The Unholy Trinity (Sketch)

Warning: Satanic references and scat, if that bothers you.

Do you wish to be cured of your sinful weakness?

He did. God, did he. Neville wanted to be good, had always done his hardest to be good in all things. To be christ-like, to be worthy of God, but the struggle–it was so hard now, at college, away from his family. Even at this Christian school, they were still here, he was certain of it. Faggots of all descriptions, looking at him, wanting him (or was it just him, wanting them? Seeing his own gaze reflected in their glances at him?) and he…he was too close to succumbing to temptation, closer than he’d ever been, even when he’d snuck a kiss from Tanner Abrahms in the woods, which had gotten him a summer long stay at the conversion camp. It was all he could think about. He was weak…and he was willing to try anything to be free of this sin.

So he’d found this website. A website claiming it could cure him of all the desires that ailed him, if he would just put his full faith in the Trinity. Idolatry, really, he knew that. No website could do what God alone was capable of, but maybe, at least, it would make him feel better. He hovered the cursor over the yes button, clicked it, and the screen loaded with a strange, undulating spiral, and the words:

As Christ worshiped the feet of men, so you too, worship the feet of all men, the first of the trinity.

What happened next, he couldn’t describe. It was a vision, yes, but also a memory, and a desire–so many things all at once, he didn’t know how to describe it–all he could do was experience it, helplessly.

“That’s good pig–you like the taste of that filth?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” he said, running his tongue along the sole, tasting the filth the man had been building up. He claimed he hadn’t changed his socks in days, and Neville believed it as he licked, stroking his own cock, feeling a load building in his balls.

“Never known a faggot who got off more on a rank foot than a nice cock–good thing I got both for ya, whenever ya need ‘em.” He took one foot and kicked Neville’s hand away, grinding it against his cock and balls, and it was too much–he exploded all over the man’s foot, and then licked his own cum off it, thanking him for allowing him to serve him as a foot pig.

Then, it was gone–well, hardly gone. It was seared into his soul. It had happened, it, and so much more. He looked over and could see the collection of shoes he’d bought off filthy men he’d met, how he knew their smells so personally–and quickly, he tried to shut to window on the computer, but it refused. The screen simply faded to black, and a new spiral appeared, and a new phrase below:

Baptized in the piss of our lord, drinking of his waters and allowing his perversion to root out the weakness inside you.

Neville tried to tug his eyes away from the spiral, but already, he could feel a second vision overwhelming him.

It was warm. He stuck out his tongue, and the man directed his stream onto it, and as soon as he tasted it…he knew he would need more.

“That’s a good fucker, drink it all down. You wanna smell like my piss, don’t you?”

He nodded, and looked up at him. It was the same man as before–older, chubby, and while a name didn’t come to him, Neville knew he always called him Daddy, his…Father. Not his real father, but that seemed…so far away now. This was the man who cared for him, who nurtured him, who taught him the ways of the true Lord.

He pulled out his own cock, pointed it up, and started pissing on himself, as Daddy directed hos own stream onto the filthy shirt he was wearing. “A fuckin’ natural–they’re gonna love ya, fuck.”

The vision left him again, but the smell didn’t. The sensation of dampness. He reeked of urinals, he could taste piss on his tongue, and it was divine. He couldn’t help himself–he hauled his cock free of the yellow briefs he had on and started jacking off as the second spiral disappeared, and a third came into focus:

You feast of the shit of men, and it shall sustain you in ways the body never could. The lord provides, and you shall be a true servant of the unholy trinity.

He tired to resist it. He knew he should be able to resist it…but his faith had been weak. He had been tempted, and now, he could feel himself falling into the clutches of Satan, a third and final vision overwhelming him.

“Tell me what you want, slave,” Daddy said.

“I want your shit, sir.”

“You wanna be daddy’s toilet pig? If you start–I ain’t gonna be usin’ that toilet much anymore. It’s all gonna go down that nasty throat of yours.”

He pushed his ass back, into Neville’s face, and let loose a wet fart. He snorted the stench down, his already rock hard cock throbbing. He’d eaten Daddy’s nasty crack plenty of times before, and he…he was ready. He wanted this, he wanted to be this…this pig, forever. Daddy grunted and bore down, and Neville ate–and as he ate, he felt the shame, the horror–all of it curdled into a single ball of lust. Lust like he’d never known before, and he devoured it all, licking his lips after Daddy helped him wash down the last of it with his piss, and then jacked Neville off with his foot. “Your mine now, boy. Mine forever. You’re Satan’s Pig–and your name is now–”

“Ville!” he screamed in his room as he came, cum exploding all over his nasty underwear he wore when he was at home, reeking of sex and musk, just how he liked them. Neville was gone–he could feel that weak thing falling down into the darkness, lost to the fires of hell and damnation–right where it belonged. Ville was free now–free, and with a new mission, to serve his own, unholy trinity for the rest of his life.

He got dressed in his favorite gear, making sure everyone could see looking at him what kind of pig he was, and lit a red as he hit the pavement. He was a missionary now–a disciple, and he would find someone to share the gospel of the unholy trinity with before the night was through–or hell, maybe two, he thought, seeing two cute college students pass him by, catch a whiff of his filthy body, and freeze. “Hey boys,” he said, putting an arm around each of their shoulders, “Why don’t you two come back to my place? We can have some real fun together, I bet.”

Winter Vacation (Finale)

Had he been too cocky? No–he’d done his best, he was sure of it. Nate looked around the kitchen, at every surface covered with the remnants of their massive breakfast, knowing he should eat more, knowing that he had to eat more, if he was going to win, but he just…he just couldn’t do it. Brett just smelled…so fucking good–he dove back into his brother’s pit, while Brett cleaned off another plate from the pile, and let off a long belch before leaning back against the wall, and allowing his little brother better access to his massive, stinking, sweaty body.

He had to be at least ten feet tall now–too large to be able to stand up in the house, at this point–if he even could stand. It had been about halfway through the meal, that Brett was certain he was going to lose, after all. He’d been trying to move from the table to the island, in search of more to eat, when he’d felt his legs buckle under his own weight, and he’d collapsed–and been unable to get himself back up. Nate had just laughed at him, stuffing his face, their daddy looking on the scene from near the stove. He’d been doing so well, he’d nearly passed Nate entirely…but now, if he couldn’t get to the food, what was he going to do?

Daddy had offered him a deal–one he’d…been reluctant to take, but now…now he understood. He’d felt his daddy’s demonic essence flow into him, and he’d started to change, the filth pouring from him, soaking him down from head to toe. He reeked now, but not like before. It was…inhuman. He was inhuman, he could feel the thing burning inside him, burning him away, but it didn’t matter. He was big now. He was the big brother, and he always would be. As soon as Nate had smelled his intense scent, he’d been helpless–and rather than stuff himself, he’d started focusing only on feeding his filthy brother, as much as he wanted, worshiping him and his stink when he had enough food to focus on, helping him balloon larger and larger, his belly heaving out with every plate until it covered his legs, which had seemed to be…shrinking. In fact, Brett couldn’t feel his legs anymore at all–he…he didn’t need them.

He leaned forward, feeling new sets of muscles in his massive belly contracting, and sliding him across the floor like a massive slug, leaving a putrid, stinking trail of filth behind him, which Nate could no longer resist. He picked it up, feeling it dry in his hands into a tacky mass–he hauled the dip from his cheek and wedged some of his brother’s filth in instead, and it tasted so…foul, he came, spurting a massive load of cum across the floor as thick, black drool ran down into his beard.

“What do you say, little bro?” Brett asked.

“Thank…thank you…big bro.”

“If you really want to say thank you, get over here and let your nasty big bro fuck that hole of yours, like a good boy.”

Brett’s cock had changed as well–nearly a foot long, the head shaped like a spade, and…prehensile. It wormed into Nate’s hole with incredible ease, and he could feel it…squirming about inside him, his brother gripping him tight in his strong, flabby arms, thrusting deep until he came, flooding him with thick, gloppy cum, and then pulling free, Nate collapsing, feeling both utterly violated, and supremely grateful at the same time.

“That’s very good son, I’m so proud of you,” their daddy said, walking over to Brett, “Now, go up to your room for a while–let me and Nate have a little…father son chat.”

Brett slid from the room and upstairs, where he found the entire upper floor had melded together into a single, massive, cavernous space, all of it reeking of him. He relaxed, allowing his slime to spread, wondering what his daddy had in mind for his little brother.

“Please daddy, I’m sorry. Don’t…don’t punish me, I tried…” Nate said, as his daddy helped him up. He was eight feet tall now, his gut sagging low, but unlike his brother, much of the weight he’d gained was muscle. He was so wide, he would struggle with most normal doorways for the rest of his life.

“Now now, I’m proud of you too, boy. You have a role here, as well. The most important role.”

Nate looked up at him. “Are…are you going to change me too?”

His daddy shook his head. “No–No, you are the first, the leader. The missionary. You need to go out into the world, and bring us more men–men who will join you in blissful, eternal service to your demonic lords of the house–and to you, of course. You will always be first among them, my chosen one.

Nate nodded in understanding, and worshiped his daddy’s–his demonic lord’s–cock for the first time, reveling in its taste and glory, and when he was finished, he got on his hog, and rode down into town, where he sidled up to the bar, and sized up the men around him, looking for the first men to join his daddy’s fledgling cult. He didn’t have his brother’s stench to compel their minds, but he was strong–he overwhelmed a couple of hunters, bound them up, and drove them home in their own truck, where his daddy was waiting for them on their porch. He was pleased–and a week later, the two hunters were eagerly thanking their new master Nate in the garage, cleaning his feet and licking foul, black spit from his belly like the hungry pigs they’d become.

–END–

Winter Vacation [Interactive] (Part 8)

The car pulled up the driveway late at night, while the daddy and the two boys were deep asleep. The coach stepped out of the car and stretched with a groan, the soft snow falling hitting his skin where it melted instantly and turned to steam, shrouding him in a thin mist as he surveyed the house.

Of course, the coach didn’t have much of the coach left inside his body anymore. It had been a long process, since the summer, when a chance encounter with an odd amulet in a curio shop which housed a rather powerful demon of lust, gluttony, sloth, pride–well, it did love to indulge in every vice imaginable, really. The coach had fought as best he could, but by the time college had entered session, he had been losing, lost in the…fantasies the demon was promising him, no longer ever sure if they were his own or not. Lusting after the young men on the team, and the demon–the demon could give him any of them. The first time he’d put Rich into that trance and fucked the star player in his office–he’d known there was no going back from that, and so, he’d given in–without really understanding what, exactly, that meant.

The coach didn’t really exist on the mortal plane, anymore. He could observe, at times, what was going around his body, but his spirit was lost to that world, and now existed only in the demons realm, twisted and warped by the nightmarish pleasure and vices of the place until he could no longer even recognize himself. Part of him–a small part now, the last bit of his humanity, knew he’d consigned these four young men to a fate worse than death, but the new him, the warped, nightmarish thing he’d become in the darkness here, it watched eagerly to see what the demon, what his master, would do to the four of them next.

The first step, after all, was temptation. The four of them had succumbed to that step rather easily, though they had all been well primed by the demon over the last semester to be prepared for that step. Twisting their little minds had been such a joy, there in the locker room. Deceiving them, planting the idea in Rich’s mind to take the four of them on this secluded vacation deep into the mountains without telling anyone where they were going. Now they had wallowed in their vices for days, losing themselves, their connection to reality. None of them would be able to fight him now, though they may try.

With the coach’s spirit dispatched, he had gained free reign of the man’s mortal frame, and warped it to become more…familiar to his demonic tastes. Six and a half feet tall, weighing over four hundred pounds of muscle and fat, coated in hair, cock hanging to his knees, short horns pushing from his forehead. He stepped up the porch and into the house, moving with incredible silence for his massive frame. He could hear the three men snoring loudly in the three corners of the house, but his business with them could wait. No–first to the basement, to check on Rich, or at least, what remained of him.

Down the stairs he went, and he could smell him even before he hit the floor, the stench of waste, filth, and rubber. It filled him with such…delight, and his cock began to harden, growing to a foot in length, the head oddly barbed, and dribbling an steaming, dark grey cum onto the concrete floor. There he was–in his cocoon, lying against the wall there. It no longer appeared to hold a body at all, it had become so bloated and misshapen over the last week, ingesting the piss and waste of the men above him. It had been necessary, to deal with him in such a way, to corrupt him so completely. The others all showed such lust and hunger for vice and evil, but Rich–he had been the one to show the most resistance. The demon walked to the rubber cocoon and grazed it with one sharp nail, feeling the thing inside shiver with delight. Yes–it was ready for the final stage now, most certainly.

He detached the hose from the mask, leaving just a sizable hole where Rich’s mouth should have been, but it was difficult to see what, exactly was inside. It was a hole, in any case–and the demon guided the head of it to the head of his cock, sliding it into the slimy throat, feeling how…hungry it was. He probed the mind left inside the rubber, and found only the simplest of thoughts–and a great, mindless, obsessive hunger. Well, it would have plenty to eat, soon enough. He fed it lovingly, savoring the moment, sliding in deep, feeling the thing pulsing and twitching around his cock. It lacked form and substance. It could be anything. It would be anything, anything the demon wanted it to become, and he had just the thing in mind. The soul would not stay, however–no, that was still too much of a risk. Besides, he had a promise to keep, with the coach, one final deal to satisfy, to ensure his place here in the mortal realm was secure. He came, and as Rich’s form accepted the demon’s seed, Rich felt himself sinking away into some strange, new darkness.

He was himself–his body was his again. He looked around, and cried out for help–but there, waiting for him, was the coach, or at least, what remained of the coach’s soul. The beast charged him, impaling him on his monstrous cock, delighted with the demon’s gift, and the mental link between them closed–the coach now lost to hell with, Rich, who would become his own twisted mate in time.

Meanwhile, the demon watched the cocoon begin to convulse and warp, reacting to both his seed, and his will. But what, exactly, did it become?

Alright, what’s it going to be?

It becomes a part of the house, ready to further corrupt the men above.
It bursts, releasing a fellow demon from hell eager for some fun.
It reforms into a mindless rubber slave drone, ready to serve.
The demon absorbs it, making him more powerful than before.

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Orwell’s Demon (Part 10)

WARNING: Scat, Abuse, Filth, & other strange stuff.

Orwell couldn’t stop himself from trembling as the demon approached him. How could he have fought him for so long? How could he have ever wanted to deny himself this moment of glory? The demon’s form was grotestque, twisted–but then, so was Orwell’s own–so were they all. He’d been seeing everything through human eyes, before, comparing himself to the normalcy of earth, but why? Why had he refused?

“Now, I believe that I promised you a cock, Orwell. Unfortunately, Hurlbane is making use of your old one already–so we’ll have to give you a new one. Luckily, I have one just perfect for a piggy like you.”

The demon pressed one burning palm to Orwell’s bare groin, and he felt something stir beneath it–something was…inside him, trying to force it’s way out. A moment later, a corkscrew shaped cock erupted from beneath his skin, forming a sheath running up under his gut, and then two massive balls descended into a new sack, each of them the size of a small melon. The demon took his hand away, but the burning didn’t stop. The corrupted boar cock and balls were flooding his body with lust, changing him more. His hands and feet twisted and hardened, becoming four trotters, barely capable of holding anything==but what did Orwell need to hold anymore, beyond a cock? His face was twisting as well, a short snout pushing out from his face, two thick, dirty tusks growing from his lower jaw. Six more nipples erupted from his body, all of them cigars like the first two, and with a snap of his fingers the demon set them all alight, Orwell snorting and grunting in beautiful pain, smoke streaming from his now porcine nose and mouth. His hair returned, but not human hair–it was rough boar bristle, covering his back, leaving his belly bare, the skin hardening into a proper hide, the filthy designs twisting and contorting, mutating constantly into any number of perverse and blasphemous imagery. A short, curly tail shoved its way free above his ass, and it was done. Orwell was no longer human–just a demonic boar, enthralled to his demonic master. He lunged for the demon’s cock, sucking at it, drool pouring from his chin as he pleased him, eager to thank him, eager to prove that the demon had chosen well, when he’d drawn Orwell’s hand to the amulet that day in the store.

Behind him, Ray came, pressing his massive cock to the entrance of Orwell’s hole. “It feels…so long since I was inside you, Piggy–I missed it so much, I’m so happy you joined us, I’m so happy I can impale you whenever I fucking want…” He pushed into him, filling his ass with his massive cock, distending his belly, and rotten shit pushed out of his guts and onto the demon’s cock, spilling from Orwell’s maw.

“Aww yeah, that’s my filthy pig,” Jonathan said, and got down with him, licking the filth from Orwell’s mouth and the ground below him, “Love the taste of yer fermented fuckin’ filth, fuck! Gonna be feeding ya a whole lot–I hope yer ready tah get stuffed, cause I ain’t shit in fuckin’ ages, piggy. Gonna fill ya so full ya ain’t gonna move fer a week!”

Stewart came up next, and brought a chain whip down hard across Orwell’s back, making him squeal. Aaron came beside him, sharing smoky kisses with Officer Hurlbane, stroking both of his cocks before forcing the officer down, making him wrap his lips around his cigarcock and smoke him beside the demon skullfucking his newest pig.

“Are you ready, piggy? Spill your seed, and join us here forever. Spill it on the rocky ground, and know that you’re cursed. Give up your rationality, your will. Give me your humanity, and in return, I will give you eternal pleasure, and all of the perversity that you can possibly desire. Become mine, and you will know pleasure the likes of which mortals have never known. The demon pulled out, and forced Jonathan to turn around, so his hole was facing Orwell. Go on–give him a taste, and then fuck his disgusting hole–that’s what a dirty pig like you wants, right?”

Orwell did as the demon commanded, diving into the crack, licking at it, snorting down the disgusting trucker slob’s farts, eating the logs of shit pouring from the hole, feeling his gut distend even further as Ray fucked deeper and deeper into his ass. Unable to resist anymore, he mounted him, sliding his new boar cock into his greasy hole and began to rut, Stewart raining blows down across the boar’s hairy back, driving him to new heights of pleasure, until with a squeal loud enough to shake the cavern around them, he came. He flooded the hole with his corrupted cum, pleasure blooming within him, pushing out everything else–his memories, his human desires, his will, all rational thought. Orwell was no more–he was just a pig, just a demon, just a filthy, perverse toy for his master–just like they all were, and just like they would all be forever more.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 9)

WARNING: Castration

“They…they keep growing,” Orwell said, to Hurlbane. As he’d been telling him about Mr. Piper, Hurlbane had demanded that he take off his shirt, that he prove he was telling the truth, that where his nipple had been a few days before, there were now two cinders. In fact, at that moment, they weren’t cinders–instead, what looked like two cigars were growing out of his chest, now almost two inches long, the ends charred from his last smoke. “I have to smoke them, twice a day, so no one can see them. Now do you believe me? Do you get it? Please, you have to fight it. I know it’s hard, but I…I don’t know what will happen after the last person, I don’t know what the demon is going to do to me.”

Do to you? Oh Orwell, after this one, I won’t do anything else to you, unless you want to stay with me, give me your soul. I can tell you still don’t want that, not yet…but I think me and the detective here have a good shot at changing your mind, still.

The detective shuddered, and when he opened his eyes again, the clear blue was gone–instead, in was just the deep red of the demon. It was too late–it had probably always been too late. “Well, with a confession like that, piggy, I don’t think we need a trial at all–I think we can move right to your punishment, don’t you?”

Orwell got up from the chair he’d been sitting, looking around for any escape, but before he could do anything, Hurlbane body slammed him up against the wall, pinning him there with his bulk, the cigar burning a inch from his face. “Please…please, not again…”

“See Orwell, I know what’s getting you in trouble. It’s this–don’t you think?” Hurlbane said, reaching down and groping Orwell’s cock and balls through his pants, before ripping the front apart, and letting them out. “Yeah, if you don’t want to be with me Orwell, then how about we make sure you don’t want anything ever again? How about we just take the problem out by the root?”

Hurlbane pulled out his own cock–it wasn’t particularly sizable, but it had a massive, heavy foreskin, hanging several inches over the head. Like a snake, the foreskin wormed out, found it’s way to Orwell’s cock, and swallowed it down–and Orwell felt it begin to suck. It hurt–he could feel the suction all the way through his cock, and even in his balls, pulling at them, and with a scream, he felt first one, and then the other, sucked up from his sack, and drawn through his cock and into Hurlbane, where each of Orwell’s balls came to rest in his own ball sack–leaving Orwell with none. Hurlbane groaned, and his four balls began to churn and grow, pumping testosterone into his body, and he grew even larger, bones and muscle inflating to new maximums, his face growing more angular, beard thicker and longer even as the hair on his head began to bald back. Still, the foreskin kept sucking, tugging at Orwell’s cock with greater and greater force, until with a gut wrenching tear, it came away from his body, swallowed down by Hurlbane’s own cock, leaving Orwell with simply nothing.

Hurlbane stepped back them, allowing Orwell to look down, and feel–there was nothing, just a hairy patch of skin where his cock and balls had once been–except as he brushed his hand against it, the hair all fell out. The rest of his hair followed suit–leaving him entirely bald in a matter of moments, the rest of his body softening, losing muscle–losing desire. He didn’t…want Hurlbane anymore. Orwell didn’t know what he wanted, really, beyond…to be used. Yes, that’s what he wanted. He wanted to be used. Used and abused by men, as many men as possible. To serve as their toilet, as their pain pig, as their cigar. Hurlbane spun him around, shoved him up against the wall, and pushed his cock into Orwell’s ass, making the hog moan loudly.

“This is it, Orwell. This is our last fuck. If the detective here cums inside you, and you don’t agree to come with me, then I will leave you–forever. But this body of yours? This is you now, and all you will ever be. A freak, lost in the world, searching for any man who will be willing to use you–but no man is going to desire you–no man can desire you like I do, because you’re mine. Because I made you to serve me, Orwell. To serve all of us. Not just me. Not just the other denizens of my realm. But us–Mr. Diamond. Stewart. Jonathan. Mr. Piper. They’re all down here. They’re all waiting for you. They want to use you, and I know how much you want them to use you too, Orwell. Don’t you want to see them again? Don’t you want to serve us all forever?”

Orwell didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know…anything anymore, beside how good it felt to have Hurlbane fucking him with his massive cock, his huge sack with four, fist sized balls swinging between their legs as he pumped into him.

“I’ll throw in something else, Orwell. I’ll give you a cock again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Up here, you’ll never be a man again, just a thing. But down there…down with me, Orwell, you can be so much more than a man. You’ll never want for anything ever again. So say it. Say it Orwell. Say yes. Say that you want me!”

Orwell could feel it, feel Hurlbane coming close to his orgasm, pumping harder, slamming into his guts, full of shit and piss. But he knew, now, what he wanted. What he might have always wanted. “Yes…Yes! Yes, take me! Take me, please, I’m yours…”

Hurlbane came with a roar–a powerful roar, an inhuman sound reverberating through the room…but he didn’t disappear. No, the cock was still inside Orwell, but Orwell–the wall had turned rough, like stone. Hurlbane pulled free of his with a grunt and stepped back, allowing Orwell to slump to the stony ground and roll over, and behind him–they were all there. Ray, his meter long cock grazing against the stone. Stewart, muscled and tall and cruel, wrapped in chains and metal razor. Jonathan, his stench rolling off him in visible clouds. Aaron, his nipples smoldering, cigar cock jutting out from his groin. And with them now, Officer Hurlbane–hulking, hairy, more massive than them all, his huge sack of four balls hanging low below two huge, uncut cocks. But behind them all–the demon stood. Massive, horned, with the legs of a goat and the torso of a man. “Welcome, Orwell, to my domain,” he said, “Now–why don’t we all get you feeling more like yourself?”

Orwell’s Demon (Part 8)

-Before-

Orwell could feel it building again. He’d managed to hold the demon off for a month or so, longer than his gap between Stewart and that trucker, but it was growing…impatient. Orwell, on the other hand, had been adjusting to his new life, and his new physiology. He let off a belch, something he had to do much, much more often as the filth in his guts slowly rotted away, the acrid gas triggering the first hunger pang–but he didn’t want to face that yet. He hated eating, because he had to leave the house, and when he left the house, he had to…risk the demon getting hold of someone else. He’d put in for an extended leave with the school–he couldn’t bear the thought of ruining another student, like he had with Stewart. He…couldn’t risk it. Instead, he sat around his house, fucking himself with some dildos he purchased online, and slipping out each night to stuff himself with shit before retreating back home to sleep. Still–it was working. The demon hadn’t managed to ensnare anyone else, at least until he stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, and caught a whiff of something else instead.

It was smoke–but not from a barbeque or anything. It was sweet, and sharp, and as soon as he smelled it, he wanted to know what it was. He had to peek through the fence, where he saw his neighbor, Aaron Piper, smoking a short cigar out back behind his house. Mr. Piper was a nice, if boring fellow–middle aged, a nice wife, a teenaged daughter. Aaron was on the phone, and Orwell could eavesdrop–he was planning a poker night with a few buddies from work that evening, because his wife was out of town with his daughter.

That sounds like fun–maybe we should crash it?

Hearing that voice in his head, Orwell fled back inside, and did his best to put the entire incident out of his mind. Later, the hunger was growing worse, and he was getting ready to go out and eat, when his phone rang. Orwell had no idea who it could be at this hour, but he answered it, and the voice on the other side sent a chill through him.

“I sent the boys home early, Orwell. Told them I wasn’t feelin’ too good. Really, I just wanna play with the neighborhood piggy. Get your ass over here, pronto.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. It was Aaron–but not just Aaron. It was the demon. Orwell knew he should run, he knew he should, but instead, his legs walked him out the front door of his house, down the driveway, over to Aaron’s house, where he walked up, opened the front door, and stepped inside, expecting the worst.

What he found was a house so thick with smoke, he assumed something must have caught on fire. In fact, it was just Aaron, sitting in his armchair, with a massive cigar in his mouth, almost as big as a forearm. He was naked otherwise, covered in hair, grinning at Orwell in the doorway. “There ya are. Get on over here, piggy. I’m…tired of cigars. I wanna know what it’s like to smoke a pig.”

He had to run, he couldn’t let this happen, not again, not to someone this close to him! The smoke, however, was clouding his mind, drawing him closer to where Aaron was sitting, his clothes falling away, revealing his fat body, stinking of shit, covered in a riot of tattoos. As he came closer, Aaron picked up a butane cigar lighter from the table beside him, wrapped his other hand around Orwell’s back, and pulled him close, between his legs. Orwell felt something…rough against his cock, looked down, and saw that between Aaron’s legs wasn’t a cock–but another cigar, even more massive than the one he’d set aside in the ashtray beside him. “Don’t worry pig, you’ll get to smoke him too, I promise–but first, let’s light you up.”

He watched, frozen, as Aaron took the lighter and brought the bright blue flame to his left nipple, the pain searing through him, his cock pumping out cum as he shuddered. He opened his mouth to scream, but Aaron leaned over, locked lips with him, and inhaled. Orwell felt the heat on his nipple intensify, his mouth flooded with smoke, and when Aaron pulled away, a thick cloud of dark, sooty smoke between them, he looked down and saw that his left nipple had become a cinder, red with heat–just like a cigar. Aaron repeated the process with his right nipple, and locked lips with him again, more smoke pouring out of him, Aaron sucking it down, the heat unbearable on his chest, and yet, so…erotic.

“Yeah, that’s a hot smoke pig–now get down there, and let’s smoke your neighbor down, eh?”

Aaron shoved Orwell to his knees, and he took the end of his cigar cock in his mouth, while Aaron lit his own nipples as he had Orwell’s, ordering him to draw hard on the cigarcock, pull the smoke into him, and he did as he was ordered, head swimming with smoke, guts churning, certain that if everything in his guts had still been hooked up correctly, he would throw up from it. Aaron let Orwell smoke his cock for a few minutes, enjoying the hot smoke from Orwell’s body on his own cigar, and then shoved Orwell over and fucked him, the leaf rough on his hole, but thrilling all the same, smoke billowing from both of their bodies until with a loud moan, Aaron came, in huge gouts of smoke, filling Orwell’s hole with it, his body crumpling and turning to ash in the middle of his living room floor, leaving Orwell alone, naked, and with two still smouldering tits.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 6)

WARNING: Scat, General Filth

-Before-

Orwell did his best to lay low, after what had happened to Stewart, and Ray before that. With a new disappearance, Detective Hurlbane had started sniffing around more, and questioned Orwell, and a few other teachers, about the two disappearances. He’d seemed very suspicious about Orwell, but without a body, and without any real evidence or clear motive, what could he say? Orwell cooperated as best he could, in the ways he knew would pose no risk to him. He allowed the detective to search his house, before he could go to a judge for a warrant, and he found nothing. What, after all, was there to find? They were just…dust now. The demon said more, though…and on occasion, the demon used their voices, taunting him, urging him to give in, saying that they were waiting for him to join them, that they missed him.

Still, the heat relented, soon enough. Hurlbane backed off, and started pursuing other possible leads, and Orwell turned to other, more pressing matters–his new body. It had…needs, and desires his old one had never had before. He was perpetually horny, and his hands, if he didn’t keep them in check, would slip down the front of his pants to jack off, at any time of day, in front of whoever may be watching. The only two ways he could keep control of himself, were whipping himself at night until he bled, load after load of cum across the floor in front of him after each session, his back magically healed each morning–and by guzzling as much cum as he could possibly find.

But that, he couldn’t get from the school. No, he needed to get as far away from his normal life as he could, where, if the demon got a hold on someone else, he wouldn’t attract any suspicion. And so, Orwell became a regular at several rest areas outside of the city. The demon in his mind enjoyed it, enjoyed watching him debase himself for the truckers and travellers–and if a few fagbashers decided he needed a good working over? He’d more than happily take his beating too–although more than a few lost their interest once they discovered just how much Orwell enjoyed the punishment. But it was slim pickings at times, and it was on those nights that Orwell had the hardest time, coping with the demon inside him, taunting him, telling him that he could have any man he wanted in the parking lot, that all he had to do was ask. Still, Orwell kept his guard up–until one frustrating evening, when a trucker who we was certain would let him suck down a load had hauled off and punched him right in the face instead.

He was hungry. He was hungry, and he was angry, and before he even knew he’d done it, the trucker turned back around, and Orwell could see the red in his eyes. “Is this what you wanted Orwell? All he wanted was a chance to take a piss and a shit without being bothered–do you really think that was too much to ask?”

It was the smell that caught him next–a putrid, vile scent, like the worst body odor he’d ever imagined, rolling off the trucker’s body in waves. It singed and scared the inside of his mouth and nose, his mind roiling in the acid of it as he inhaled it, collapsing to the ground, and there, he saw that he wasn’t the only thing in the bathroom affected. The walls of the stalls…they were melting. The tile peeling under him, the porcelain of the sinks cracking and shattering behind him, and he watched as the clothes both he and the trucker were wearing dissolved away to nothing.

“Yeah, that’s more like it!” the trucker exclaimed, taking a long whiff of himself, and Orwell could see him growing, packing on fat, his skin covered in sores and lesions, thick hair filling in everywhere else. He lumbered over to a dissolving partition and looked over it, sighing, “Toilets are all busted–’n I can’t bust no load without droppin’ mah other loads. Guess that means yer gonna have tah do double duty, eh pig?”

Orwell tried to get up, tried to run, but something was wrong with him. His body–it too was melting and dissolving…somewhat. His arms and legs had withered, even as his guts had grown and sagged out into a heaving mass. The trucker picked him up, and carried him to the pipe where the toilet had sat, and shoved him onto it, Orwell feeling the cold metal slide in side his gelatinous form, and then the man turned around, shoved the ring of his hole against Orwell’s mouth, and let loose a long, noxious fart right into his mouth. He…swore he felt his teeth and jaw dissolve away, mouth hanging open, limp, as the shit began to pour from the man’s hole–more shit than Orwell had imagined possible, and all of it sliding down his tongue and throat, into his heaving body. He could…feel it in there, just resting inside of him, mounding up…and it felt good. He felt good. Lazy. Simple. Dumb. The man turned around, when he’d finished, pushed his thick cock into the shit covered toilet mouth, and let loose his piss, flooding Orwell’s body again, watching him writhe in pleasure and excitement, thrusting into the loose tunnel his throat had become until he added a load of stinking cum as well…the stink intensifying, and Orwell watched the man dissolve away into ash, leaving him alone, and trapped, in the rest are bathroom.

The scenery returned to normal, slowly, as the air cleared. Orwell’s arms and legs solidified again, allowing him to haul his way free of the pipe he’d been sitting on…but even outside, in the fresh air, he didn’t feel right. He could still…feel it, inside him. The shit and piss. He could smell it too. To his horror, as he drove home, he realized he could smell it on him–it was leeching out of him, through his skin, coating him…and the smell of it, as putrid as it was…it only was making him hungry all over again.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 5)

Orwell still had a difficult time recognizing himself. He glanced over at the one way mirror, wondering if there was anyone back there who could help him, who could, maybe, save the detective. He knew, at this point, that is was much, much too late to save himself. The things he’d done to people, the person he’d become–the person the demon had turned him into, if he could even still count as a person. He didn’t feel very human anymore, really.

That’s because you aren’t human, are you? You’re a pig, Orwell. You’re my pig. Don’t you get that yet? Don’t you understand that? You’re mine, and all this fighting, all this denial, look where it’s gotten you, fucking look at yourself.

He did look over, at his reflection. Before this, before he’d found the amulet, he’d been 25, fresh out of school, slim and fit. Ray had ruined his body, but it was Stewart who had really destroyed him. His face was the worst. Looking at himself, how could anyone even bear to look at him? Everyone treated him like he was normal, all the same, with that short, pushed up nose, the small eyes, the crown devoid of hair, the bushy, wild beard he could never tame, or trim. The skin looked tough and flaky–and old. Everyone, after Stewart, had treated him like he was a man in his early fifties–even his driver’s license had been changed, both photo and year of birth. The same skin on his face was everywhere–a tough hide, but under his clothes was worse. That’s where the tattoos were. Old and faded, they had come with the skin–humiliating pictures and words all over himself. He’d been forced into long sleeved shirts and high collars just to hide them, just to hide himself. Nothing felt right, either. Touching things–every texture was dull, but pain…oh, pain…

Hurlbane slapped him, hard across the face then, to get his attention, and when he did, Orwell let out a snort, and felt his cock jump and spurt a bit of cum into his pants. Why–why did it have to feel so fucking good?

“Are you still with me, Orwell? Have anything to say? Because this is looking like a pattern now. Two men, last seen with you, disappearing after school without a trace. Their cars abandoned. No one knows anything, and you are playing completely dumb, despite the fact that you had relationships with both of them.”

“Did you think that, maybe, they ran off together? Stewart was on the wrestling team.”

Hurlbane scoffed. “Yeah, I looked into that, but with as much pussy as both of them were getting, I doubt they had much time for each other. They weren’t faggots–not like you, Orwell.”

His cheeks flushed.

“Yeah, I know all about that. I’ve had someone trailing you for a few weeks now. All that sick shit you get into outside of town. What the fuck is wrong with you? I can’t fucking believe we let a nasty, disgusting pig like you around our fucking kids.”

Hurlbane didn’t seemed that disgusted–not judging by the size of the erection in his pants. The demon was in him, Orwell could tell–but he was toying with him. Toying with them both. “Detective…I know this is hard to believe, but this…you need to get out of here. You need to get away from me, please.”

“Why, Orwell? Are you going to try and make me disappear like Ray and Stewart? Like Jonathan Randolf?”

“I…I already told you, I don’t know anything about that.”

Another smack to the face, enough to make Orwell snort, smelling the detective’s smoke, smeling his…arousal. He licked his lips, wishing he wasn’t so…hungry.

“What did I just tell you, Orwell? I’ve had someone following you, I know where you go to get your fix. I know the kind of men you like. Your favorite spot? Grover Hill Rest Area, where Mr. Randolf’s truck was found, abandoned, with no sign of struggle, and no evidence of any kind. Just like Ray, and Stewart. It took some work, but I have a few truckers willing to testify that they’d seen you at the rest area before–doing that shit you do–and I have a good idea that on the night Jonathan was last seen, I know exactly where you were.

Orwell said nothing, but his guts gave a growl.

“What’s wrong, pig? Can’t talk on an empty stomach? Well don’t think you’re going to find a snack here, you sick fucking freak.”

He sounds pretty confident about that, Orwell–but you didn’t eat yet today. You must be very hungry. I could have him drop those pants, right here and now, and you can eat all you want. Would you like that, Orwell?

“No–no, please stop this, please, I can’t…do this anymore,” Orwell said, trying to keep from sobbing.

“Then tell me the fucking truth, Orwell–tell me what happened that night. You have no real alibi. We both know where you were, and who you were with. Just fucking admit it, like a good fucking pig, and we can move on to your punishment, like you really want,” Hurlbane said, hefted up a boot, and planted it right in Orwell’s crotch, pressing hard, his heel digging into Orwell’s balls, making him snort. “Yeah pig–you want to tell me. You want it off your chest. You’re proud of it. So fucking tell me. Tell me how you did it. Tell me, and I’ll give you what you fucking want.”

Orwell’s Demon (Part 4)

WARNING: Extreme violence, gore.

-Before-

It had been a week and a half since Ray Diamond’s disappearance. From one afternoon, after school, to the next morning, he was simply gone. He never arrived home that day, his car was still at the school, but there was no sign of a struggle, and so clue about where he could have possibly gone. The police were stumped, but the best the detective on the case, Officer Ed Hurlbane could guess, was that he must have simply run. It didn’t sit particularly well with him–in particular, people who ran tended to leave clues, at the very least–empty bank accounts, notes of apology–but there was simply nothing. Still, what else could it be? There was no body, there was no sign of a struggle. The coach had been one of the largest people on staff–if someone was going to take him down, it wouldn’t have been easy. But no one seemed to have a reason to hate him, either–according to the rest of the staff, he’d been a perfect colleague. So Hurlbane set it aside–unless something else came up, there was nothing to be done about it, and there were more serious cases that needed his attention.

Orwell, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop…feeling Ray’s massive, yard long cock skewering him from ass to mouth. It was in his dreams, it was in his fantasies–it was all he could think about, and the voice in the amulet, the demon, was more than happy to keep inflaming those desires, telling Orwell that all he had to do was pick someone else, and he could feel that again, and so much more. He’d tried taking it off, but his hands refused to obey him. He hated it. He hated himself. He could barely even look himself in the mirror, at his fat, sagging frame…but the voice was right.

You want more, Orwell. If you didn’t want more, you could be done with me, but I know what’s in your heart. I know what you want. Let me give it to you, let me make you happy again.

Still, he carried on, pretended that everything was normal. But one afternoon, after school, he slipped. The teachers dealt with detention on a rotation–every teacher took a turn staying after school to observe the detention hall and the students there. It was generally boring, but provided a good chance to get some work done, but one student in particular had rankled Orwell that day–a student he’d sent to detention himself.

Stewart Riverdell was one of the star jocks at the school, and Orwell had caught him passing notes in class–notes which had been making fun of Orwell’s now fat, ugly body, calling him a pig and a fat ass. He was furious. He was furious because he hated himself too. He was furious because…because Stewart was right.

Of course he’s right. You are a pig. A pig hungry for cock. Hungry for cum. Hungry for abuse. It’s what you want Orwell, just admit it.

The voice spoke the entire hour of detention, and Orwell found his will breaking down. He couldn’t stop…staring at Stewart, barely able to glance away to the clock to see how much of the hour was left before he could be free. At last, the hour was up, and he raced to get his things together and be gone, but when he stood up, a hand shoved him back down into the chair, and there, standing in front of him, was Stewart, his eyes burning like coal, just as Ray’s had.

“Where do you think you’re going, Piggy?” Stewart said, “Aren’t you here for your punishment? Haven’t you been a very, naughty piggy? Trying to tell yourself that you’re something else, someone better than a cock hungry pigwhore?”

Stewart, and the demon inside him, began tearing at Orwell’s clothes, but he fought back, got up and rushed for the door, only for something to slip its way around his neck and pull tight, choking the air from his lungs. He gasped for air as Stewart walked up to him, holding the leash tight connected to the choke collar around Orwell’s neck, watching his fat face turn blue as he grasped for the door, watching it turn solid, becoming concrete, the entire room becoming a concrete cell with no way out.

“That’s a very bad piggy. I think we need to teach you a lesson, show you just what kind of pig you are. A pain pig, a pig who wants nothing more than to be punished at my hand–how does that sound? This young man–such vitality. I think we can keep you in here for days–isn’t that exciting?”

Orwell had no idea how long the demon kept him in that dungeon he’d created. He lost track of time rather quickly, as Stewart flayed his back apart, stripping the flesh from his back and thighs with whips and chains. He was certain he was going to die, certain that this, at least would be the end of him.

“Oh no, piggy. This isn’t the end. But we have to get rid of the old to bring in the new, don’t we?”

The demon flayed him, removing every patch of skin from his body. The pain was excruciating and indescribable. And then, when he was nothing more than a bloody mass of flesh, the demon began pressing something else onto him, a hide, the skin of another, pieced together. It was rough, and hairy, and stank, but this new skin–it was nothing like his own. Every lash across it brought a sigh of pleasure, every needle piercing into his flesh brought a massive gout of cum from his cock, dribbling from the heavy, overhanging foreskin he’d been given. Stewart saved Orwell’s new face for last, peeling his visage away, pinning it to the wall as a trophy, before giving him a few face, a face for a pig, a face that would insure that Orwell would never again question his place in the order of the world–and that no one else would either.

The next thing Orwell knew, he was on the floor of the classroom, soaked in sweat, heaving and trembling in pain and pleasure. The same ash floated down around him, the last remaining chunks of Stewart drifting about in the air and dissolving away to dust. Orwell flung on his tattered clothes and fled the room, racing home, and only there did he stop and see what the demon had wrought upon him.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 3)

“I told you before, I left early that day,” Orwell said, “Ray was still at his desk when I last saw him.”

The detective nodded. “Yes, you did say that. But I went back and asked for a few more interviews, Orwell. I have two students who say they saw both of you, together, heading for the gyms–apparently holding hands.”

Orwell felt his face turn red, but he didn’t say anything.

Oh dear, always a few loose ends. Well, you always have one more, Orwell. Just think about. Think about him, we could have such fun with him, don’t you think?

He shook his head, and Hurlbane coked his head slightly. Orwell seemed…a bit off today. Granted, the teacher had always seemed a bit strange–stranger every time he’d encountered him, but today, in particular…there was something almost wrong about him, but he didn’t know what. A thought occurred to him, then, and he realized what he’d noticed, but hadn’t been able to put a finger on–he was weak. He was weak, and tired, and he wanted so desperately to give up–all he needed was a push, and a little voice in Hurlbane’s head was assuring him that he was just the sort of person who could give Orwell the push he so desperately needed.

“Still wanting to smoke, Orwell? Think a cigar might help you remember? I know I always think better with one,” Hurlbane said, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sizable cigar. Had…had that been in there? He wasn’t a smoker, was he? But he needed to do this–he could feel it. This was going to help Orwell break, it was going to drive him nuts. Of course…he really shouldn’t be smoking in the station, or in one of these rooms–they weren’t very well ventilated. He looked over to the mirror, but couldn’t see any hint of…displeasure, and then at the door. They’d stop him if he went too far, right?

“Don’t…I know he’s telling you that you should, but don’t. Don’t smoke it, don’t listen to it, just run.”

Orwell was looking at him now, trying to project confidence, but what could a puny, chubby, sad little faggot like that hope to accomplish? He wasn’t in charge here–no. Hurlbane knew who was calling the shots here. He locked eyes with Orwell, took out his butane lighter, bit off the cap, and lit up, seeing the desire–the need–flood across Orwell’s face as he drew the smoke in. It hurt his lungs a bit, and it seemed…hot. Too hot, but he could handle it.

“There’s no one here but us, Orwell. Who are you talking about?”

“It’s…please, just leave.”

“I don’t think so Orwell, I think we still have more to discuss. Now, we were discussing Ray, weren’t we? Mr. Diamond? Like I said, two students I’ve interviewed in the last month put the two of you together after school, the day he disappeared. What were the two of you doing–especially holding hands?”

“I… I don’t remember that at all.”

“Convenient.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t know anything more than what I told you the first time.”

Hurlbane sat down across from him at the table, took a long drag off the cigar, and blew the smoke into Orwell’s face. He flinched, shuddered, and his head dropped towards his chest for a moment, his breathing deep..

“Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?”

Orwell’s head snapped back up, he looked to the exit–should he run for it? No–if he ran…they’d lock him up in here, with him. He was already locked up in here with him. What could he do? Should…should he tell him? There was no way he’d believe him, and if he did tell him, his demon would just…just take him over anyway. No–the only way he could maybe save the detective was with silence.

“Come on Orwell, I know you want to tell me something. I’ve been doing this a very long time, and it’s all over your face. It’s heavy, isn’t it? The guilt?”

It was heavy, but it wasn’t his fault.

Now Orwell, we know the truth, don’t we? We know what a worm you are, what a pathetic little pig you turn into when you’re alone with a real man, when you’re alone with me. Why don’t you take your shirt and pants off for him? Show the nice officer what you really are, under those dirty rags of yours?

Orwell tugged down on the cuff of his shirt, sweating a bit.

If you show him, I might let him go. We can find someone nice in prison, don’t you think? Because that’s where you’re going, Orwell. That’s the only path I see, other than…you know…

“We can come back to Mr. Diamond, I suppose,” Hurlbane said, sitting back in the chair, cigar clamped in his jaw, chuffing smoke. “Let’s talk about Stewart. After all, we already know you were the last one to see him–you admitted that to us. He came to your class for detention, and then left–but his car was found in the parking lot–it hadn’t moved. So somehow, from leaving the classroom with you–and no one can confirm he even left the classroom, mind you–to his car, he simply vanished. How about that? Do you have any more you’d like to tell me about that?”

Orwell sat, silent.

Go on Orwell, take off that shirt. Show the officer what Stewart did to you. Show him what you deserve.

“S-Shut up…”

We know what you deserve, don’t we Orwell? You deserve to be punished.