and the fucking hog wouldn’t tear his snout from my pits the whole way there–at least, unless I was letting him suck my cock out the front of my breeches.

The retreat was a blast. It felt so good getting back to nature, and really just going wild. I knew some of the special guests there–the governor’s brother, for one, who grabbed the first pig he saw–Fields I think–shoved him down into the dirt, and started fucking his hole, while the pig squealed in excitement. There were some of the higher ups in the department, and even the chief of the Metropolitan Police Department. I had a session with him myself, since Doc told me he was going to be a bit reluctant. But once the chief got a whiff of my farts and my belches, he came around–eating out my dirty hole before fucking me with his big fuckin’ cock! Fuck that felt so damn good, I fuckin’ love gettin’ plowed. Doc told me I’d done a real good job on him, that the city would definitely be partnering with him for a round of training with their own troublesome cops. Doc rewarded me with a fuck–and damn, can that man fuck. Makin’ me squeal like a dirty animal, cock oozing load after load as he rams his big cock deep inside me, fuck, I’d do anything for him, I really would.

Harrison spent most of the days and nights in a set of stirrups, naked except for his boots, with one fist after another shoved deep in his hole. Ricci ended up in the toilets, guzzling piss. Fucker smelled like a urinal all the way back home on Sunday. Klein was pretty much always buried under one ass or another, though he usually found his way back to mine before too long. He says, “There ain’t no ass like yers Sarge! Tastiest fuckin’ crack there is.” Fuck, that dumb fuckin’ hog, I fuckin’ love him though. I love all my brothers, and I couldn’t be more proud of them, and how they’ve performed over the last five weeks. We’re gonna be the star squad this year, just you wait.

But the best part–that was the gift Doc gave me on Sunday. I know that what my squad needs most is to get fucked–hell, I doubt I’d be able to think if I went a few days without getting fucked myself. Only problem is my little two-incher can’t even get in any of the pigs–we’re all just too damn fat! Well Doc gave me the best gift–a fucking strapon. Big nine inch rubber cock I can put on, and ream all of my fuckin’ squad, right in a line. In fact, that’s what I did, when I got it–ordered them all to line up and salute, then had them bend over, and I fucked ‘em all, one after another, until I brought all of them to a squealing orgasm–even the dickless hogs. By that point, I was so horny that I begged Doc to fuck me, right there in front of my men, making them all watch, telling us all that he was the Master of all of us, that we were all just stupid pigs now, and we would do what we were told–and the person giving the orders was Doc. Fuck, I ain’t felt that satisfied in my whole damn life as I was on the ride home, Doc’s cum leaking out into the seat of my breeches with every fart, already excited for next years retreat that Doc promised us. Provided we’re good pigs of course. But of course we will be! What else could we be, anyway?


Three Month Assessment, From the Files of Doctor Leoncett

Our third trial of the training program, using a rather troublesome squad of motorcycle cops with the state police, concluded three months ago. In that time, the state police has seen a dramatic decrease in complaints leveled against members of the squad, both internally from other police members, and externally, from civilians. While it is still too soon to judge the long term stability of the program, the short term results are an unqualified success.

There have been some mentions made about the sudden change in appearance by the squad–especially the rapid weight gain and hair loss that is a result of the pharmacological treatment regimen. The same mentions were seen in the earlier studies as well, though the addition of the sergeant’s rather smelly means of suggestion has subdued some of the concern, helping them adjust to the new manner of the squad’s functioning going forward. 

Morale is high. Cohesion is high. Sergeant Matthews was an excellent selection for the leadership role, and his quarterly review was exceptional, both from the squad below him, and from his higher ups in the chain of command. 

Some side effects have been noted. The additional castration treatment given to the especially troublesome elements of the squad seemed to have an additional impact on their mental faculties. Even after three months, their average IQ hovers in the mid 70’s, while the baseline for the rest of the squad is closer to 90, as is our target. I’m not sure this is a detriment, but perhaps uncovering the mechanism causing this would give us a finer grade of control over the result, allowing us to tweak it as necessary. One subject, an Officer Harrison, did degrade further, closer to 50 or 60, and had to be retired from the force. I found a home for him, and he is living happily as a fist pig several states over, for a pair of lovely gentlemen, in exchange for another round of research funding. 

Other projects are on the horizon as well. The governor’s brother continues to be an asset. Having the sergeant of the squad spend some time with the city chief of police during the retreat paid great dividends–I have been given oversight on the entire force’s training schedule come Fall. While the conversion of the entire force using the program would be too obvious, being able to select small groups of officers for specialized training and testing is an great opportunity for this project. The future is bright–with a few more contacts, we might even be ready to create a standardized program for nationwide rollout to departments across the country my as early as next year. And after that–well, with all of these pigs at my disposal, who will stop me then?

Police Dogs: Episode 1 (Part 5)

Geoff led the way up to his apartment the next block over. It was small, but clean and efficient. As soon as they were inside, Angus was back on his knees, whining and pleading for Master to let him have another taste of his cock, but Geoff ordered him to strip. He wanted to see how his new boy was progressing in other ways. Angus did, still panting slightly, taking off his coat and tie, his shirt, slacks and underwear, standing completely naked in front of the badger, red cock jutting from its sheath, knot already slightly swollen. Geoff circled him, noting that he was quite a bit hairier than he’d been before, especially around his cock and ass. Short tan hair, giving Geoff a bit of an idea of what direction to push this new boy. He would be absolutely loyal to his master, of course–before too long, his need to serve wouldn’t even require him to wear the collar at all, but that wouldn’t happen until well after the physical transformation had completely finished. His face, too, was already looking less human. His ears had slid higher on his head,more pointed than round, and taken on the same tan coloring as the rest of his new fur. His mouth was also shifting, pushing out slightly into the hint of a muzzle, tongue longer and flatter, nose starting to blacken slightly. No tail yet, though–but soon. Probably after another hour or two.

“What do you want, boy?”

“I want to be your good boy sir,” Angus said, his ass wiggling a bit, almost begging for a tail to shake.

“Well, we should train you a little bit first, don’t you think? Teach you a few tricks? If you do well, I might feed you the bone you’re looking for,” Geoff said, groping the front of his uniform slacks. “But if we’re going to train you, you’re going to need some treats, don’t you think?” Geoff went into the kitchen, and returned with several flat boxes he had bought at the store earlier, in preparation. He opened the top one, revealing a dozen doughnuts inside of various varieties. “Do you like doughnuts, boy?”

Angus wasn’t quite sure how to answer, because all he really wanted at the moment was cock. “I…I guess so, sir.”

“Well, all of my good boys love doughnuts–after all, I like my partners to have some weight on them,” Geoff said, “Now kneel.”

Angus got on his knees, and Geoff broke off a bit of a doughnut, sliding it into his mouth. It was sweet and sugary, but it wasn’t until Geoff called him a good boy for obeying, and for eating his treat, that it took on a different flavor entirely. It tasted like love and victory. It tasted like his Master’s paw, and his cock, and his adoration and pride. Suddenly, he couldn’t imagine anything he wanted more than another treat–aside from his Master’s cum, of course. He licked his chops with his long tongue, and eyed the rest of the boxes as Geoff set them on the table near him. It was…a lot to eat, but he could do it for Master, he knew he could. He was a good boy, after all.

Geoff started putting him through a few paces, keeling and sitting, making him shake and roll over, ordering him to speak–or rather, bark like a proper dog, which sounded more like a proper pup each time he did it. The pieces of doughnut he fed him got larger and larger, Geoff eventually just shoving entire doughnuts into Angus’s mouth, watching him tear into them with joy, licking frosting from his now short, tan muzzle, looking up at him with delight after each one, knowing he was being good, and knowing that his Master was pleased with his obedience.

After a couple of boxes, Geoff got bored with the tricks, parked Angus on the couch and focused on feeding him. He felt so damn full, but every time he tried to stop, his Master would chasitze him lightly, and the shame would drive him to eat even more. As he did, Geoff would rub his gut, watching it expand with fat, his hips widening as well, the first little bit of a tail poking out above his ass before growing rapidly, his face now more dog than human in many ways–and it was time to start working on his mind.

“Now, tell me what you are, boy.”

“I’m a good boy!” Angus shouted, his voice muffled with a half devoured doughnut.

“Well you are that, but are you a human?”

“Y-Yes?” Angus said, hesitantly. He wasn’t quite sure why he hesitated, but that was the right answer, he thought, until he saw Geoff shake his head, and he realized he was wrong. “I…I thought I was though.”

“No, you aren’t a human. You do get confused though, don’t you? You aren’t a particularly smart boy, after all. You’re a dog.”

“I…I’m a dog…” Angus repeated, and Geoff fed him a doughnut, “Yeah, I’m a dog! Not…Not a human…”

Good boy. Do you know what kind of dog you are?” Geoff said, “You’re not a nice kind of dog–not a lab or a retriever. No–you’re a rough dog. A fighting dog. A mean dog, to everyone else but your Master, of course. No, you’re a dingo. Still a bit feral, rough around the edges–more than willing to snap at someone who looks at you the wrong way.”

Angus hesitated. That didn’t really…sound like him, did it? He liked being nice, and Chance told him he was a nice guy, and smart, and gentle…but Chance seemed so far away now, to him. So easy to…forget, almost. Master was probably right though, Master was right about most everything, and he knew that it he disagreed…that he’d be a bad boy, and he mostly didn’t want to be a bad boy.

Police Dogs: Episode 1 (Part 4)

It wasn’t the sort of bar Angus felt particularly comfortable in. Humans and anthros got along well, generally, but there were always spaces, and crowds, who preferred to be among their own. While it wasn’t legal to openly discriminate against anyone, if you wanted to self-select, no one was going to stop you. He stepped inside, and everyone stared at him when he did, making him known he was, if not unwelcome, at the very least a curiosity. Thankfully, Geoff was already there, sitting at a booth in the back, and he headed for him, sliding in across from him.

“There’s the boy,” Geoff said, smiling wide across his whole muzzle. “I was worried you might get cold feet.”

Angus shook his head, “I…look, I need to know…what was…since that night, something’s been happening to me.”

“Oh?” the badger said, still smiling, “What sort of things?”

Angus just looked at him, and realized that, most likely, the badger already knew exactly what was going on with him. He turned red in the face, realized this was a gigantic mistake, and started to get up to leave. He’d figure out some other way to deal with this, tell Chance what was going on, work through it–but he knew this badger wasn’t going to do anything to help him fix it.

“Leaving already? Sit your ass back down like a good boy,” Geoff said, and as hard as Angus fought it, he instinctually dropped back into the booth.

“You–that collar, it did something to me. I want you to fix it.”

“I don’t believe you, boy,” Geoff said, “I think you want something else more, don’t you? You want to put it back on. Feel that…pleasure some more. I haven’t had a dog with me on the force in quite a while, you know–my last partner ended up…well, he was worth more to me as someone else’s good boy, eventually. He was never as eager as you are, though. I had to hunt him down, but you came crawling back in less than a week,” he leaned closer, and Angus could smell his breath, flashing him back to that night on the side of the road for a moment, his own breath quickening, “in fact, I think this is a record. You want to be a good boy that badly, don’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Angus blurted out before he could stop himself, and all the shame he felt couldn’t mitigate the truth of the statement.

“Well, if you do really want that, here you go,” Geoff said, fished the collar out of his pocket, pulled the collar out, and laid it on the table in front of Angus.

“Can…If I put it on, can you change me back?”

“My Good Boy collars can do lots of things,” Geoff said, “But you still want to put it on, don’t you? Even if I told you in was permanent? It doesn’t make a difference to you boy–so stop pretending like it matters, and put it on.”

“I…I can’t, I’m married, and I just want things to go back to the way they were.”

Geoff just stared at him, and then down at the collar. It was clear that going back wasn’t on the table, at the moment, but maybe, if…if he was good enough, Master would change him back…later, right? He could probably do that, after all. He picked up the collar and held it in his hands. He hadn’t gotten to see it at all, that night, and he was surprised by how normal it looked–the ragged brown leather, well worn, and a tarnished silver buckle. It did smell strongly of dog, and the notches for the buckle, for some reason, ran the entire length of the collar, from right beside the buckle, all the way to the end of the foot and a half long leather strap. He ran it around his neck, but had a hard time securing the buckle, because of how hard his hands were shaking, he made it, and as soon as he did, that sense of complete pleasure washed over him again, and his tongue rolled out of his mouth, hanging down to his chin.

“That’s a very good boy, putting your collar on all by yourself,” Geoff said, “You feel better, having that on you?”

Angus nodded, rubbing himself through his pants, so happy to hear Master call him a good boy again. It had been so long–days!–without hearing that from him, and he could feel his heart thrumm with excitement, his dog cock about ready to burst. “Yes sir, thank you sir, for putting my collar back on! I missed it…” Angus said, and then leaned closer, “Can…can I suck your cock again, Sir? I…I mean, if you want…”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t want to have a beer with me first?” Geoff said, “I thought you said that you just wanted to talk to me about something, when you messaged me?”

Angus whined impatiently. He had said that, hadn’t he? Why had he said that! He hadn’t meant that, that was such a dumb thing to say.

Geoff laughed, “I only live a block from here, boy, so why don’t we go there?”

Angus nodded, and followed the badger out of the bar, the rest of the patrons looking at him knowingly. It wasn’t the first time Geoff had brought someone there in one of his collars, and they all knew that in a day or two, Geoff would bring them back around–only this time much later a night, and usually only wearing their new, favorite collar in the whole world, more than eager to let the rest of the patrons of the bar have their turn. But for now–he was Geoff’s, and as Angus followed him out of the bar, he didn’t notice everyone else grinning at him. The only thing he could think about was his Master.

Police Dogs: Episode 1 (Part 3)

His cock. The cock attached to his body. That wasn’t…the cock he should have, was it? He’d had sex with a couple of hounds before, so he knew exactly what he was looking at–where his normal, human cock should have been, he was looking at a bright red dog cock, sliding free of a sheath running up from his balls.

He heard the toilet flush, and quickly scrambled for a clean pair of underwear to throw on before Chance came into the bedroom and fell on the bed, and Angus took his turn in the bathroom. Safely alone, he pulled down the briefs again, and just…stared at it, and then felt it, prodding it as it grew erect, and all he could hear in his head was the badger calling him a good boy, and the tightness of the collar around his neck. It had to be connected, didn’t it? It wasn’t exactly unheard of for someone to change species, of course–but usually it required close contact with that species, and didn’t happen this…suddenly. He did still have to piss, though aiming was a bit strange. The cock was slicker than usual, and didn’t feel at all right in his hand. He managed to not make too much of a mess, and then went to bed, where the lights were already out, and Chance was snoring. He didn’t manage to fall asleep for a while, running the encounter through his mind, and he recalled the card the badger had given him, that he’d put in his pocket. He got out of bed, found it, and took it into the hall to read it.

Officer Geoff Braddock. That was his name. It had a phone number too. Hopefully it would go away in a day or two–he’d heard that these sorts of things usually did. But if not…he’d have to see him again, and figure out what he’d have to do to fix this.


The changes didn’t disappear like Angus had hoped. The next morning, he still had his dog-like cock, and managed to keep it hidden from Chance through the day, keeping his underwear on, and running errands before they both had to go back to work the next day. Chance could tell he was distant, and knew something had happened between his husband and the cop the night before, but it was obvious Angus didn’t want to talk about it…and he was honestly relieved. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and that made him feel a bit guilty, since it was all, really, his fault for getting drunk when he should have stayed sober. But was that really all? Angus flinched in the afternoon, when Chance just laid a hand on his shoulder, and while he apologized for the reaction and said he’d just surprised him…there did seem to be something else going on. He didn’t want to ask though–he’d just get defensive. He’d have to trust that Angus would tell him when he was ready.

Work was easier, for Angus, than just staying at home. Having something to do made it easier to forget about what was wrong with him…though he was slowly realizing it wasn’t just his cock that seemed to have changed, even if that was the most prominent shift. There were other, slighter differences, things that he couldn’t quite be convinced were really different at all. His ears were slightly more pointed. The hair on his body was slightly thicker, especially around his crotch, and instead of the deep brown it was usually, it had lightened, almost into a tan color. He knew he should tell Chance about it–but hesitated all the same. Was it out of shame? Maybe a little, but part of him also…enjoyed it, more and more, as he was growing used to it. He would take out the card he’d gotten from Geoff, think about calling…but he didn’t. He almost didn’t want to know more. He just wanted everything to go back to normal–but it became increasingly clear, as the week wore on, that normal wasn’t going to happen if he did nothing. He either had to tell Chance and see if he could get some treatment–which meant being honest about everything–or it meant going to the cop, and seeing if he would help him get back to normal…though he doubted, somehow, the officer would want to. He had, every much, liked how good a boy Angus had been, hadn’t he? He had been a very good boy…and part of him wanted to be a good boy again.

When it became clear that things were not getting better on his own, and with Chance becoming more obviously concerned about what was troubling him, Angus broke down and called Geoff on Wednesday, after he left work. The badger didn’t pick up, and he left a voice message, telling him that he needed to see him, and not giving him any details. An hour later, he got a text back from the number.

Need more? I had a feeling you’d give me a call.

Should he tell him what was happening? No, it would be better if the cop just thought he wanted sex. If he told him about the changes, he’d probably hold the reason behind it for ransom. So he led him on, telling him he wanted more, telling him he wanted to be a good boy too, for him. They agreed to meet the next day, after work. Angus told Chance he was going to get drinks with some coworkers, and might be out late. He…hated lying to him, but really he was sparing him, right? He could barely focus the next day at work, all he could think about was the badger, and that collar. It had to have been the collar. Maybe it had been worn by some other dog, and that was why it had affected him like this. In any case…he just had to know, but secretly, he was wondering if he also wanted something else the badger was offering–the chance to…feel that again. To feel like a good boy. To…be a good boy. He caught himself at his desk, panting and rubbing his cock through the front of his pants, remembering how the badger had tasted. Remembering how…Master had tasted. He pulled his hand away, disgusted at himself, trying to strengthen his resolve. He finished the day, and then he headed for the bar where Geoff had arranged for them to meet.

Police Dogs: Episode 1 (Part 2)

Was he really suggesting what Angus thought he was suggesting? It wasn’t a…terrible suggestion, he supposed, and Chance would probably understand, right? It was better than paying thousands of dollars in fees, and maybe even jail time–and losing his job in the process. “I…I can help you out with whatever you need, officer.”

“That’s just Sir, to you, mutt.”

“Yes sir.”

“Turn around, and get on your knees.”

Angus was thankful that Chance couldn’t see this, at least, given they were behind the car in the dark. In all honesty, Angus was usually the one who was the top in the bedroom, but something about this situation was actually turning him on a bit as well. He carefully got down on his knees, looking up at the badger now, and had to admit he was quite handsome. Muscular and thick, despite his somewhat short stature, and with a thick gut, broad chest, and muscular, furry arms. The cop gripped the flashlight in his snout, undid his fly, and let his cock–just as short and thick as the rest of him, poke out. “Well come on then, get to it–and if you can’t do the job, maybe we’ll see if that husband of yours can do better.”

Angus did the best he knew how to do, though he wasn’t exactly enjoying it–and he hoped that Chance wouldn’t get brave, suddenly, and decide to see what was going on back here–if he couldn’t hear anyway, through the still open from window. Occasionally, a car would fly past them, and he would tense, the badger giving him a smack or poking his claws into the back of his neck, to encourage him to focus. “Come on now, be a good boy–the faster you work, the less likely anyone is going to see you.”

So Angus focused, and found a rhythm, while the badger slid one of his hands into a pocket of his pants. He slipped one of his favorite toys into work with him, because he’d had a feeling, as he usually did, that he might get a chance to have some fun tonight–and this was turning out to be quite a bit of fun. The man was already eager, and plenty willing to obey–but he’d be a proper good boy in no time–and so would that cute husband of his, too.

Before Angus noticed anything at all, the badger bent over, wrapped a strap of leather around his neck, and secured it in the back. Angus tried to yank away, but…didn’t. Instead, he felt an odd sense of pleasure numbing his mind–not unlike being a bit too drunk, but also quite a bit different. “Yeah, you’re going to be a very good boy from now on, won’t you?”

The words “good boy” lit something up in Angus’s brain this time, that it hadn’t done before. A direct, hot ,erotic pleasure and ride at doing what his Master told him to do, and doing it well…but he shouldn’t be feeling that, should he? He focused on sucking the badger’s cock instead, hoping that when he was finished, he would take it off of him…but did he want it to come off, really? It felt kind of comfortable, actually…like it belonged around his neck, and it made him feel good to wear it, didn’t it? Showing it off, letting everyone know that…that he was owned? He felt his cock straining the front of his jeans, but with his wrists secured behind him, all he could do was thrust forward–that, and leak profusely into his underwear.

“Guess somebody likes being a good boy,” the badger said, “That make you feel good, mutt? Sucking your master’s cock?”

“Yes sir,” Angus said, still stoking.

The badger didn’t last long after that, and he filled Angus’s mouth with a load of cum, and told him one more time that he was a very good boy, and that pushed Angus over the edge. He felt his cum spill out into his underwear, soaking the front of his pants as he panted, licking his lips of the badger’s cum, feeling proud at having done a good job like a good boy should. He looked up at the badger looming over him. He…wanted more. Wanted to keep being a good boy for him.

“I figured you’d just need a little motivation,” the badger said, reached down, and unhooked the collar from around Angus’s neck. As soon as it came lose, that feeling of eager devotion melted away into a deep, horrific shame. Had he really just done that? Sucked off a police officer on the side of the road, and enjoyed it? The badger hauled him up to his feet, turned him around, and unlocked the cuffs from his wrists. “Now that you’ve sobered up a bit, you should be good to go, right?”

Angus nodded..

“I couldn’t hear you, boy,”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good–you have a nice mouth. Not sure what your arrangement is with that hubby of yours, but if you want to be my good boy some more, here–” he fished a card out of his pocket, and handed it down to Angus, who took it, and wishing he didn’t want it as much as he did.

Angus got back up, went around the car, and got back in. “Are…are we free to go?” Chance asked.

“Yeah–I took care of it.”

Chance didn’t want to ask, and Angus didn’t really feel like talking about it. He drove very carefully the rest of the way home, still feeling how wet the front of his slacks were slick with his own cum, and still tasting the badger’s on his breath. Could Chance tell? He didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to offer any details. They got home. Chance stumbled in first, and Angus followed behind him, heading right for the bedroom so he could strip out of his soiled clothes, while Chance went into the bathroom. Angus hadn’t cum that hard in…well, a very long time. He dropped his pants and then his underwear–and when he looked down, he had to muffle a cry of surprise.

Police Dogs: Episode 1 (Part 1)

If you’re supporting me with at least $5 over on Patreon, you already have access to the whole first episode of this story! You can check it out here.


“Are you sure you’re good to drive?”

“I had less to drink than you did.”

Chance couldn’t argue with that, he supposed, but it did make him feel like an idiot. Usually they were a bit better about this when they drove into the city to go to a club on the weekend, but that cute polar bear had kept buying him drinks, and he hadn’t wanted to seem rude, even if he was supposed to be the designated driver. “Sorry,” he said, leaning against the car.

“No worries, it’ll be fine. I got a coffee,” Angus said, holding up the to go cup he’d gotten from a 24 hour cafe they’d passed on the way, sloshing a little bit as he did.

“We should just get a taxi.”

“And then what, get towed tomorrow morning? It’ll be fine. I’ll go slow, and I got you, right?”

Mostly, Chance just wanted to crawl into bed, but it wasn’t really too far to home–just half an hour or so–and it wasn’t like they hadn’t driven it plenty of times before. “Alright, but promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course.”

Chance didn’t really need any help staying awake though, because Angus’s driving was a bit more…erratic than he would have liked it to be. Still, they made it out of the city without major incident–only running one red light–and then out onto the highway, which was mostly clear of traffic this late at night, or early in the morning, he supposed, depending on your perspective. They were only a few exits away from their turnoff, when they heard the flare of a siren behind them, and Angus cursed under his breath.

“What, were you speeding?”

“A…little? I just wanted to get there faster.”

“Fuck–well, let’s just hope he’s not an asshole.”

Angus nodded, and pulled off onto the shoulder of the highway, giving his bearded face a couple of slaps, before guzzling the rest of his coffee, and pulling his license out of his pocket and the registration out of the glove compartment, rolled down the window, and they waited. After a minute, there was a crunch of boot on gravel, and the officer appeared at the window–a badger, from the silhouette. That…wasn’t a good sign. Maybe it was stereotyping, but the badgers Angus had always dealt with in the past had been, stubborn, hardheaded little pieces of work. The other reason it didn’t bode particularly well was because there was no doubt he’d be able to smell the alcohol on their breath. “Evening fellas,” the badger said, “License and registration please.”

Angus handed over the documents, and the badger looked them over with his flashlight, before shining it in the car at them both. “Out having a nice time tonight?”

“We’re just coming home from a vacation, officer,” Chance said, quickly, and Angus cleared his throat.

“Oh?” the badger said, leaning in a little close. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“I…was speeding a bit. Just tired, and eager to get home.”

“That, and you were swerving for about a mile–having trouble staying in your lane?”

Had he been swerving that much? Angus didn’t really remember, but he also knew there was no good answer he could give, so he said nothing.

“Would you step out of the car, sir?”

Angus unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car, trying to project confidence…but the jig was probably up, and they both knew it. The badger was a bit shorter than him, around five feet tall, but he projected an aura of authority that made Angus feel a little intimidated all the same. The badger ran him through several sobriety tests–seemingly just to humiliate him, as Angus knew he wasn’t passing a single one. The badger just seemed to enjoy watching him struggle, and when he finally made him blow into a breathalyzer, the reading of 0.13 just served to confirm what they all already knew.

Angus didn’t know what to say, as the badger shook his head. “That is quite a bit over the legal limit–why not have your friend drive?”

“My husband had more than I did.”

The badger just nodded, and smirked slightly. “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to place you under arrest. When he sobers up, he can pick you up–though I’m going to have to have to car towed–he can’t legally drive it, after all, and that makes it an abandoned vehicle.”

Angus gulped, thinking about the fees and fines already stacking up, which they didn’t quite have to money to pay for. “Look, I…it’s only a couple more miles, I feel fine, please–just…just ticket me for the speeding, please…”

The look in the badger’s eye glistened a bit, and he reached for his handcuffs. “Turn around and face the car, hands behind your back.”

It had been a long shot, but worth a shot at least. With a sigh, he turned around, and the badger yanked his wrists around and cuffed them behind his back–but instead of leading him back to the cop car, the badger, instead, gave him a pat down. A rather…intimate pat down.

“You know, you and your husband aren’t bad looking, for humans, I suppose. Not really my usual type, honestly.” The badger kneaded the sides of Angus’s gut, and then he came in close, pressing his bulge against his ass, reaching around with one clawed hand and squeezing his cock through the jeans he was wearing. “I could be convinced to look the other way, I suppose, make sure the two of you get home safely, tonight, if you could help me out a little bit like a good boy.”

My Town (Part 11)

Quentin woke up later on a concrete floor and rolled over, expecting to find himself still in his garage, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was somewhere else he recognized–the inside of one of the city’s jail cells. He got up, still a bit unsteady, and went to the cell door, but it was locked–why in the hell was he even in here at all? The evening before was…fuzzy, but he could remember enough of what mattered–that Todd was doing something to the men of the town, something evil and vile, and he needed to be stopped. Something…else was wrong with him though. There was a need in his chest, a need in his guts, something he couldn’t explain. He knew he should…remember, but it was locked away somehow, but he felt…sick to his stomach.

He shouted for help, but no one came. He just sat on the bench, guts twisting, a headache brewing in his temples, wondering what on Earth was going on with him, until he heard voices–the familiar voices of his two most loyal deputies–coming down the hall to the cells. They would understand–he knew Todd hadn’t gotten to either of them yet. Together, maybe, they would be able to stop him.

Then he smelled it–smoke. Not fire smoke, but tobacco smoke. The need in his guts grew more intense, and he gagged, vision spinning. They rounded the corner and he could see them, Deputies Hawkes and Miles, and walking ahead of them both was Todd, smoking a cigar just like he had been the night before. His blood ran cold when he realized that both Hawkes and Miles seemed different as well. They were both smoking too–Hawkes a massive Boswell Pipe, and Miles a thick gauge cigar, and their uniforms were wrong too. The usual cotton blue was gone. Instead, they were both wearing formal black leather uniforms…just like the one he’d seen on himself in that vision the night before. And when he saw that, it finally occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing the uniform he’d had on the night before either–but he also wasn’t wearing a leather version like his fellow officers.

It fact, he wasn’t wearing much of anything at all. He had on a pair of denim shorts, hugging his ass and crotch tight, showing off his ample ass, thick leather biker boots up to his knees, and a mesh shirt, which showed off his hairy chest and shoulders. He felt different, somehow–his entire body seemed off, but he couldn’t quite nail down the details. It felt like his body, but at the same time he knew he should be different–not this muscular, not with this wide ass that seemed to shake when he took a step. He caught another whiff of smoke, stronger this time, and he couldn’t stop his mouth from opening up and saying, “Fuck boys, this ash pig is starving–you got anything for a filthy slut like me?”

His cheeks turned bright red when he heard himself speak, mostly from how desperate he sounded. The deputies laughed as they approached, and Miles said, “Sure, Ashtray, have some of mine,” and stuck the lit end of his cigar through the bars, tapping it on the metal, and dropping the ember onto the floor. He flung himself down picked up as much of the ash in his fingers as he could and shoved it in his mouth, the satisfaction flooding his body making him moan, and he groped himself in his tight shorts, before getting down and licking up the rest of it from the concrete.

“You’re such a fuckin’ pig, Ashtray,” Hawkes said. He unlocked the cell door and stepped inside, moving behind Quentin and grinding his fat cock against Quentin’s fat ass. “Sometimes I think you cause trouble just because you like getting fucked in a cell. That turn you on pig? Being at the mercy of the two meanest cops in town?”

“Officer, ya can fuck me anywhere, anytime as long as you pay me for it, you know that,” Quentin said, and slipped his shorts down, Hawkes slipping his own sizable cock into Quentin’s ass. “Fuck, nothing like the first fuck and the first mouthful of ash in the mornin.”

“Get that tongue out, Ashtray,” Miles grabbed him by the hair through the bars and yanked him up, and Quentin stuck his tongue out, screaming in delight when Miles rolled the cigar over his tongue, leaving it coated in ash. Then, before he could swallow, he shoved his cock through the bars, and rammed it down Quentin’s throat, making him gag on the length, and the hot ash he hadn’t managed to swallow.

The two cops played with Quentin for a couple of hours, and in his mind, he was reeling. He had no control over himself–he’d do literally anything for a taste of ash, or a taste of smoke from their lips. He would look over at Todd on occasion, begging him with his eyes for release, but Todd was just smiling around his cigar, his gloved hands exploring his body, and as he watched, Todd changed more–his beard now more white than ash grey, his body powerfully muscled aside from a thick gut, cock now over twelve inches long, so long he stroked it with two hands while he watched, encouraged, and directed the humiliating scene unfolding in front of him.

The two cops came first, both in Quentin’s now very loose hole. Then Hawkes dumped the ash from his massive pipe on the floor while Miles held him back, pissed on the pile, turning it into a slurry, and they let him loose, watching him grind his bearded face into the ashy muck, Miles shoving the end of his cigar into Quentin’s hole, and told him to keep it there, so he could eat it later. Unable to stop himself, Quentin felt his cock explode in his shorts as he licked up the filth, and the two cops laughed as they left the cell, telling Ashtray that he was free to go–unless he felt like hanging around for round two in a couple of hours. That, or they could always pick him up off the street a bit later, instead.

They laughed, and walked off, leaving Quentin overwhelmed and humiliated, looking up at Todd, who was still across from the cell, smiling at him. “Well Ashtray? You gonna get going or not?”

Pigtown Prison II – The Rookie (Part 5)

Jeff looked up at him, where Keith loomed large over everything, over his entire life. What did it really matter, if he agreed or not? He’d be Keith’s toy either way–but at least, if he agreed…maybe he would be happier with himself. So he said yes, and Keith told him to take two days, sell his things, end his lease, and return with a single bag. He’d be living with Keith from now on, as his slave. The word made Jeff balk, and when he left, he told himself he wouldn’t do it…but the desperation returned, as it always did. Two days later, he was there on the porch, one small duffel packed with only the necessities, and he stepped inside, got on his knees when ordered, and sucked his Master’s cock, showing his gratitude that Keith was willing to train him.

He stayed on at the force, but Keith had his hours cut back quite a bit, and arranged it so Jeff’s checks would be deposited automatically into his own accounts. Keith had a sizable personal gym in his house, and when Jeff wasn’t at work or completing his chores, he was there–working out and lifting weights. His meals were massive, and from the first day, Keith would inject him several times during the day, but always refused to tell Jeff what, exactly, the injections were. Still–they were working. Three months later, he was already larger–when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was beginning to see the sort of brute he longed to be…but his looks weren’t the only changes. His mind was slowing down. He had a difficult time making decisions, and relied on Keith–or Master, as he called him now, to decide everything for him–when to eat, what to eat, when to sleep, how to work out, what chores to do. It was a comfort, really, that he didn’t have to think. He knew he was being reduced to a stupid beast…but rather than be horrified, the idea actually turned him on more and more.

Keith shaved his head, pierced his nipples and cock, and began taking him to a tattoo parlour, his entire body slowly being covered by blocks and swirls of black ink, from his neck down to the tops of his feet. He loved it–especially when he was in Pigtown and caught sight of himself in a mirror, while he was balls deep inside a pig’s hole. He looked like a nasty minded thug pig, just like Keith told him he was going to be–and it was all he really wanted to be, anymore. At the bar, he would still take Rod’s drinks, but now that he was larger, the effect was even more substantial. Each time he was there, he would up even larger than before–and in turn, his daily body never felt large enough–no matter how large he got. He knew, in his mind, that he should be satisfied, but between Keith’s humiliation, and the rush of those evenings behind the curtain, even when he finally plateaued at 280 pounds of muscle and fat…he still felt puny. It didn’t help that, somehow, he was getting shorter. He lost almost six inches, from the time he moved in with Keith–and he was never able to get a straight answer why. The loss in height only made him work harder for more and more mass. He lost flexibility, his muscles restricting his movement–especially in his shoulders and neck. The pills and shots Keith were forcing on him fucked with his hormones as well, his cock and balls growing and constantly horny, hair sprouting all over his body in thick patches, and acne erupting all over his face and back, leaving his face scarred and pitted. His face–he barely recognized old photos of him anymore. He seemed so square and boxy, his head sitting right on his massive, inflamed chest, a thick beard hiding his mouth, usually stuck in a scowl.

As thick as he was, and as aggressive as he found himself behaving around the precinct–especially around guys on the force he knew he’d be fucking later in the evening, Keith kept him under his control at all times. He loved the fact that he could bend Jeff over, anywhere and anytime, and have his way with his muscle bull–with Rook, as everyone had started calling him, joking that he was built like a tower on a chess board. Keith had come up with it–as a way to shorten his usual nickname of Rookie, now that he was no longer new–and he especially loved it because Rook had grown too stupid to really understand the reference, but he knew it was a compliment, and so he grinned when he heard it all the same.

A few years later, Rook had nearly forgotten about Jeff entirely. He was Master’s enforcer, bruiser, and pet monster–whatever Master Keith wanted him to be, and whoever he wanted him to hurt, Rook obeyed him without question. The last time he felt Jeff at all, was when he was down in Master’s dungeon, punishing one of his prisoners. The leather body bag was hanging from the ceiling, squirming, as Rook went at it for another round, treating it like a literal punching bag, enjoying the feel of the flesh breaking and squishing inside so much more satisfying than the fluff of the bags he usually practiced on. Still–it had had enough. He unzipped the head of the bag, and saw the face inside–it was some old pig named Oliver, who’d been down here as long as Rook could remember, and looking at his bloody face, he felt a flicker of regret…but he stamped it out. That was weakness. He didn’t want to be weak. He grabbed Oliver by the ears, shoved his dick into his mouth and fucked him roughly, imagining he was fucking himself, that old self, breaking it up and throwing it away for good, and by the time he came, feeding the grateful Oliver a good sized load, Rook felt better. Rook felt like everything was exactly the way things were supposed to be.

Pigtown Prison II – The Rookie (Part 4)

He went back to the gym, and again worked himself to exhaustion, and then kept going. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t strong enough. If he was stronger, he could beat Keith at his own game. If he was bigger, he’d be in control of himself, he’d be in control of everything. He collapsed, hours later, shaking and covered and sweat, and looked at the clock. It was five thirty, and if he jogged…no. No, he wouldn’t do it. It was a trap, and he knew it was a trap, and still, he was getting up, still in his sweat soaked gym clothes, and he left, hustling down the sidewalks through rush hour until he reached the precinct building, where Keith was on the steps, in his uniform, waiting. “You had me worried, Rookie–you’re a couple minutes late. Good thing I was feeling lenient today.”

Jeff wanted to pummel him into the ground. He wanted to drag him in, throw him in a jail cell, and find someone–anyone–who would believe him. But being this close to him, smelling him, he found himself shrinking slightly as he approached…and he hated it. “You can’t…do this to me.”

Keith smiled, “Rookie, you still don’t get it. You’re going to be doing this to yourself, soon enough. Now let’s get going.”

The walk to the bar was quiet. Jeff did his best to memorize the path, so he’d, hopefully, be able to find his way back on his own, so he could report the place…later. But the street wasn’t even the same one as before–even if the bar looked the same–and now even more confused, he followed Keith up the steps and into the bar–and once he was inside, everything just came naturally, like sliding into a dream. Four or five painful drinks, and then he was himself again. He was the self he wanted to be, and then he was back behind the curtain, fucking any hole he could find, but now, Keith stayed close by, urging him on, both of them fucking pigs together, occasionally fucking Jeff while Jeff fucked someone else, and Jeff found himself…envying Keith. His uniform, and his confidence. The next morning he was back in Keith’s apartment, and back to himself, but when Keith wanted to fuck him…Jeff found himself looking forward to it, in some sick way, and that was when he realized he had, without even thinking about it, given in entirely.

He managed to keep some semblance of himself together, for a time. But every night he spent in Pigtown with Keith and the other pigs on the force, the more he wanted to be that brute, and the more disgusting he found his relatively small frame the next day. When the sergeant suggested he become Keith’s partner on the force, he jumped at the chance–and quickly discovered that Keith had quite the racket going on the side. Usually, at the end of their shifts, they’d pick up a suspect or two, with or without evidence, and take them to Pigtown. None of them ever left again, to Jeff’s knowledge…but that didn’t faze him like he knew it should. He honestly didn’t care what he had to do anymore, so long as Keith kept taking him there…but eventually, the bar wasn’t enough. He didn’t just want to be the brute at night–he wanted to be him all the time. He didn’t care what it would take, or what he would have to give up, and so, one night, while Keith was distracted, Jeff went to the bar, where Rod poured him another drink–but he didn’t take it.

He was about halfway there, at this point. Muscles hulking, cock aching for a good hole, but still…capable of thought, even if he didn’t really want to. He pushed the drink away, which caught Rod by surprise. “What’s up, Rookie? Wanting something different tonight?”

“No…I…” he hesitated, “I don’t…want it to end, anymore.”

Rod cocked an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow, and be small anymore. I can’t…take it. I hate it, I hate myself. I just…I want to be this. This brute. I don’t…care what you do to me. I know guys disappear here. I know most of the guys Keith and I bring here just go behind that curtain and never come back out. I don’t care what you do to me back there, but I can’t go back out. I can’t bear it anymore.”

Rod nodded, “As sexy as that would be, chaining you up down there, making a real monster out of you–that’s not quite my call.”

“You own this place! It can be your call. I give you permission, please, just…just take me.”

“This is the deal I have with Keith. He brings me men, and in return, I let him do what he likes with the ones he claims–men like you. And trust me–he likes you a lot, and he likes how miserable you look the morning after. I suppose you could ask him. He might be willing to let you stay down there, if you beg. He likes it when they beg–trust me.”

He looked at Keith, and then back at Rod. “He won’t do it, I know him. He won’t.”

Rod shrugged, and pushed the drink over to him. “Then bottoms up, Rookie. Get what you can, if you can’t get what you want.”

The next morning, even though he knew what Keith’s answer was going to be, he asked anyway. He got down on his knees and begged for it, really, begged for Keith to let him be the brute, begged him to let him stay there, if he wanted. Keith just listened, laughed, and shoved Jeff onto all fours, and fucked him again, right on the floor.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Keith asked, “Sure, you make a sexy beast, at night, but what I love is this,” he hammered in his cock for emphasis, “This, the morning after, seeing how weak you are, seeing you realize how weak you are. Letting me do whatever the fuck I want to you, all of that ego, and all of that power just stripped away, and you turn into a desperate little faggot, everytime. Because that’s what you really are, you know. A desperate faggot. All of my pigs are. Don’t feel too bad about it–none of you can help it. Not you, not the sergeant, not the captain, not anyone on the squad. You’re all just pigs–and nothing more.” He kept fucking, Jeff trying to feel some anger or rage at Keith…but he just felt empty. The cock in his ass filled the hole slightly, but it wasn’t enough–it was never going to be enough. Keith finished, and slipped free, and while he wiped his cock off, he said, “Still–you want it that badly? Then fine. I’ll help. But you don’t get it the easy way, and you have to do everything I say pig. No talking back, no resistance, and never, ever say no. One chance–take it, or don’t.”

Pigtown Prison II (Part 3)

But of course it was for better! He…didn’t really want to be that beast, did he? No! Of course not! He tried to convince himself of that for a few minutes, and generally succeeded in doing so, burying that secret joy back in his chest, and he got out of bed, looked around for his clothes, only to remember that he’d…torn them all to shreds. How in the hell did he even get home last night–or rather, how in the hell did he get here? While the beginning of the night was relatively clear, the whirlwind of sex never seemed to end in his memory–there was just fucking, then nothing, then here, himself again and hungover.

The door to the room swung open, and there, in the doorway, was Keith–also completely naked, with that same cocky grin on his face from the bar plastered across it. “Morning Rookie–feeling alright?”

“F-Fuck you,” Jeff managed to stammer, “What the fuck was that?”

“Just an initiation of sorts, is all. You certainly enjoyed yourself, don’t you think?” He walked in, and he reeked of sex and leather and smoke, just like Jeff did, and he scooted back on the bed. “No, get the fuck away from me.”

“Oh? After giving you such a good night, where you enjoyed yourself so much, and now you think you can just prude up? It’s time for you to learn, Rookie, that a night at Pigtown with me doesn’t ever come free.”

Jeff couldn’t resist him–he didn’t feel like he could do anything. Keith had him pinned down, kissing and licking his neck, and to his own disgust–he liked it. Keith liked it too, feeling Jeff struggle, feeling how weak he was, and taunted him with it, mocked him, how such a big man from the night before was just going to give it up like this. Before long, Jeff was on his belly, Keith inside him, fucking him, and fuck, it felt good–and Keith knew it felt good. It was like he…knew him, inside and out, every button, so that by the time Keith finally filled Jeff’s hole with a load, Jeff had already shot his onto the sheets beneath him, and he felt like whore.

“Not bad Rookie, for your first real fuck,” Keith said, and got up from the bed. “You can borrow some of my clothes to get home, if you want–or just go naked. You were certainly shameless and proud of it last night in the streets. Or hey, if you want more, you can always stick around.”

He didn’t want to stick around. It took Jeff most of the day to sort his shit back out, get to his car where he’d parked it, and get back to his apartment. If anything, it was nice having a concrete problem to solve–but when he was alone again…everything came surging back. The shame, the weakness, the…lust. The clothes Keith had given him were dirty cast offs, full of his musk, and Jeff couldn’t help but smell them, thinking about that fuck earlier–but also about how he’d felt that night before. How big he’d been. How horny he’d been. How good it had felt to be so dominant and powerful. Looking at himself in the mirror, it was difficult to convince himself that he really was back to normal–compared to who he’d been for those few hours, he couldn’t help but see himself as a runt. He jacked off a couple of times, and then decided to go to the gym.

He spent hours there. He skipped his cardio, and focused on weights, pushing himself to the max over and over again. At first, it was just to prove to himself that he was a strong as he remembered…but eventually it wasn’t about proving himself at all. He…wanted to be that big again. He wanted it like he’d never really wanted anything in his life. This wasn’t enough–if…if he couldn’t be that brute, then he…he didn’t think he’d ever really be happy again. In the end, he just exhausted himself and trudged home, every muscle on fire, covered in sweat but no larger than he had been. Everything felt so…hopeless. But maybe…maybe if he could find that bar again, he could get another one of those drinks. Maybe just…one more night like that, and he could get this all out of his system.

He followed Keith’s directions to the letter, but when he reached the alley, the bar was nowhere to be found. It didn’t even look like the same part of the city. He cased the whole street anyway, and then started weaving around the streets nearby, certain it had to be close, but everytime he thought he saw a flicker of that blue neon, it turned out to be just another closed sign hung in the window of a pawn shop or restaurant. It had to exist. It had to. It couldn’t have all just been in his head, he refused to believe that. Defeated and desperate, he went back to his apartment and fell into a fitful sleep.

He skipped work the next day, and called in sick. He couldn’t face them, any of them, not after what he’d done. Especially not after what he’d done to the sergeant…and not after what the sergeant had begged him to do to him. It was clear–this was all Keith’s doing, and that bartender. He needed to turn them in, and clear house at the precinct. If that involved implicating himself then so be it. So he called the captain’s line, ready to confess, but when the phone picked up, he didn’t get an answer–all he could hear was some distant grunting and moaning.

“That you, Rookie?” a voice said over the line after a minute. It was Keith. “Of course it is. The captain and I are busy at the moment–I heard you aren’t feeling too good though. Need a pick me up? Meet me at the precinct tonight, six sharp, and we can go get you what you need.”

The phone hung up, leaving Jeff standing there, shaking, cock hard and erect, wondering just how high this went. Did he dare call someone else? Go to internal affairs? If he did, and the person he talked to was compromised…he had a feeling that neither Keith, nor Pigtown, would treat him kindly for that betrayal.

Betrayal–it wasn’t a fucking betrayal! The fucker had lured him there under false pretenses, drugged him, and then raped him the morning after in the clear light of day. He didn’t understand his own reluctance. He’d never been one to shy away from the moral act, even if it was difficult, but he found himself caught between that old self, and someone else entirely. He needed to clear his head. He needed to work out.