Losing Control (Original Version)

I’m hoping to publish a longer story once a week or so, but I know that I won’t be able to always have sizable new content for you all. However, one thing I have been wanting to do for years is organize all of my stories in one place with a more comprehensive tag/category system, so this is the beginning of that project. When I don’t have a new story to post for the week, I’ll go back in my archives, clean up an old story, and repost it here. I’m going to be starting off with some stories that I haven’t touched in a very long time–like this one! My first story, almost twelve years old! Like a small child. Almost a teenager even. A story that is also a tween. I think this is now sufficiently weird.

In addition, for some of these, I’m planning on working on fixing up some of the writing, and also potentially extending them. I already have an extended rework of this story is process in fact. Some of those enhanced versions will be published here, others will be for Patron eyes only, depending on how I feel about them. I do want to preserve the original work, however, so I won’t be cleaning these archive versions up too much. The writing is a bit…well, it was twelve years ago! I was trying very hard. In any case, some of you might not have ever seen these stories, and others might like to revisit them, and now they will all be in one place, eventually! Hooray!

(Original version, published 4/22/2007)
I’m not a fan of destroying peoples’ lives, but sometimes they just deserve it. Being a wizard, it’s important to not lose control and let your power go to your head. Of course, I feel that I have a certain duty however to assist other people in realizing that they shouldn’t let their power go to their heads either. For example, do you remember Mike, the quarterback?… No of course you don’t remember Mike, Jerry’s the quarterback now and always has been. Let me just tell you a story then. Let’s say that there was this guy on campus, and he was a quarterback, and very popular, with a great body. All of those things would give a guy a lot of power, right? And a reasonably good person might use that power to do something good, right? You know…instead of picking on a wizard just because he would rather read a good book of spells than spend hours at the gym grunting like an ape, right? Well let’s say Mike wasn’t a reasonable good person, and that he did pick on a wizard, and that wizard felt like Mike was out of control. Or perhaps he had to much control. So all I did was make him lose a little. Ok, so it wasn’t really a little, but let me get to the story.

Mike had just got home from a frat party where he had a wonderful Saturday night. Not only was there plenty of beer, but the girls had been almost as bottomless as the stockpile of kegs as well. If he counted right, he had made out with ten, gotten blowjobs from six, and fucked two. The girls went crazy over his six foot three, 230 pound chiseled body, and blue eyes. Of course, he may have lied to a few of them, like when they asked if he loved them. He didn’t, but their bodies were damn hot, and that’s all that mattered to him. He unlocked the door to his apartment off campus and stepped inside. Dodging a pile of old pizza boxes, he threw his coat onto the couch and stumbled into the kitchen for a final beer before going to bed. He should clean up his apartment, but he didn’t really care that much. We wasn’t here most of the time anyway, he reasoned. He opened the fridge, pulled a can out of the 12 pack box, and sat down at the table, shoving a stack of papers aside to make room. One of them fell in front of him, and as he picked it up, the salutation caught his eye, “Dear Mike, the asshole jock.” He read the first line a few more times, thinking it was the beer, but there it was, written in script on a piece of plain paper. Curious, he went on the read the rest of the letter:

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The Fetish Gun Is Loose! (Part 5) [Interactive]

So it was a tie, between giving Rick some additional humiliating fetishes, and having Anthony become his father, so we’ll do a mash up of both. Also, there’s a 42% chance that this is going to end up backfiring on Anthony–and since there’s two changes, there’s two chances it’ll backfire on whoever has the gun at the moment! So we’ll see what happens!

WARNING: SCAT

Anthony was enjoying the hell out of his diaper boy–but he wanted to push things a bit further. What he was really fantasizing about was taking him home and treating him like a stupid little boy…but why not push that in a more taboo direction, and actually become Rick’s father? He didn’t want that idea to turn him on quite as much as it was…and he wasn’t even sure if the gun could do it. Sure, it could create relationships–all he had to do was turn it to dial D–but why not just give it a shot, and see what happens? He turned the dial around to D, while Rick was still busy sucking his cock, and he pointed it at–

(Backfire save roll……Failure! Anthony’s plan backfires.)

Rick. What he forgot, was that the person that gets shot with the gun first, is the person who will be more dominant in the relationship. He pulled the trigger, the ray engulfed Rick in the yellow aura, and then bounced back and swallowed him as well. It was the first time he’d experienced the gun itself–and it was…unsettling. He found all of these new ideas and memories in his mind, how he’d raised his son Rick–and he’d always hated potty training. He’d throw tantrums, insist his father put him back in diapers, and Anthony had always relented–just to get him to stop. He’d assumed he’d grow out of it–and he did, somewhat, but not out of his brashness, and his domineering attitude, and Anthony had just…never been able to say no to him.

Rick wet the bed constantly as a teenager–so much that Anthony believed he must have liked it. If he washed the sheets, then he’d come home from work to discover his own mattress soaked in piss as well. It wasn’t long after that, when Rick coaxed his father into sucking his cock one evening, while they were both drunk, and things had only spiraled out of control from there. Now, here they were–Anthony in his late fifties, and Rick in his mid-thirties, and his son had…total control over his father’s life.

He realized what he’d done, as the gun faded away, but Rick was too quick–he snatched the gun from his father’s hand, and then stood up, and Anthony…quaked. “That’s a very naughty daddy–turn around, someone needs a spanking, don’t you think?”

Anthony realized he was nearly naked in the club–Rick liked to bring him here on busy nights to humiliate his father, usually with both of them diapered. He hadn’t messed his yet–so Rick pulled it down and started spanking his fat father’s ass, and Anthony…liked it. He felt his cock getting hard, knowing his own son was punishing him, and he craved it–Rick had warped his mind so much over the years, that he was willing to do anything for him, now. When Rick was satisfied, he pulled his dad’s diaper back up into place, sat down with a squelch (his own diaper, at this point, was rather full) and ordered his father to sniff his diaper, while he examined his new toy.

He saw the dial on the side, with the settings, and had his daddy explain them to him. He considered lying…but what was the point? He’d just get punished for not telling the truth, if he did. “Well dad, did you shoot me with this earlier? Be honest now.”

Anthony nodded, his face pressed to his son’s pissy diaper. “I…I turned you into a diaper obsessed pig, son, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize daddy–you did good, but you need to be punished for using my toys without permission. If you got to change me, I think it’s only fair that I get to change you, right?”

Anthony gulped, as his son turned the dial to setting A, turned to gun on him. He fought…hard. He had to stop him, he had to regain control, and push back against this…

(Backfire check #2! The risk is still 42% percent, that things will, this time, backfire against Rick, who is holding the gun. Backfire save roll…….Success! No backfire.)

But before he could work up the will to fight for the gun, his son fired–and Anthony found himself losing the will to do…anything, really. More memories filled in, how he’d always been just as lazy as his son–if not even lazier. He…liked being a slob, and being fat, and being…being a loser. It was natural that he serve his son–after all, he was so much smarter and better than he was. When the gun stopped, Anthony had gained close to 300 pounds, kneeling there in his own oversized, saggy diaper–the same one he’d been wearing, and filling, for days at this point. He could smell himself, and he was so filthy–he loved it, and he loved his son even more for showing him just how much of a pathetic loser he could be.

The people around them were just as disgusted as they ought to be, and they’d also attracted the attention of a bouncer, who was coming over to eject them from the bar–but Rick had a plan for that. He fired the gun at the man, and instead of ejecting them, he shoved his dad down and started hitting him–lightly at first, but then harder. Rick just watched the bouncer abuse and beat his father, berating him the entire time, shooting him on occasion with the gun to push him further, until the bouncer–now a filthy, ugly bruiser obsessed with physical abuse, hauled down Anthony’s full diaper, and shoved his hand into the old man’s ass, fisting him roughly right there in the bar, while Rick watched–until he couldn’t resist joining in, fucking his father’s face while the bouncer kept fisting him, jacking off with his free hand, all of them lost in the moment–and none of them minding the gun.

No one else intervened. The longer it had gone on, the more…normal it seemed for everyone. After all, as disturbing as the trio were, they were all regular sights here, at the bar–the same with Davie and his posse of admirers on the other side, all of them worshiping his massive, monstrous cock–though none were as devoted as Phil–who had an…unhealthy obsession with Davie’s cock. But who gets a hold of the gun next?

So, now that we have a few characters involved, things can get a bit more…interesting. Who gets a hold of the gun next?

Davie recovers it–and starts modifying the three of them to suit his interests.
The brutish bouncer claims it, and uses it on Rick, making him his submissive pain slave as well.
Anthony gets hold of it again, and uses setting E on himself–so the bouncer and Rick will absorb his new fetishes.
Rick keeps hold of it, and uses it to warp some other people into permanent fixtures of the bar’s bathroom.

Here is the twitter poll

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Voting ends on Monday!

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.”

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 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.

Daddy’s Little Man (Part 4)

WARNING: Scat, Diapers, Extreme Mental Regression, etc.

From the way his legs were swinging without even touching the ground, James realized he must have shrunk again as well, but with no way of measuring, all he knew was that his daddy absolutely dwarfed him…and yet he felt a strange sense of comfort in that. “Alright, come here little man, it’s alright,” Mr. Rawlins said, pulling James into a hug, and he melted into the older man’s chest, the sense of comfort and security which washed over him drove his earlier terror from his mind. He was on his daddy’s lap now–everything would be alright. Mr. Rawlins started rubbing one of hands up and down his big belly, and his peepee did that funny thing again, getting kind of stiff in his diaper, and James sucked harder on the rubber cock in his mouth. “Yeah, that’s my good little man. Still, since you’re being such a pain, I think we need to do something about that head of yours, don’t we? We need to make sure you stay occupied, so you don’t get any ideas about running away from me ever again. So how about this, how about we make you a naughty baby? A stupid, dirty, naughty little man? How does that sound? Would you like that? I know I would–I’d like that a lot,” Mr. Rawlins said, massaging his own cock through his suit pants.

Some distant part of James, something small told him he needed to get away, that he needed to fight against his daddy, but he was so big, and so…so important, and so nice…he couldn’t do that. He wanted to be whatever his daddy wanted him to be. As he sat there on his daddy’s lap, wreathed in pipe smoke, he suddenly felt his bladder release again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just piss flowing out of him, it was his brain, his knowledge, his thoughts. It was like a drain had been opened at the base of his brain and it was all flowing out through his cock and into his diaper. It was so hard to think, and he didn’t have many words to use to do so, his eyes growing dull and vacant as a bit of drool seeped out around his pacifier. He was running on instinct more than anything now. He sucked harder on the rubber pacifier, feeling his peepee tingle in anticipation–but what he was anticipating he didn’t really know.

“Yeah, that’s much better. Look at those eyes of yours now–so innocent, so loving, so dull. You’re daddy’s little man, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Mr. Rawlin’s said, tickling James massive gut and making him giggle around his pacifier. “Yeah, you won’t be able even think of running away anymore, will you? Still, I think we need to find something else to occupy your attention, just to make sure you don’t get any ideas. Daddies hate it when their little men get ideas.”

James felt his asshole release then, and a massive flood of shit filled the back of his diaper, and while the smell was horrendous, it also made his peepee tingle even more, especially when the shit started working its way around between his thick thighs and under his balls. Happy in his shitty diaper, James started rocking back and forth on his daddy’s knee, spreading it around as much as he could, wanting to get dirtier, filthier, a nasty, gross baby for his daddy, just like he wanted him to be. His peepee was tingling so much, and it felt so good, he could barely stand it, and he started humping his diaper, feeling his peepee rub up against the fabric as well as his fat.

“Yeah, what a disgusting little man. You enjoy that? You like having a filthy diaper? Just you wait–I don’t think I’ll change you for days–I want to see how full it can get. Still, I don’t think you’re quite naughty enough yet. How about we make that peepee of yours your new brain?”

The tingle in his peepee was suddenly ten times more powerful, and James weak thrusts sped up, the diapered man turning a bit so he could hump his full diaper against his daddy’s suit, and after a few moments he was rewarded with the most wonderful sensation, kind of like he was peeing again, but ten times better. He let out a groan, the pacifier dropping from his mouth, and his daddy bent over, giving him a deep kiss, toying with his little man’s nipples, and suddenly James was cumming again, unable to help himself, messily making out with his daddy, a small dark spot forming on the front of Mr. Rawlins’ pants as well.

“Yes, I think you’ll do nicely, little man,” Mr. Rawlins said, putting James down on the ground, where the massively obese adult baby gaped around with empty eyes while he rubbed the front of his pants with one of his hands, making his peepee happy and his daddy happy all at the same time, squishing his nasty shit around in his diaper. “Still, I had hoped you would be ready for school–I love a good school boy. I think I did a little too much damage for that though…let’s see then–we can’t have you wandering around in just a diaper after all. Still, I think I know just the look for a dumb, nasty and naughty baby like you.”

Mr. Rawlins wreathed his new little man in another cloud of smoke, and when it cleared, a new outfit was adorning his body–a tight fitting white sailor suit, or at least, mostly white. The crotch was stained a light yellow and the ass had brown streaks from where his diapers routinely overflowed, but James didn’t mind, clapping his hands with joy as he looked down at himself, letting loose a wet, shitty fart as he did, and looking up to his daddy for approval. He wanted his daddy to be happy–after all, his daddy could do anything he wanted.

“Ha, look at you–so handsome. You know, I was going to wait until we got home to introduce you to my special pacifier, but I…I don’t think I can wait, little man,” Mr. Rawlins said, and unzipped his pants, “Open up–daddy’s got something big for you to suck on.”

James didn’t need any more encouragement, and drooling a bit, he took the cock in his mouth and started sucking on it, feeling his pee pee start tingling again, and with one of his hands, he rubbed the front, feeling himself cum again like before, when he’d made his daddy happy. He loved making his daddy happy after all–and when the big man tensed up and unloaded his seed down his little man’s throat, James knew he’d made him very happy indeed.

In the Doghouse (Part 4)

CW: Scat, Filth, etc. Read at your own risk.

“Yeah, that’s the kinda Faggot I wanna see, good fuckin’ Faggot…” Gage said, petting Carson’s head, and the pride he felt sickened him, but he didn’t stop. After a couple of minutes, he pushed Gage off, and heaved himself up from the recliner, dropped his filthy briefs and bent over the side, still stroking his cock, “Come on ya fuckin’ dogboi–time tah earn yer fuckin’ keep. All dogs love sniffin’ ass, ‘n yer no fuckin’ exception–’n yer Master loves cummin’ with a tonuge in his hole.”

Carson whined and tried to fight it, tried to deny it, but he did as Gage ordered, walking behind him, giving his filthy crack a sniff, and then started licking it. It was filthy, and obviously Gage hadn’t wiped well, if at all, but to his tongue, the filthier it tasted, the more he wanted it–something Gage didn’t stop reminding him of, “Yeah, how’s it feel Faggot? Ya like bein’ trapped in that nasty fuckin’ dogboi body? Don’t worry–ya’ll break eventually. Won’t even have tah collar ya in a few months, ya’ll love what I do tah ya–all of it–ya’ll be beggin’ me fer more!” Gage laughed, bore down and let out another fart, but to their surprise, a bit of shit came with it, spattering Carson’s face. He gave a snort and shook his head, trying to get it off him, but Gage just laughed some more. “Git used tah it, ya dumb mutt! Lick it up, lick it up ‘n enjoy it–ya love yer master’s nasty shit. Git back in there ‘n dig deeper. Yer Master’s close, Faggot.”

Carson licked up the shit, trying not to think too hard about how he enjoyed the taste, and then dug in deeper, probing Gage’s hole with his tongue, muzzle open wide, and listening to him moan. The sooner Gage came, he told himself, the sooner this part would be over. He licked harder, and after a couple of minutes, Gage gave a few grunts and his cock exploded all over his hand and the side of the recliner in front of him, and he panted for a moment before hefting himself back up, and pulling up his briefs. “Clean it up, Faggot. Ya’ve earned it.”

Carson licked up the cum from Gage’s hand, and then cleaned up the side of the recliner, at least happy to not have his face buried in Gage’s ass for a moment…even if he had enjoyed it. No–he shook his head. It had felt good, but he hadn’t enjoyed it–he had to keep those things separate if he was going to stay sane.

“Woowee,” Gage said, “Tuckered me out a good bit. Think it’s time fer a nap,” he said. “Still, ya gotta git in yer pen for a while, Faggot. I don’t trust ya unsupervised ‘round the house just yet–pro’ly piss on the rug tah spite me.” Gage forced him back out into the dogrun, but before locking the gate, he filled up Carson’s bowl with another load of piss, hocked in some tobacco spit, and then returned to the house. Alone again, Carson paced the dogrun looking for a weak spot to try and escape, but saw nothing…and he was thirsty. Washing his mouth out with piss seemed the best option available, but in the end, it only made his whole mouth taste even worse. The sun was hot, and the only shade available was the doghouse, so he retreated, curled up, and fell asleep.

Carson woke up a couple hours later, and saw that from the light outside, it must be approaching evening. He crawled out and looked towards the house, but didn’t see any movement inside, and none of the lights were on–either Gage was still asleep, or he’d left to run errands. In any case, he needed to try and escape. More than anything else, though–Carson needed to shit, and quick. There was no easy place to do it, so he picked the corner furthest from the doghouse, humped up as best he could, and dropped a massive load of stinking shit next to the fence. He hated that he enjoyed the scent of it, but he ignored it and focused on trying to climb the fence instead. However, his body was still too unfamiliar to him to make it work–and the fact that he’d packed on close to a hundred pounds over the course of the morning didn’t help either. In the end, he was left panting, exhausted, and he walked over to the bowl, pissed into it with a bit better aim than before, and took a drink.

He hated that this seemed normal, after just a day. He hated that he was actually enjoying this. He sat down and rolled his back legs up, looking back at his cock where it had slipped out of his sheath, and realized that with his shifted body…he could lick it himself. He did, tasting it, and he kept licking it, enjoying the sensation as the first real pleasure he’d had since entering this house a day before, but he was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening and shutting. “Enjoying yerself Faggot? Like the taste a that dogcock?” Gage said, “Might have tah bring a few other mutts ‘round fer ya tah play with if ya do.” He quickly uncurled himself as Gage unlocked the dogrun. “Come on in mutt–time fer dinner.”

Carson followed him inside, and the smell of food on the air was heavenly. Gage must have been out shopping–he saw a whole chicken on the table, still steaming–probably from a supermarket deli. “Stop slobberin’ mutt–that ain’t fer ya, ‘n ya know it. “Besides, Master always eats first–but ya can make me happy while I do, right mutt?”

Carson spent the meal under the table, licking at Gage’s nasty feet and licking at his cock–whatever Gage wanted him to do, really, licking up the grease and spit that fell from his mouth as he ate onto his huge belly, sniffing the farts and belches Gage let off regularly. When he finished, Gage pushed back with a final belch, and hefted himself up. “Alright boy–time fer yer dinner,” he said, and walked over to a metal bowl on the floor, squatted over it, and with a few grunts, started dumping shit into the bowl right in front of Carson’s snout. “See mutt? Ya git all the tasty food too, ya just git it the second time ‘round. Still, we both know how the taste ‘n smell a Master’s shit makes ya hungry ‘n horny, right Faggot? Ya dirty fuckin’ dogboi?”

He fought–he fought hard. He’d done it earlier, but he hadn’t imagined that shit was going to be his main food from that point on. Still, his slobbering muzzle eventually found its way to the bowl, and he started scarfing down Gage’s shit, while the big man laughed beside him. “Fuck yeah, ya nasty faggot…” He got down behind Carson, and with a yelp, he felt Gage grab his hips and shove his hard cock into his ass, “Yeah, keep eatin’ ya fuckin’ mutt! I wanna fuck ya while I watch ya eat mah warm fuckin’ shit. Fuck, look at ya, ya fuckin’ shameless beast. I’m gonna love watchin’ ya fight, ‘n ya better fight hard, cause when ya finally give in, when ya finally accept the fact that yer nothin’ but a filthy, disgusting mutt–fuck, that’s gonna be a real sweet sight…”

Gage kept fucking him even after he’d finished his meal, but came soon after, filling his ass with a load of cum before pulling out, leaving Carson panting and whining, tears running down his face. “Aww, don’t cry boy, here, we can make ya feel better, right? Roll o’er boy.”

Carson rolled over, legs up, cock hard and slimy against his belly. “Yeah, I can make good dogboi’s like you feel real good…” Gage said, squatted down over him, and pressed his filthy ass to Carson’s muzzle. He licked up the shit caught in his cheeks, while Gage started tugging on his dog cock roughly, telling Carson what a treat it was to be jacked off by his Master, that it’s the only way a nasty dog like him can cum. With a yelp, his cock released a huge load of cum all over his belly, and Gage praised him, telling him he was a good shit eating mutt. “Yeah, yer gonna see, mutt. Yer gonna be real happy here ‘fore too long. Hungry all the time, beggin’ yer master fer shit–ya ain’t never gonna git enough, but that’s how I want ya–desperate, hungry, ‘n always horny fer yer Master.”

He made Carson clean up the floor, and then shooed him back out into the now dark yard for the night, locking him back up in the dogrun, and Carson…he was numb. He’d cum with his tongue deep in his Master’s hole, and worse…he wanted to do it again, so badly. Even worse than that…he was hungry again, and it was only getting worse. He caught a scent on the air, and saw his now cold shit in the corner of the dog run. Trying not to think about it, he walked over and ate it as quickly as he could…and only after did he realize he hadn’t heard Gage go back into the house.

He looked back over his shoulder, muzzle still covered in his own shit, and saw Gage leering at him on the steps. “Good boy,” Gage said, and went back inside.

He could still fight this, Carson told himself as he settled in for the night, a bit more comfortable than the night before with the extra padding of his new weight. He could fight him–he knew it. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to fight him, not really, and that, he realized, is why he was already lost.

Cleaning House (Part 8)

CW: Scat

~Daddy’s POV~

He’s my boy.

He’s dumb, filthy, nasty, fat, and a total pervert. He’s mine. He’s everything I wanted, and now, it’s all he wants too.

It’s difficult to explain what happened to me–honestly, even the experts are still puzzling it out. I saved the world, somehow, but I don’t remember a thing about it. They said I was a hero, but when I woke up that day, looking like this–fat, hairy, reeking, horny as can be–I had no memory of who I was. Still, the government sends me the fat checks, and want me living somewhere quiet–somewhere alone, and I could manage that for a while, but I’m…not alone in here, in my body. There’s something else inside me, a fragment of something, and it’s…so hungry.

I found out, by accident, what I could do. Hypnotize people, I guess. Change them, slowly, encourage them, make them lose themselves. I was caught between my desperate loneliness, and my own terror at what I wanted, what it wanted–what we wanted. So I placed the ad in the paper, and I chatted with him over the phone, got a feel for him, and I liked him a lot, the sound of him even. When he showed up at the cabin and saw the state of how I lived–fuck, I was so hungry for him, for that disgust on his face when he saw me. He tried to turn around and leave, but I had too many hooks in him from our phone chat–he marched right in, terrified out of his wits, and then we had our first chat, face to face.

Those first few months were tough. Controlling people is…exhausting, and I can only do it for so long–I have to convince them that they want to be controlled by me. I made him fantasize about me, long for me in all of my filth. I made him want to be my boy. I made him want to be bigger, and dirtier, and fatter, and hairier. He began to crack, after a few months, and I could start feeding him, and that night he gave in and masturbated for me–fuck! Then, I knew he was mine. Our boy.

I hired him as a cleaner at the beginning, but honestly, I love the filth. I kept up appearance for a little while, while I was cleaning out more and more of his mind, but now, with our second winter coming, the house is even more of a sty than it was when he first arrived, but he loves it even more than I do at this point. I honestly…I wasn’t going to push him this far, but when he left for that funeral–I can’t explain how I felt, when he was gone. I was terrified he wouldn’t come back, I was terrified I’d be alone again, but I couldn’t be alone, not with the voice. When he came back, sobbing in misery, horrified at himself–I was so angry. I started cleaning out even more of him, like he’d cleaned out my house, getting rid of everything that didn’t concern me, letting the sick, twisted loe he felt for me now grow larger and larger until it took up nearly everything inside him. Getting rid of his intelligence, of his shame, of his confidence, of his self-control. He can still talk, for now…but that’s a project for the winter, too, I think.

We’ll be alone here for months, with nothing but the snow for company. I’m going to scrub him out completely, and then I’m going to fill him back up again. He’s going to be my boy–my son–for real, or at least believe it with all of his heart. My stupid boy, with a vocabulary of 500 words, who usually just speaks in grunts. My perverse boy, with a cock that’s always hard, and two hands that can’t keep away from it for longer than a couple minutes. My nasty boy, pissing and shitting himself, unable to stop anything, unable to even feel shame as he drops load after load into the back of his underwear to eat later in front of me. My fat boy, pushing at least 600 pounds, but still able to work for me, for his daddy, the man he’ll do anything for.

I try to tell myself that it’ll be enough, if I finish the job, if I destroy him. I hate myself for doing it, but I can’t stop, it won’t let me stop, and I enjoy it too much, I’m so fucking ashamed of it. But one–one will be enough. One boy, one helpless boy for me is all I need. He can take it–he’ll have to, everything I can give him, because whatever is inside me…it wants out. It wants to grow, and consume, and destroy…everything, but I can’t let that happen. Whoever I was before, he died to stop that from happening, and I have to stop it too, I have to keep it from happening, and this…this is the only way I know how to do that, anymore.

He would understand, right? Who am I kidding, he wouldn’t understand it. At least…it’s what he wants now. He’d never be able to function without me anyway–he needs me now as much as I need him, to stay in control. He can take it–he’s a good boy. He wants to make sure Daddy is happy, he wants me to control him, and own him, and abuse him, and feed him–so I will. And after this, I’ll stop. The voice…it tells me that this won’t be enough, it laughs at me for lying to myself, but I know better. All I want his him. I can’t…explain how it makes me feel, when I see the love in his eyes, the complete devotion he has for me–what else could a Daddy possibly want? In any case…it will have to be good enough.

Cleaning House (Part 7)

CW: Scat

It’s…hard to talk about, honestly.

I mean, I don’t remember it that well, either. I showed up in Daddy’s clothes, reeking, almost 200 pounds heavier than she remembered me…

I drank a lot, that night, and smoked a lot too. Still, I tried to help, after I cleaned myself up and took a shower. Being clean…I felt so naked, and so worthless. Amy didn’t…want me there, and there was nothing I could really do to make anything better. I was just…something else to manage. She did everything without me, and I just sat there in a stupor, drunk, and she cared so much. The only…

The only family I could care about anymore was Daddy. I missed him so much, more than I missed my mom. I needed him to know what to do, I couldn’t…I don’t know how to be alone anymore, I don’t know how to live for myself, if I ever really did.

Amy, I still feel awful. She even ordered me a suit, knowing I wouldn’t even think to buy one. It chafed, I was so hot and sweaty in that tiny church, listening to everyone drone on about my mother. I jacked off, I was so bored, I jacked off into my filthy underwear at my mom’s funeral, got drunk after, jacked off some more and hit on a few older guys who reminded my of Daddy–none of them took me up on the offer.I didn’t even stick around to the next day–I junked the suit, got back in my real clothes, and drove off.

I got back to Daddy and I sobbed. I was so sorry for leaving him, I was so upset, and he was there for me, he…he understands me, and he knows me like no one else I’ve ever known. He knows what I need better than I do. He held me for an hour in bed, telling me that I was safe, that I would never have to leave again, that he’d never make me leave, that he’d never let me leave. That I belonged with him, that there was nowhere else that I could ever belong anymore, other than here. He fed me a big dinner, I drank a huge load of piss he’d been saving for me all day, I cleaned his nasty crack…and by the next morning, I could almost pretend that none of it had ever happened. But it had, and I don’t…it changed me.

I saw how worthless I am. How stupid I am. I couldn’t understand what Daddy saw in me, I couldn’t understand why he loved me, unless it was pity. I thought about leaving, I couldn’t bear the thought of subjecting someone to me, but I was too scared. I acted out, I pushed back, I made him spank me, and I liked it, and he liked it, and he got rougher, and meaner, and I begged him for more. I didn’t deserve to be his boy, I said. I’m too much of a fuck up, I’m a waste.

He made me eat his ash one day, right out of the tray. I licked it up–it was so…dry, but some of his piss helped wash it down. He fed me his cigar butts, and some of his trash. I…I begged him for his shit. I wanted to be his toilet. I wanted to prove to him, and to myself, that it wasn’t a lie, that I was as low as that, that I was a toilet. He refused, and so I filled the back of my briefs with a load of my own, dropped them to the ground, got down and started eating my own shit, right there in the kitchen. I’d…practiced already. I knew I liked it, and when I saw how hard he was in his briefs, I wondered why he’d refused. He fucked my shitty hole, made me clean off his cock, and then I was under his rim chair, eating his shit straight from the source, and it only…I only got hungrier, after that.

It was summer again, already. Most of my days were spent outside doing work around the cabin, naked aside from a pair of Daddy’s old boots, my shit, piss and cum stained briefs or jockstraps, and a pair of work gloves. I lost a bit of fat and bulked up again, but when you crest 400, there’s only so much that muscle can do to make you not look like a tub of lard. In the mirror I barely recognized myself anymore. I looked so much like him now, it disturbed me. Still, he’s happy–that’s what matters, right? That’s why I came here, that’s why I agreed to be his cleaner. It seems so far away now, but it’s only been a year and a few months. I feel like I’ve known him for years, and that he’s known me my whole life. I have no secrets from him, I can’t lie to him, I can’t lie at all, really. My sister called, worried about me, and I told her everything, or as much as I could before she hung up, and she hasn’t called again since.

Fall is here again, and everything is dying. I feel like I’m dying too, day my day, curling up into myself, into this cabin, into Daddy. I’ve…been pissing the bed, most nights, and Daddy started forcing me to wear diapers at night, for protection. I feel so small in them, and he looms over me, grinning down, humping the front of my diapers with his cock until I cum, gasping, and then he shoves his cock down my throat, and when he cums, I keep sucking, hungry for more–more food, more piss, more cock, more ass. I want him to fill me up, because all I ever feel, when I’m alone, is empty. I shouldn’t be here. I should run, but I won’t. I can’t. Even…going to town now, fills me with such anxiety, I can’t go without him anymore. We’re supposed to have the first snow tonight, and everything will be white again. Maybe it can cover me up, until I disappear too.

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.