Manning Up (Part 7)

I…started fucking with Brock after that, changing his whole look into the kind of man I’d always wanted. I forced him to get a haircut, and gave him a nasty looking mullet, like the one’s from all the 80’s porn I’d always fucking loved, and kept it plenty grungy and greasy. He was so big, it was easier to just buy him overalls and wellingtons for his massive feet, and that’s all he wore from then on–no shirt, not that you could see much of his skin through the thick hair on his chest, arms and back. Still, I insisted on the tattoos anyway. Brock was nervous about it, but…but I turned him onto the idea pretty quick. The pain…I got a bit carried away with that, with making him like it. I liked seeing the welts, and the scars, almost as much as I liked seeing the tattoos peeking through all that hair, but when he saw the first ones, he just turned red and looked away as quick as he could.

In fact, that’s the part I enjoyed the most. I could tell that he hated it, all of it. His body, the clothes I put him in, the hair and the beard, the drinking and the smoking, the fact that every time he spoke now, he sounded like a dumb hick. I’d catch him staring at himself in the mirror, whispering to himself that it was just another couple of weeks, that when he got back to school it would all be back to normal, like nothing had happened. He’d never have to come back here ever again. I heard that, and fuck, it pissed me the fuck off, but I didn’t let on that I’d heard it–instead, I started telling him how much he liked it here. That he liked being stupid, that he liked being a brute, that he liked dressing and looking like trailer trash, that he wanted to smoke cigars like a chimney and get drunk every night, just like me. Yeah, I made him beg me to let him get even more tattoos, made him tell me how hard the sting of the needle made him. I made sure he picked out the sleaziest, most humiliating ones that the local shop was willing to do on him…and we put his new nickname there, across the back of his neck–Brick. Because he’s thick as a brick, and as solid as one too. All the guys on the site called him that. I made him practice writing it at home, a couple hundred times a day. I wanted him to believe it himself. I wanted him to believe it, because if he did, then he’d always need me, and he’d never leave.

He’d marked the day school started on the calendar, and the day before, Brick had the fucking audacity to ask me when we were going to leave–and I told him the truth. I told him he wasn’t going back to school. I told him that he was a liar, that he’d never even gotten through highschool, much the less gotten into college. That he was Brick–not Brock, not some smart guy like that. I told him that his place was here with me, and that’s the way things had to be. Honestly? I expected him to push back, but he just nodded, and then went to the bathroom to cry. I knew I should feel bad, in my mind, but I didn’t…feel shit like that anymore. I wasn’t supposed to feel shit like that, not for some dumb musclepig like Brick. I gave him a couple of minutes to sort himself out, and then ordered him to get out here and clean my dirty hole for a bit–that always helped him feel a bit better, and brightened my mood too. I should have known that wasn’t the end of it though–that a fucker like Brock wouldn’t try to get away with every stupid idea that crossed his mind.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt to the heart, and discovered Brick was gone. I’d gone slack with him, I realized. He’d been paying close attention to my orders, and he’d just…fucking left while I was sleeping. The panic in my heart–I’d never felt anything like it before. Brick was mine–mine! I threw on some clothes, and thankfully the dumbass had left the truck behind and gone off on foot. I did recall forbidding him from driving at some point, so maybe he didn’t have a choice. I got in and headed for the one place he’d try and get to–Hobos, the biker bar outside of town. I’d gotten the ban on him lifted a couple weeks earlier, after I’d shown the owner what a good, obedient fucker Brock could be. I rolled up, stormed in and cracked a couple of heads, but I was too late. He’d hooked up with some grungy biker and made a deal. The man had agreed to drive him somewhere, in exchange for as many fucks as he wanted once they got there.

My fucker, my Brick, had run off with some…fucking biker. Still, I knew where they were headed–where Brick was trying to go. I got back in the truck and blazed out of town on the highway, topping a hundred the whole way, and after an hour, I ran that fucking bike off the road, and sent them both into a ditch.

I raped that biker for an hour, and I made Brick watch. He was a sizable fucker, when I started, but by the time I was through with him, he’d shrunk to around five foot five, weighed around 400 pounds, and was begging me for my piss and cum like a bitch pig. I waved down a trucker and “convinced” him to give the pig a ride in the cab with him, giving the biker his last orders–that he’d spend the rest of his live whoring himself for truckers and bikers on the highways, and make sure he came through town at least twice a year so he could service me–and sent them on their way. Then, it was just me, and Brick.

He begged me to understand. He begged me to take him back to school, to let him go. That if he didn’t get there by dawn, he’d never be normal–we’d never be normal. Instead, I fisted his ass in the ditch for a couple of hours, facing him east, so he could watch the sunrise, and then we got back in the car, and headed back home. Brock’s gone now–probably forever–it’s just me and Brick now. I…I can remember everything too, in ways that I couldn’t before, and honestly? I…I feel terrible, about what I’ve done, about who I am now, but I can’t stop. Neither of us can, now, and honestly? When I have my thick cock buried in Brick’s hole, listening to the big brute grunting around those huge cigars I make him smoke? I can almost pretend that everything that happened was for the best. I know it’s a lie, but that’s all I got. That’s all anyone’s got, I think, the lies we tell ourselves. Still, you asked, right? For the truth? Do you feel better, or do you like the lie better?

Manning Up (Part 5)

The next morning, we talked. It was slow going, because he had to try and dance around whatever was blocking his tongue, and he also didn’t quite have the mental sharpness he’d had before all of this, but I got a better sense of what was going on. It was clear that there were details he couldn’t reveal, but something was indeed happening to him, and it was something relating to college, or someone at college. He told me that I had to promise him, that no matter what happened, I’d take him back to college on the first day of school, at the end of August. We marked the day on the calendar, and I told him I would do as he asked. He seemed relieved, but he was also…still scared, for some reason. It seemed like he was scared of me, or maybe he was just scared of the entire situation. Still, it was only a couple of months–whatever this was, it was strange as hell, but I told him we would get through it together.

But he kept getting worse and worse, as the next few weeks passed by. I would give him lists of tasks to do around the place, like usual, but he wouldn’t follow them–I’d get home and find him masturbating in a puddle of his own piss, or worse, he’d have disappeared. Those were the worst feelings, when I discovered he’d run off. I knew where he’d gone, of course–always the rest area a few miles down the road to suck cock–but every time he went missing, some icy hand gripped my heart. I was afraid that I might lose him. For a few days, I agonized over the possibility that I was falling in love the the lug, but that wasn’t how it felt–it felt more like I’d misplaced something of value–an object, not a person. Was Brock just a thing to me? That should have worried me more at the time, but if anything I felt relieved that I could keep an emotional distance. Still, it was clear that I couldn’t afford to leave Brock alone anymore, for his own safety, of course, and so I told the foreman that I had a friend of mine staying with me, and asked if he could work on the project for a month or so for a bit of cash. We didn’t really need another worker, but he owed me a favor–so Brock started coming with me each day I went to work–but that…well, maybe if I hadn’t, Brock would still be Brock, but I’m past regrets now. I can’t change what I did, so why worry about it?

Like I said earlier, I worked in heavy machinery, so I spent most of the day sitting in the cab of a backhoe. Brock, on the other hand, was going to be a grunt–fetching and carrying and that sort of stuff. For a few days, it all worked out fine, or at least, it seemed to be working fine, until I noticed that I wasn’t seeing much of Brock out and about the construction site. I watched closely the next day, saw the foreman–Aaron–call Brock into the trailer early, and neither of them came out for hours. That icy hand on my heart–it went from fear straight to jealousy. I busted in there and found Brock on his knees in front of my boss, sucking him off, and I was so fucking furious that this fucker was using my fucking property without even asking my permission–I don’t know what the fuck came over me, but I fucking howled at them, tore Brock away, and tackled Aaron to the ground, beat him and rolled him over, fucking his ass raw. Brock tried to crawl away in fear, but I ordered him to just stare at the wall until I figure out what to do with him, and he did, shaking and quivering, but unable to resist the command. When Aaron finally broke down and shot a load onto the floor of the trailer, I pulled out, dragged Brock outside, bent him over a sawhorse in front of everyone on the crew, and fucked him too.

“This thing is mine, you fucking hear me?” I screamed at them, spittle flying, “You wanna use him? You fucking ask. But he’s mine–anyone tries and take him from me–go see what shape Aaron is in, and think fucking twice.”

We left that evening, and I knew I was going to be in deep shit when Aaron got his act together and called the police, but I didn’t care. Brock was trying to talk to me, trying to apologize, trying to tell me that he couldn’t help it, but I didn’t want to hear any of that. I hauled him inside my trailer, made him face the wall and whipped him with my belt for his fucking uselessness, and then fucked his ass again. He couldn’t look me in the eye for the rest of the night–he was terrified of me, but his cock was rock hard all the same. Good, I thought. Let him be scared, and let him be horny. Those two feelings should be married in his fucking idiot head–but mostly fear, He should be fucking scared of me, they all should. If they feared me, then they’d respect me, and my property.

In my head, I knew it should be the other way around–that he should scare me. Fuck, he was six foot four, and probably close to 300 pounds at that point, most of it bulk. He could have beat me easily in a straight fight, but he’d never do that. I could tell, somehow, that he would never be able to hurt me. Sure, I could tell him to hurt someone, if I wanted to, but I owned him, and he knew it. Still, I was waiting for the knock on the door, for one of the deputies to ask about how I’d assaulted and raped Aaron earlier that day–but no one came. The next day, I thought about not going to the site…but I couldn’t let myself appear that weak, right? So I got Brock ready for work and we drove over–a bit late, in fact–and discovered the entire crew just standing around, looking nervous and unsure of themselves. None of them could look me in the eye, and Aaron was nowhere to be seen.

Manning Up (Part 3)

Brock started crying again, and it took me a couple of minutes to get him composed again, before I went and talked to my uncle. The biker didn’t want to press charges, and the bar was happy with a ban and restraining order. He was being extra lenient, since Brock was usually a good kid, but another episode like this, and there’d be trouble. I went back to the cell and told Brock that he’d be getting out, and he didn’t quite seem like he believed me, until my uncle came and unlocked the door.

“Thanks, Hunter,” he said.

“You need to apologize to my uncle too, for the mess you made last night,” I said.

Brock went a bit red in the face, but muttered a curt, apology.

“I don’t think he heard you, and that’s not how you address him, is it?”

Brock looked at me, and I expected him to be a bit angry, but that’s not what I saw–his face was a bit…well, I know what that look means now, but then it just struck me as odd. Then he looked back at my uncle, made eye contact, licked his lips, and said, “Sorry sir, I’m just…a stupid brute is all. I didn’t mean to make a mess. If…or I could…” he obviously wanted to say something else, but his lips went tight and he stopped talking.

“Brock, the whole town knows you aren’t stupid. You just…look, don’t do this again, alright? I’d hate to see you mess your life up kid.”

My uncle gave him a pat on the shoulder, then there was a bit of paperwork after that–and Brock seemed to be a bit flustered and distracted, so I had to help him out with some of it, but within half an hour we were out of the jailhouse, and as soon as we’d gotten into the car, Brock lunged at me in the driver’s seat, and tried to kiss me, but I shoved him back with all my strength. Not that the advances weren’t…wanted, but not there in the jailhouse parking lot.

“Please, sir…I…”

He didn’t know what to say, and with a growl he hauled his own cock out and started jacking off right in my passenger seat, and I could barely believe my fucking eyes. Something was wrong with him, but what? I didn’t know, but at the same time, I admit that I was enjoying the show.

“Just a dumb fuckin’ brute, fuck…stupid fucker…” he muttered to himself as he stroked, “dumb fuckin’ pig, too stupid to do anythin’ right…”

“Brock! Stop for a second, why the–what the fuck is going on with you?”

He wasn’t listening–he just looked at me, and then down at the obvious erection in my jeans, and with one hand reached out and started groping me…and while I told him not to, he could sense what I really wanted. And so there, in the noon sun right in front of anyone walking past my truck, Brock sucked me off for the first time while he jacked off, grunting and moaning and…yeah, it was confusing as all hell, but I didn’t let that stop me from finishing. I came pretty quick, and when he got a taste of my cum, he shot as well, a massive load all over the dashboard, and he pulled off, a big grin on his face–but I’m just…well, I didn’t know what to say, so I muttered a thank you, but I don’t think he heard me.

He was looking at the cum he’d shot all over the dash, licking his lips. “Fuck, sorry sir, I can clean that up,” he said, and started wiping up the cum with his hands and eating it down.

“It’s alright, the truck has seen worse shit,” I said, but he kept on going, obviously enjoying himself. But like a switch, he stopped in the middle of sucking cum from his hand, wiped it off on his shirt, and just…froze, his eyes looking a bit…weepy.

“Brock…are–look, I know something’s wrong, but you gotta talk about it.”

“Sir–I mean, Hunter, I…” he turned away towards the window, and he got…small again, somehow. I felt that same…urge from before, to protect him and take care of him, but it was stronger. “I can’t…it’s part of it.”

“Look, you’ve had a rough day. Do you want to go home?”

Brock shook his head.

“Well, why don’t you come over to my place for a bit then? We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

He was torn–hell, I was too, a bit, but I was also…enjoying this in a way I couldn’t quite explain. Nothing else happened that day, or that night when he stayed over, but the sex lingered between us. I could smell it on him, and he kept looking at me, and every time he called me sir…by accident or not–my cock got hard again. I was still having a difficult time believing that this was the same Brock I had known my entire life–he just seemed…so different, in so many ways. I wanted to have sex again, but I knew it wasn’t right. He wanted to have sex again, but was terrified of what that might mean. He left early the next morning to head back to his parent’s place with some sorry excuse in tow–not like his parents, like the rest of the town, hadn’t already heard about his escapade by that point. The town isn’t exactly known for being tight lipped.

Manning Up (Part 2)

I assured him he could, of course, but he wouldn’t add anything else. That was also the first night he stayed over in my trailer–he fell asleep on my couch, and I got him settled with a blanket, and just let him doze. I didn’t do anything of course, but…ok, I did jack off, watching him, but I felt kind of weird doing it. Not…because I was jacking off to a good friend, or not just that. It was because…looking at him there, he seemed so…small, somehow, even though he took up the entire fucking couch. Maybe I’d just always thought of him as that little kid, even though he was quickly manning up in ways I’d never thought he would. Still, he seemed small, like I needed to protect him, and the thought of being there for him, it was…turning me on, somehow.

I don’t know, why am I trying to explain this? I don’t know how to explain any of it, but that, if there was a beginning, was the beginning for me, of all of this.

He was incredibly embarrassed when he awoke the next morning, and he left right away–I thought he’d come back that night, but he didn’t. In fact, I didn’t see him again for a couple of weeks, until he called me from the county jail. It was still early on a Sunday morning. I’d had a fuckbuddy over the night before, but honestly…since that night with Brock, I wasn’t really interested in other guys. I kept telling myself that it was stupid–I knew he was straight, and he definitely wasn’t interested in me, right? Still, once he was back at school, I was sure I’d be able to put my ridiculous pining for him behind me, and we could both get on with our lives. The phone rang in my trailer–the landline, which really only rings when bill collectors call, but I was on time with everything. Usually I…just let it ring, but I picked it up that morning anyway–and accepted the collect call. The fact that it was someone in prison didn’t surprise me–I’d bailed out buddies more than a few times, and had been bailed out by them in turn. What did surprise me was the voice on the other end of the line–it was Brock.

“Hey…uh, Hunter?”

“Brock? What the…what happened? Did you get arrested?”

“I…I got in a mess man, please, I need some help. I can’t…call my parents. But it’s bad man, I really fucked up. I’m so…so fucking sorry, I’m such a fucking idiot! I don’t know what to do, I can’t fucking think…”

He started sobbing then, and I consoled him a bit, and told him I’d be over as soon as I could. The fuckbuddy was still there, so I kicked him out, which pissed him off a bit, got dressed, and headed for the county jail by city hall. There’s a reason I’m used to getting calls when friends of mine end up in the clink, and that’s because my uncle is the sheriff. I don’t have a ton of pull with him, but it at least helps me smooth things over a bit, when I’m at least on first name basis with all the deputies.

I pulled up and headed in, chatting for a hot second with Marcy at the desk about how her new relationship is going, and then ask about Brock. Her face…went a bit hard, and her face only does that when something serious happened.

“What happened last night, anyway? Brock didn’t tell me anything over the phone.”

“Hunter, you…should go talk to your uncle about that, I think.”

Uncle Jeff was in his office, flipping through some paperwork when I got there, and when I told him why, he got a bit flustered, and told me what had allegedly happened. Brock had become a bit of a staple at a local biker bar named “Hobos” outside of town, over the last couple of weeks. I knew the place pretty well, because it was known as the closest thing to a gay bar we had around here, but I never went because the place was pretty fucking depressing. Still, it could get a bit rowdy, especially when a biker gang rolled up, and that’s what had happened last night. Brock had tried to get into a biker’s pants–a straight biker’s pants, and when the guy had tried to get Brock off him, the idiot had kept at it. To hear my uncle tell it, he’d flown into a bit of a rage by the time his deputies had gotten there and gotten him calmed down and in a squad car. Property damage, assault, drunk and disorderly–these were not good things. Still, my uncle knew Brock, and he was mostly just bewildered.

“I thought that kid was gonna go places–what the fuck is he doing back here, causing scenes like this?”

I agreed with him, and asked if I could talk to him. Jeff said I could, so we went over to the jail next door, and there Brock was, alone in a cell, and he looked…even bigger than when I’d seen him last. It was hard to believe, but I’d always been taller than Brock–when he stood up now, though, I found my neck craning back a bit, because suddenly he had an inch or two on me.

“You…you came. I was worried…you wouldn’t come.”

“Sure I came. Unc, could I have a few minutes alone with him?”

My uncle shrugged, but backed off down the hall.

“Brock, what the fuck happened last night.”

“I…I can’t really remember. I got really drunk, and he didn’t want to fuck me, and I got really angry, so…”

“Wait, what?”

“Hunter, you…have to help me. It’s getting worse. I…gotta find someone, and I…I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do this to you, I’m a fucking burden, but I’m so fucking scared, and my dad…”

Manning Up (Part 1)

Friends come and go, but I’d always expected Brock to just keep on going, and to be honest, I didn’t blame him for it. No one in this town really wants to stay here I suppose–well, perhaps other than me, but whether that’s because I’m too lazy to work my way free or too stupid to know any better is anyone’s guess. I’m a couple of years older than Brock, but we’d been neighborhood friends for years–he always thought of me as an older brother I think, since he didn’t have any brothers of his own, just a little sister. Still, I knew that he was going places–he always had all these questions! I never knew the answers, and never really wanted to know them, but he wasn’t going to be satisfied here–you could just tell.

So I graduated high school and did what some guys did–got trained in heavy equipment for construction work, and I’ve been making decent money doing that now–enough to afford a little trailer of my own. Fuck, Brock was always so envious of me, that I had a place where I could be all by myself! He’d want to come over and drink with me, but I never let him get too out of control. He was top of the class, naturally. The full ride scholarship to the big state university in the city was hardly a surprise either. He said he’d miss me, when he left–but I knew he wouldn’t and I was alright, with that, I really was. He was going to do big things–bigger than I was capable of, and I…I didn’t want to hold him back.

Sure enough, next summer he came back and he was…different. He’d gotten a taste of another life, and he wanted it. Nice shirts and shoes, looking fucking handsome, I have to say it was the first time I’d actually want to fuck him. Yeah, I’m a gay roughneck–it’s not that strange, trust me. Don’t need a boyfriend, but I got plenty of trucker fuckbuddies, and even a few guys on the crews who get a hankering for cock like me. anyway, Brock was pleasant with me, but there were miles between us now. I never begrudged him any of it–he’d earned it and I was happy for him. The next summer, he only came back for a couple of weeks, and then he was back in the city for the rest of the summer, working. I think I saw him once, mostly in passing. Honestly? I figured we’d never see him again after that, but after his Junior year…well, I never did find out what happened before all of this. This is about what happened when he came home.

I was surprised when he rang me up and wanted to come over and hang out. He hadn’t shown much interest in me, my trailer, or my life since he’d gone to college, but I was more than happy for the company–and when he showed up on my stoop…fuck, my cock nearly popped the fly of my jeans open, seeing him standing there…looking like that. He’d been handsome before, but he’d gone from handsome to fucking hot. Brock had always been a wiry kid, all bone and tendon–but he’d made up for it with wit and bravery. Standing there now though, it looked like he’d packed on close to fifty pounds of beef, both muscle and fat, and hell if he didn’t even look taller, too. He gave me a big hug, and I nearly creamed myself–then he pushed in and made himself at home, hauling out a beer and chatting away like we’d never been apart.

I asked him how school was going, and he…dodged the question entirely, which was odd. He said he didn’t want to talk about that shit–”shit”, not “stuff” like he would have said before–he wanted to come home for a while, where everything felt a bit easier, less stressful–and he’d been thinking about me a lot he said, which was flattering. I asked him why, and he shrugged. He’d always felt close to me, he said, like a brother, and he felt…well, he couldn’t really describe it well, but he’d been feeling out of sorts for a few months, and he’d always felt better around me, so here he was.

We both drank a bit more than we should have, and after a few hours, he hauled a cigar out of his pocket and started smoking it. I was surprised, and asked him when he’d started doing that. He blushed, and wouldn’t–or couldn’t–answer specifically. In fact, he was dodging around a lot of what I was asking, and far more interested in what I’d been up to back at home, so I told him. He wanted to know if I’d found a boyfriend, and I said I didn’t have time for boys, which made him laugh this deep, sexy guffaw, and I started to wonder if he was coming onto me, but before I could explore that possibility, he’d stumbled up from my couch and took off out my front door, telling me he needed to get home.

I offered him the couch, since he was a bit too drunk to drive, but he didn’t seem to care–if anything, he suddenly seemed like he really wanted to be away from me, like something had spooked him. Still, it wasn’t too far to drive to his parents, so I figured he’d make it. He peeled out in the gravel and took off down the road, and I just watched him go, confused as all hell at the entire evening, and wondering if I was just getting signals crossed.

He came over every day after that–he couldn’t seem to stay away. I was working of course, but often I’d come home and find him sitting on the stoop of my trailer, waiting for me to arrive, beaming at me when I’d gotten out of the truck, eager to chat and shoot the shit and have a beer or six. I…appreciated the company, I suppose, but I couldn’t shake the fact that something about Brock just seemed…off. He was scared, but every time I tried to pry, he’d get evasive, or just flat out leave. But one night, once he’d gotten more drunk than usual, I did work something out of him, finally.

“I just…I’m gonna need a friend here soon. A good friend. I can…I can trust you, right Hunter?”

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 7)

WARNING: Scat, castration, strange stuff, etc.

Paul just kept encouraging him, telling him was a good piggy he’s being, that he’s gonna enjoy having a toilet pig around the farm, and soon, Nate started to feel full, but shit just kept coming anyway. It was backing up his throat, and he couldn’t breathe–the panic was momentary, however, as he quickly found that he didn’t…need to breathe. In a few minutes, his throat was packed up to his snout, and try as he might, he couldn’t take anymore. Thankfully, Paul finished up soon after, and stood back up, not minding the shit coating his ass, turned around, and looked at the rubber pig on hands and knees, and grinned.

His massive load of shit sure had done the trick. The suit which had been hanging off the pig’s body before was now stretched tight–and the pig had probably doubled in size, it’s massive gut nearly dragging along the ground as it felt it’s stuffed snout with one trotter, trying to figure out what to do about it’s predicament. “Here piggy, I can help ya wit that,” Paul said, and shoved his rock hard cock into the packed snout and began forcing the shit down into the pig’s throat roughly. It worked–Paul could feel it working it’s way deeper into him, and the taste of Paul’s nasty cock was enhanced by the shit covering it. It was even better when he let loose a load of piss, helping to liquify a bit of the mass and wash it down. After a couple of minutes he pulled out, huffing a bit, leaking precum, and Nate could lick his snout clean, and tentatively, he got his strange legs underneath his huge frame, and he stood upright.

He was nowhere near the height he’d been before–with his much shorter legs, he was probably barely five feet tall, but with the massive gain in weight, he was easily 500 pounds, if not even larger. His arms were shorter as well, and could barely reach his face, much less the rest of his body. They felt useless. Still, he pressed on his body with them, and he felt the mass of filth inside him shift around slightly. How in the world was he holding all of it? Was there…even a flesh body left inside of him? He recalled how he hadn’t needed to even breathe, when the shit had filled him up, and he concluded that his body…wasn’t really a body anymore–it was just a cavity, a vessel designed to store filth. He could feel his piggy cock hardening at the thought, and pressing through…something against his body, hugging it, and realized the suit had formed a sheath around it–the only bit of his old body still hanging free, and touching the air, were his balls.

Paul hefted up Nate’s gut and looked under it, at them hanging there, and grinned. “Guess we only gots one thing left tah do, right piggy?”

He backed up, unsteady on his feet, turned and started to waddle away, but Paul tackled him to the ground, compressing him slightly, and he felt shit push back up his throat and into his mouth, as well as squeeze out his ass.

“Now, now, if ya wanna make yer farmer happy–ya should know I only wanna fuck hogs. The sooner it’s over with, the better ya will feel–I promise.”

He grabbed hold of Nate’s sack and pulled it tight, before stretching the rubber ring from the package out and looping it around them. He let it go, and it snapped tight–very tight–and merged with the suit, trapping his nuts on the outside, as the rubber squeezed every blood vessel shut. It hurt, and he squealed and groaned, but there was nothing he could do as Paul forced him to roll over onto his back, arms and legs flailing in the air, and he stroked Nate’s pig cock. “One last load for you, piggy,” he said, and Nate could feel it building. With a painful squeal, he came, spurting cum all over his belly, and Paul took out his knife and cut off the entire sack, now dark blue, and a moment later the rubber closed up, sealing smooth like there had never been a break at all.

He expected to feel fear, and anger, and sadness–but instead, all the hog felt was calm. A deep, complete calm, a kind of peace that can only come from a complete loss of self, and identity. He wasn’t a man anymore. He wasn’t even a pig. No–no, he was a hog. A hog for filth. A hog for fucking. A rubber hog to be abused and roughed up and toyed with. A hog who could take anything and then squeal for more. Crave more. The hog rolled over onto it’s gut, feeling more shit squish out of it’s ass, and it wiggled its tail, letting the farmer know what it needed–and Paul was only too happy to give it to the beast. He rammed in deep, pushing through a short rubber canal and meeting the warm shit filling the hog to capacity, and shuddered.

“Awww fuck yeah, I’s a proud fuckin’ hog fucker, yes I fuckin’ is!” he shouted, whooped, and slammed in again, the last remnants of the hog’s human mind disappearing, leaving only the simplest of desires. A need for filth, a need to obey its owner, and a deep aching desire to be filled at all times. Still, its story had ended well–it was going to be very happy, it was certain. Paul came after a while, pulled his shit coated cock out and the hog cleaned it up, mostly–then it followed his master out, waddling on its hind legs. Together they managed to get its huge frame into the bed of the truck, and it settled down for the long ride to Master’s farm–happier now that it was truly a hog, happy that at least some horror stories could have a happy ending.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 6)

WARNING: SCAT, RUBBER, STRANGE STUFF

“Ain’t never thought ‘bout havin’ a rubber hog before,” Paul said, looking at the gear, “But fuck, rubbin’ my cock against mah waders does sure make me nut hard–so I reckon I could give it a try.”

Nate looked back and forth, trying to understand what had happened to his husband. How had he gone to work looking perfectly normal, only to arrive back home looking like this? And…and why was looking at this new version of Paul turning him on so damn much? Nate could smell him from where he was on his hands and knees, and his mouth was salivating more than it had while he’d been stuffing himself. Paul walked over, the stench growing stronger, and as hard as Nate tried to back away, he couldn’t–his face was right at the crotch of Paul’s muddy overalls, and he could see the bulge of the redneck’s big cock tenting them out, and he wanted to taste it so badly. He shoved his head forward, but Paul caught his snout and shoved one of his dirty hands into it, and groaned.

“Damn piggy–that a rubber mouth ya got? Rubber inside and out?”

He grabbed hold of the top and bottom of Nate’s pig face, and pried the jaws apart roughly. Nate…felt them bend and stretch past the point they should have been able to open, like they had no bones inside them, and Paul pushed his hand inside Nate’s gaping mouth and down his throat, which stretched to accomodate it further than it should have been able to, nearly to Paul’s elbow.

“Gawd damn, gotta be careful ‘r I might blow a load already. Let’s git ya dressed up, piggy–ya gots me all excited now.”

The rubber suit had a zipper that ran all the way down it’s back–Paul undid it and laid it down, before grabbing Nate’s arms and legs and guiding them through the four holes. He knew he should be fighting this, but at the same time…he was excited. Thrilled. Hadn’t he wanted this? Not…quite this, he supposed, but a moment ago, with his…his farmer shoving his fist down his throat, feeling that violation, his cock had spasmed and spurted precum all over the floor beneath him. With his arms and legs in the sleeves, Paul pulled the suit up around him and zipped him up–and as he did, the suit melded seamlessly together, with not a single sign that it could even be parted. When it reached the nape of his neck, and the rubber base of the mask which had adhered to his head, the zipper disappeared, though the suit…hung off his body and was far, far too loose. Nate knew that it wasn’t that the suit was too large–it was that he was too small.

“Looks like somebody’s wastin’ away!” Paul said, tugging at the loose suit, “Still–I…yeah, I know what’ll fatten ya up real quick, but first, we better git yer hands ‘n feet fixed, right?”

Nate nodded, and allowed Paul to put the gloves and boots on him as well, and as he did…he noticed that something about the length of the boots and the sleeves of the suit seemed…a bit off. On his arms, the sleeves were quite short, and the gloves weren’t quite long enough to reach his elbow, and yet somehow they managed to meet and seal together. The same with the boots–which were even stranger. The suit ran down his thigh, but the boots…they felt like the weren’t even made for a human foot. Paul shoved and tugged them on anyway, and they too connected up with the suit, and looking back, his legs seemed…a bit shorter, and crooked. Still, he didn’t have long to think about that, because Paul was unhooking the clasps of his overalls. Rapt, and oinking softly in anticipation, he stared as the bib came down, allowing his massive gut to spill out, and then he shoved them down, giving Nate his first view of his massive, ten inch cock with a hefty overhang of foreskin, with two balls hanging low below that looked like they’d belong on a boar, not on a man.

“Judgin’ by that kitchen thar, I’d say ya probably ate everythin’ in sight, ya gluttonous fuck–good thing I got yer dessert right fuckin’ here,” he said, smacking his fat gut, and making it jiggle. He turned around and bent over, “judgin’ by the state a yer crack back there, I don’t think yer gonna mind, right piggy? Go on, nose up ‘n git lickin’. Looser I is, the sooner ya’ll git fed nice ‘n fat.”

No–not this. He wasn’t going to do this, was he? But the hunger he’d felt earlier was now even more intense–it felt like the suit had created a whole new stomach inside him that was aching to be filled. He hobbled forward on his strange hands and feet, feeling them beginning to go oddly numb, and shoved his snout into Paul’s wide, filthy asscrack. His slick tongue started running up and down, and he was surprised by how long it was–probing Paul’s hole, he slid it inside, listening to the redneck groan around his cigar, grunt, and start to bore down–the shit starting to ooze out after a moment. He did his best to fight, but his body knew what it needed–his tongue happily licked it up, and he grunted and squealed in delight at the disgusting taste, feeling it slide with ease down his rubber throat and settle into his gut, where it…seemed to be burning. The shit kept coming. He didn’t know where Paul had been keeping it all, but the filth kept pouring out and he kept swallowing it down, feeling it settle into his gut and spread, and soon, he found a happy rhythm, and enjoyed the sensation of fullness spreading through him.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 5)

WARNING: Scat, bestiality, castration

Nate stopped in front of the door to catch his breath–how out of shape was he, that fifteen steps to the front door had him out of breath? He hauled his keys out of the pocket of his overalls and found the house key, went to unlock it, and found a sizable package sitting on the stoop. Curious, he bent down and picked it up–it wasn’t too heavy, but he hadn’t ordered anything recently, had he? Maybe it was for Nate. He checked the address label, but the shipping address didn’t have a name, instead, it read, “The Filthy Pig, C/O Its Farmer Master.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but fuck, that kind of turned him on. If it wasn’t meant for him…maybe he could still take a peek inside, just out of curiosity. He held the package against his gut and unlocked the door, pushing it open and lumbering in, setting the box on a table in the hall and shutting it behind him. “Hey Nate! Ya home? Hey, I’s…got some stuff I wanna dis–disca–some stuff tah talk ‘bout wit’ ya.”

Nate didn’t reply, but Paul heard someone was in the house. There were noises coming from the kitchen, but it didn’t exactly sound human to him–it reminded him more of an animal, like a raccoon he’d startled while it was rummaging in the trash. “If some fuckin’ pest gots its way in here, gonna have tah git mah shotgun,” he grumbled and headed for the kitchen, paying no mind to the mud he was tracking into the house from the bottom and sides of the knee high waders he was wearing. He rounded the corner, and there, facing away from him, was the widest, cutest, prettiest little piggy rump he’d seen a long time, with a little black rubber tail swishing to and fro above a crack caked with manure. “Well cross my eyes backwards! Somebody let a sexy little hog loose in mah fuckin’ house.”

Nate lifted his head up from the food he was scarfing down and looked behind him, eyes wide at the sight of Paul–or at least a man he could barely recognize as Paul. His slim, well dressed husband had left this morning in pristine condition as always, and had returned home looking like he belonged in the middle of Iowa. As horrified as Nate was at what had happened to him, and as hopeful as he was that his husband might be able to help him escape this nightmare, the pig inside him, the pig growing stronger by the second, saw the massive redneck in the doorway, and all it could think about was how fucking sexy Paul looked, and how much it wanted that redneck cock buried deep in his piggy hole.

“Sooey! Come here sweet little thing–I was just thinkin’ ‘bout how much I been missin’ havin’ a hoghole tah fuck, ‘n looky here! Just like Pa said, ya ain’t never gonna know where ‘r when yer prayers ‘r gonna be answered.” He stepped forward, and it took him a moment to realize that the animal he was looking at wasn’t in fact a pig. When he actually noticed the human hands and feet, his heart sank a bit. “Wait…this a fuckin’ trick? Ya ain’t even a real piggy!”

“It’s me! It’s Nate!” he tried to say, but the mask refused to let the words come out right, and Paul had no idea what the pigman had tried to say. Paul looked closer, certain he should recognize the person under that pig mask, but his head just wasn’t quite as agile as it had been in his youth–not that it had been particularly quick then, either. Then he remembered the package he’d found on the step. “Wait a god damn minute–a package fer a filthy pig, care of a Farmer Master! That’s me, ain’t it! ‘N that’s you, ya dirty piggy.”

Paul retreated back to the entry way to get the box, pulling a slender knife from a holster hanging from his pocket and using it to cut the tape. The pig in his head gave a few grunts, and decided it had had enough food for the moment–what it needed now, more than anything, was a good rough fuck, but that sexy redneck didn’t seem that interested. Nate was fighting it as hard as he could, trying to stay in control, because he was realizing that what he’d thought was a story all this time might have actually been something more like a prophecy.

The boy had taken the carcass and sewn the head, cock, and tail to his body, and after he’d done that…thanks to a twisted fairy, the dead flesh had come alive again, granting the boy his disgusting wish, but with a cost. His human mind began to wither, and the new piggish instincts began to take control. The boy, a pariah and monster, had hidden on a pig farm and emerged only at night, helping himself to the slop the farmer left for his pigs, until one night he’d been discovered.

What the boy hadn’t known, was that this farmer had always held a deep, perverse love for his pigs–especially the castrated hogs he raised for slaughter. In fact, it a twist of fate, it had been one of his hogs’ carcasses the boy had stolen from the butcher, and the man recognized the hog’s face–it had been one of his favorite lovers. It had broken his heart to send it to the butcher, but now it had come back to him–though it was incomplete. Still, the fairy had whispered to him, he could fix that, couldn’t he?

Nate rounded the corner, in time to see Paul reach into the box and start hauling out the contents from the box–but in his heart, he already knew what it was going to be. First, the skin–a full body, black rubber suit, with the word HOG on the back in light brown. Next, the trotters–two gloves and two boots, all four with solid rubber trotters where the hands and feet should be. And lastly, a ball stretcher–and it was the last item that filled Nate with the most terror. After all, he was still a pig, for the moment. But the story wasn’t called “To be a Boar,” now was it?

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 3)

*Meanwhile, elsewhere*

Paul was about ready to head home from work, putting the finishing touches on his work and shutting down his computer, already dreading the commute home–but dreading having to see Nate even more. Something…was wrong with him. It had been going on for a couple of weeks now, but every time he’d tried and talk about it with him, Nate had avoided the conversation like the plague. It had been little things at first–mostly these…violent dreams, where he’d be thrashing and squealing and no matter how hard Paul shook him he wouldn’t wake up. Then things had gotten stranger–Nate usually kept a pristine house, but lately he hadn’t seemed to be keeping anything clean, and the way his body was looking, he’d been spending a lot of that time binge eating.

It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, he supposed, but the change had happened so quickly…and Paul didn’t know how to deal with it. This weekend…he’d have to talk about it with him, he just didn’t have any other option. They’d work through it, whatever it was–he was sure of it. With his things packed up he got up from his chair and checked his phone, where he saw a strange notification from an app he didn’t recognize, and which he was certain he hadn’t ever downloaded, called Arctos. He tried to dismiss the message telling him he’d been selected to receive a complimentary audio album from their collection, but instead of swiping away, it took him to a download screen, which he couldn’t stop.

Was it some virus? He tried to click away, frustrated, but it only let him get out of the screen after it had finished downloading whatever it was onto his phone. Was it a fucking virus or something? It didn’t seem to have messed with anything else on his phone, but he’d have to get it checked out this weekend as well, to make sure it wasn’t something malicious. Trying to focus on his bigger problem with Nate, he rode the elevator down and got to his luxury sedan out in the parking lot, and started the engine. Without thinking much of it, he hooked up his bluetooth from his phone to the car, ready to play some of his music, but as soon as it was connected some strange country song started blaring out of the speakers instead of his usual classic rock. Checking his phone, he discovered that whatever strange album that program had downloaded had been set to autoplay, and he couldn’t make it stop, no matter what he did–even turning down the car volume wouldn’t work for some reason. Frustrated, he simply resigned himself to the problem–he’d get it figured out this weekend, but if this was the worst the virus did, he might as well count himself lucky–and now that he’d listened to it for a couple of minutes, the music wasn’t bothering him nearly as much as he’d have expected it to. To his own surprise, he belted out the chorus of the first song without even realizing he’d learned it by heart:

Ya don’t want no city livin’.
Got ya wishin’ for a simpl’r time
Well ya’ll be a big, old country bear
If ya just listen tah mah rhyme!

Ya got a beard down tah yer gut
And mullets never went outta style.
Relax ya big, old country bear
And crank that volume dial!

Paul didn’t notice, as he kept humming along to the catchy tune, that he was starting to change in the driver seat of the car. He’d always taken great care to make sure his appearance was professional–he knew that appearances mattered in business, and he wasn’t about to let a beard or a paunch get in the way of a promotion. Yet he slumped a bit in his seat now, adjusted the crotch of his pants as his cock picked up a few more inches, heaved a sigh, and his gut pushed out against his tight shirt, a couple of buttons popping as it grew. He scratched his face, unfazed by the beard growing out from his cheeks and chin, rapidly rowing longer than a foot–his meticulously styled hair growing greasy and long, hanging around his head in tangled locks with streaks of grey, the top shaved short–but not short enough to disguise his now receding hairline. Unaware of the changes, and curious about the album now that he’d gotten through the first song, he turned up the stereo and kept listening:

Wearin’ yer waders ‘n yer overalls
Smokin’ a ‘gar in yer rusty truck
Nothin’ but a dumbfuck redneck,
ain’t it just yer fuckin’ luck!

Ya Never wash yer clothes
‘N ya never take a shower
The worse ya stink the dumber ya think
But a real man ain’t a fuckin’ flower!

Paul guffawed at that line–because…because he was a real fucking man, and he sure as hell didn’t smell like those prissy bitches in the city. No–he didn’t want to live like that anymore–why worry about climbing the corporate ladder, when he could just work on the farm all day–simple shit, without having to worry about complex shit like accounts, or computers or whatever. He leaned forward and gave the ass of his overalls a scratch, digging into his crack a bit with a grunt around the cigar he was smoking, and then sat back with a sigh, hearing the old seat of his pickup groan under his weight, smelling the grungy musk welling up around him and making his cock stir Sure was his luck! No better fucking life than this one he had right now as a dirty fucking farmer bear, right? This was a great album–how in the world had he never heard of it before? He kept listening, humming along and singing when he got the choruses of the song’s down. As he was pulling onto the subdivision where he lived with Nate, the last track of the album came on, called “Hogfucker” and this one made his breath catch in his lungs:

Those curly tails and big wide rumps
get ya rarin’ fer a nasty fuck
Can’t help climbin’ in the filthy sty
just a plowin’ in the mud and muck!

Who’s a proud hogfucker?
Yer a proud hogfucker!

Manure and slop sure turn yer crank,
The oinkin’ snortin’ ‘n squealin’.
Ruttin’ away in the disgustin’ filth
Yeah! Ain’t no better fuckin’ feelin’!

Fuck, why in the hell was his cock so hard all of a sudden? He thought the song was metaphorical for a moment, but pretty soon…he was sure it was talking about pigs. Real fucking pigs, and how…how fucking sexy they were. Hell, why should he try and deny it anyway? It was true–he’d fucked a few pigs in his life–it was always better than fucking a dude or a bitch in his opinion.

“Who’s a proud hogfucker?” The song asked again.

“I’s a proud hogfucker!” Paul shouted back with a chorus of redneck voices on the track, hauling his cock free of his overalls and stroking himself roughly, thinking of the last time he’d been with a proper hog–too fucking long ago in his opinion. He needed to get back out on the farm, into the country, where he’d feel more at home anyway–but he…he had to do something here first. The song ended–too soon for Paul to finish his load–and the heavyset redneck got out of his truck with a grumble and tromped up the steps of his house, feeling out of breath and out of sorts, but he was sure he’d feel better once he was back on the farm, where he belonged.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 2)

It wasn’t the reply Nate had expected from the company, but then again, what had he expected? Why in the world had he written to them in the first place? He felt ashamed at daring to admit what had gone through his head to anyone, over the last few weeks, and now the same company which had cursed him with this fucking obsession was sending him a gift? He was sick to his stomach, when Paul came home from work to discover his husband in a fit of–well, Paul didn’t know what was wrong with Nate, but he was concerned. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and his mood–and appetite–swung wildly. On some nights, he wouldn’t be able to eat anything, and on others, he’d arrive home and find Nate laying on the couch, binging on snacks, with an obvious hardon in his underwear. That night, however, it was clear that something was worse–but like before, Nate refused to discuss it, and simply disappeared into their bedroom, leaving Paul to fret on his own while he prepared dinner for himself, his mind running through a whole list of worries. Still–what could he do, if Nate wasn’t willing to be open and honest with him? He went to bed late, and found his husband tossing and turning in bed, as had become common, the sheets wet with sweat, and smelling of cum. Disturbed, he decided to sleep in the guest room instead–at least that way he wouldn’t have to put up with it.

The next morning, Nate awoke late to discover that Paul had already gotten up and left for work without disturbing him. The night had been even worse than usual–it seemed like he’d relived the entire story from beginning to end in his mind, trapped in the horror, unable to wake up. He groped for his balls, and gave a sigh of relief when he felt them, and then looked at the rest of his body. He was normal–a bit worse for wear, after his sudden binging habit which had kicked in, but…himself. Why did that…upset him so much? He felt better, at least–more focused. Today was the day he’d turn it around, he decided. He’d put it behind him. He could do it. He wouldn’t worry about Arctos or their fucked up books anymore, and he’d be Nate–himself…right?

He spent the morning catching up on the household chores he’d been neglecting, and with a cleaner house, he felt cleaner himself–especially after a nice long shower. Maybe writing that letter had been what he needed to do–maybe just getting it out of him and admitting it had gotten him to a place where he could finally move on. It was around eleven that he’d gotten dressed and ready to run some errands–and get back to the gym, of course–when he opened the door, and found a large package on the stoop in front of him.

It couldn’t be–how had it gotten here so quickly? It must be something else he’d ordered from Amazon and forgotten about. He checked the shipping label, and sure enough, it was from Arctos–it was his gift. Throw it in the trash, he told himself, nothing this company sends you can be any good. He picked it up–it was heavy–and with a look around to see if anyone was watching from the neighborhood, he turned around and went right back inside, found a knife, and opened it up.

When he pushed aside the packing material from the top, he tried to scream but his voice was caught in his throat. It…it wasn’t real, was it? No–no, it was black, it didn’t look like flesh–he reached in and touched the thing, and while it was stiff, he figured it had to be rubber. A rubber cast of a pig’s head, hollow, meant to be worn as a mask. Just like…like the head the boy from the story had stolen from the butcher, the boar’s head he’d taken, hollowed out, forced over his own and then sewn in place. The boar’s head which had magically come to life–and beside it, two other things–a pigtail dildo and something that looked like a dildo, but wasn’t–he discovered upon inspection. No–the last item was…was meant as a sleeve for his cock, just like the boar’s cock the boy had skinned and sewn over his own as well.

It was a cruel joke, to call such a thing a gift, and yet, looking down at them, the feelings Nate had managed to quell for the morning roared back to the front of his mind. He…he wanted to put them on–there, he’d thought it. He’d thought about it for weeks now, about what could drive someone to do such a horrific act, and now, staring down at the rubber gear–he knew. He was in the wrong body–he wanted to be a hog, had always wanted to be a hog–he’d just never known how to articulate that desire in all his life, and this monstrous book had given him the language, and the need. Or maybe it was just a brief fascination. Maybe if he tried it, he’d see how silly he’d been and be able to forget it. He was already stripping his way free of his workout gear, and had the head out of the box, feeling the heft of it, imagining the weight on his shoulders.

In front of a mirror in the hall, he lowered it over his head, and it fit snuggly. It took him a moment to line his eyes up with the holes in the mask, but when he did, he let out a snort of excitement–there in the mirror was his body–his awful, human body–with a beautiful boar’s head resting on top, just like he’d always imagined, just like he’d always needed. He grabbed the cock sleeve and shoved his hard, leaking cock inside it, and then pushed the dildo into his ass, and started stroking, amazed he could…feel his hand through the thick rubber of the sleeve, but he needed this–he’d always needed this. In his mind he knew he needed to take the stuff off, that it was feeling…hot stuffy and sticky inside the heavy mask. But he needed this, as ashamed as he was. He needed this more than anything, and he could always take it off, right?