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 4)

WARNING: Things get nasty / rough / strange from here on out! Scat etc.

*Meanwhile, with Nate*

Nate was on his hands and knees in the bedroom, just staring at himself in the mirror. He had to stop this–he couldn’t let this fucking nightmare go on any longer…but fuck, it felt good to let go, it felt good to be a pig for once in his life. He wasted so much time keeping everything clean and organized and tidy for Paul and himself, and these last few hours in this gear, oinking and squealing as he emptied to cupboards and fridge, stuffing himself with everything he could find–he was so content, and so full! He let off a belch, disturbed at how the mask’s mouth moved along with his own–and he realized, for the first time, that he’d eaten his entire meal through the mask, and it hadn’t bothered him or gotten in the way once. If anything, it had seemed…easier, to just shove his masked face into whatever he was feasting on at the moment and scarf it straight down, not even bothering with utensils, or even his hands for the most part, aside for opening packages.

But still–he’d shot his load, he was done. He had to be done. Paul was going to be home soon, and he was filthy–fuck, the house was a fucking sty! How was he going to explain this? He tried to figure out some cover story, but his mind felt like it was slogging through mud. He was just so full…and feeling so full felt so good…and feeling good was making him horny all over again. He reached down and felt the pig cock sheath, slick with precum and tried to pull it free from his own cock, but it was so slick that he couldn’t get any grip. Was it stuck? It had just slid over his cock, hadn’t it? It shouldn’t even be able to hold on that tight. He looked between his legs at it, but he couldn’t really see it past his belly–in the end, he managed to lay down on his side, and in the mirror…he saw his cock was wrong. The sheath wasn’t there–or rather, it was still there, and still made of red rubber, but it merged seamlessly with the skin around his crotch. He tried again to pull it free, and only ended up jacking himself slowly, oinking and snorting as he did.

The buttplug then. That…that had to come out. He certainly felt full back there still, so it couldn’t have come out. He got back on all fours and bore down, expecting it to pop out, but instead he felt shit start flowing out of his ass, and as soon as it had started, he couldn’t stop it. It ran down between his ass cheeks and his thighs, pooling behind him on the carpet–it reeked, but the stench didn’t disgust him. It smelled…comfortable, and with one hand still stroking off piss started gushing out of his cock as well, soaking the underside of his gut and the floor below him.

But then what about the tail he could see behind him? Ignoring the mess he’d made, he reached back and felt the curly black tail, following it to the root–where it met his tailbone above his ass. It was a tail–an actual rubber tail, and he could even make it wiggle. “No–no no no!” he said…or tried to say. The mask contorted the words, and with both hands he tried to pry it free of his face, but to his horror, he couldn’t find the seam there either.

The story–the fucking story. The guy had stolen that pig’s carcass, and sewn the pig’s parts over his own–and they’d become his own. He’d started becoming a pig, and now…now was it happening to him too? He stared at himself in the mirror, covered in sweat, food, piss and shit, trying to convince himself that this was all so fucking wrong, but his mind was changing. There was…nothing wrong with this, was there? If anything, he needed to go further. Now…now that he’d gotten a taste of being a pig, didn’t he want so much more? Isn’t this what he’d wanted? Isn’t this why he’d put this stuff on in the first place? Because deep down, ever since he’d read that fucked up story, he’d wanted…he’d wanted to turn into a dirty hog too. A filthy hog. The filthiest, most perverse hog he could possibly be.

He sat back in his shit, wiggling his tail in the much and squealed in delight, scooped some up in his hand and started jacking his piggy cock with it. His gut was distended from his massive meal earlier–but it was larger than it should be, even given everything he consumed. He realized that he was even fatter than he’d been in the morning–and it thrilled him. He smeared shit over his belly, and then licked it off his hand, coating his snout, smelling all of it. His rubber snout was so much more sensitive than his flesh nose had been before, and the stink of his own muck pushed him over the edge, his piggy cock spurting another massive load of cum all over his hand–and he licked that up too, tasting the shit and cum together, and grunting in delight.

What was he doing up here in the bedroom anyway? He should be back downstairs in the kitchen; he should be eating. After all, he still wasn’t really large enough to be a true hog, and there was certain to be some food he’d missed before. He crawled back down the stairs, dragging shit along as he went, and started scrounging around in the cupboards for anything he had missed.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 7)

WARNING: SCAT, INCONTINENCE

I got back to the nasty trailer where Spitty had been hiding out about twelve hours later, and as soon as I stepped inside, I got the strong stench of piss and shit on the air, like I’d been expecting. Spitty hadn’t been able to hold anything in for that long, but he didn’t seem to distressed by what had happened–I doubt, in his current state, that it was the first time he’s messed himself like that, or even if it was, it wasn’t the first thing on his mind. As soon as I got in there, he started begging and pleading–not to let him go, but to help him cum.

I don’t know how often Spitty was cumming a day at this point, but back when he’d been under my thumb, he was blowing fifteen or so loads a day–and chances are he was shooting even more at this point. I could see, on his gut, at least a few loads he’d managed to work out just out of desperation, but it was clear he was aching, but I ignored him–after all, if I was going to make Spitty suffer, then I was going to have to deny him everything he longed for–and that meant he was going to be cumming much, much less in the future. So we got started, and I started feeding him his own shit, washing it down with my piss, and rewarding him with my spit for being such a good little shitfaced pig. For the next few days, I fed him almost non-stop. Food, mostly, but plenty of shit as well. I got him to embrace his lack of control, enjoy the sensation of pissing all over himself, of shitting right wherever he was, but above all, making him understand how worthless his cock was, how small it was, how hard it was for him to cum, how pointless and hopeless. No, he was just horny now–horny all the time, but never satisfied. The only satisfaction he could find now, was pleasing the cocks of others, and maybe–maybe–he’d manage to explode once or twice a month, but that was good enough, right?

He protested, of course. He tried to tell me that he regretted what he’d done, that he’d been fantasizing and longing for me for all these years, that he’d been trying to find me too, that he wanted to be my little whore, just like I’d planned to begin with. I didn’t believe him, of course. How could I possibly believe him, after what he’d done? No–this was better. This is what Spitty really deserved. I gave him another dose of leaf from his special tin, after a week of treatment. He hadn’t been up from the bed in all this time, he begged me to not do this to him, that he was sorry–but I took a sizable wad–a third of what remained in the tin–shoved it in his mouth, and watched him succumb to the pleasure of the leaf. I told him that he was going to be a good pig, a fat pig, that he wasn’t going to be moving much, that he hated moving. That he loved shitting and pissing himself wherever he was, that his cock was so small he couldn’t even reach it up in all his fat, and he was desperate for cock–any cock. He swallowed the leaf, and when reality centered itself again, he was still on the bed–but it wasn’t rope pinning him down now, it was his own massive body.

He woke with a snort, and immediately started begging me for a load of shit–and I knew he was mine again–but I wasn’t finished with him, not yet. No, I started inviting my new circle of friends around. Filthy truckers and bikers–and if they were too grossed out by Spitty to fuck him, a bit of spit or leaf was enough to bring them around to seeing things my way. Spitty never left the bed anymore–he was just on his belly, ass up, ready for a cock, or a fist, or anything to slide inside him, his mouth constantly calling for more shit or piss or tobacco, but pretty soon I had one guy coming around a bit more than all the others. Jack was the biker who’d tipped me off to Spitty and helped me find him, and I felt he deserved a reward. Of course, Jack wasn’t too…keen on the kind of reward I was planning on giving him, but after a dose of leaf from his own special tin…well, he was just the dirty, nasty biker bear Spitty needed. Fuck, watching the two of them go at it–Jack was a beast in bed, with a massive cock, loved getting himself covered in shit and then making his pig lick it off–and when I gave Spitty another dose of leaf from his tin–leaving just one last dose in it…well Jack was more than a regular companion–Jack was his biker master, and Spitty was his raunchy pigslave.

So here we are. Jack living in the trailer now, full time. Spitty is close to 700 pounds, I think–I don’t exactly have a scale to weigh him with. He’s gotta be pushing seventy years old at this point: teeth rotting out, biker tattoos all over his filthy body, too stupid to read–all he cares about is where his next load of shit is coming from, and who’s going to fist his loose, hungry hole. Or, at least most of Spitty cares about that. See, I know there’s that old jock, still in there. That bit of them, it always hangs around in their head. There’s nothing he can do, of course, but he’s in there. Sometimes I bring him forward, and we chat a bit–or rather, he sobs and begs me to change him back, and I fuck his throat and feed him shit until his little cock squirts out a load of cum into his fatty folds. I’m thinking it’s about time for the last dose, however. Spitty is terrified–he thinks he’s going to be some fucking geezer, or just fucking dead, but not quite–no, there’s a reason I don’t usually give anyone a complete tin, you see, but for Spitty? Well, I think it’s a well deserved end–or beginning.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 6)

Things get a bit filthier starting here. WARNING SCAT.

He was the first one who’d ever gotten away. I was so fucking angry when it happened–at him, at myself for being so stupid to imagine that anyone might actually enjoy the shit I do to them. I should have known better. My uncle told me to know better, when he taught me how to grow the shit, but…well, hope springs fucking eternal, I guess. No one on the crew even knew anything had happened–not really. There was an odd hole in reality that everyone had to get used to, but after a few days, it was like Spitty had never even been there–only I remembered him, and I still had his tin of tobacco, and if our paths ever crossed again…well, he was going to be getting one hell of a surprise from me.

Of course, I couldn’t exactly go search him out. I didn’t even really know what the fucker had done to himself. I’m sure that what he’d wanted to do was to try and get his old life back, but it takes some skill and plenty of brains to do that–and hell, the leaf don’t let anyone go backwards anyway! As fucked up as he was, I doubt things worked out how he’d planned. I did, at least, know what he looked like now–I’d gotten into the bathroom in time to see him fade out–the physical change always happens first, before reality folds them in somewhere else…and that fucker is definitely not some football playing college student, you can trust me on that one. No, the fucker I saw on my bathroom floor? Spitty looked to be about 350 pounds, most of it fat, covered in filth, his hair and beard even longer than before. Pale skin, meaning he probably almost never saw the sun, and he’d aged up to somewhere close to 50–or at least he looked 50, but he could have been a bit younger, in all honesty. Still, one thing I could know for sure was that my name had probably stuck nice and hard–names are hard to get rid of. So life went on, but I kept my ear to the ground, corrupting a few truckers and bikers passing through, telling them that if they saw any old pigs around going by the name of Spitty, they should let me know, and I’d reward them handsomely.

A couple of years went by, and I’d figured he managed to get out and escape my net. Either the spell had whisked him away further than I’d thought possible, or he was such a recluse now that he never actually went anywhere. I’d…become a bit meaner, in all honesty. Some of the guys on the crew who I hadn’t fucked with in years were brought over to my house, so I could take them down a few more notches, fantasizing that it was Spitty I was ruining, thinking about some of the nasty shit I could do to him if I ever got my grubby hands on the fucker. I…went a bit overboard with Gary, our foreman. Dude…fucking loves ass now–eating it out, sniffing farts, even eating shit on occasion. I feel a bit bad about it, but fuck, watching that fucker eat a turd, imagining it’s Spitty instead, nothing makes me nut quite as hard as that.

And then, sure enough, someone gave me a tip. They’d heard about some fat pig matching my description who occasionally cruised a rest area ten miles out of town, with a particular thirst for tobacco spit. I’d fucking found him–I couldn’t fucking believe it. Still, I couldn’t fucking scare him off, now that I’d gotten a clue, and so I started pressing other guys for details, had a biker follow the fat fuck home one night, and sure enough–the spell had sent him off into the weeds, a good thirty miles out of town, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Still, I knew where I was going now, and I decided it was time to pay my lost boy a visit.

Heh, the look on his fat, nasty face when I busted my way in though–it almost made my humiliation worth it. He’d honestly thought he’d gotten away with it, and there he was, watching some of his porn, sitting in a lazy boy surrounded by trash, bouncing up and down on some massive dildo, and he looked over, saw me, and he fucking shot his load right then and there. Yeah, he’d missed me–I could fucking tell, not that he wanted to fucking admit it. I pinned him down and fed him spit for a couple of hours–there was nothing he could do to fight me, he’d made himself so fucking weak. I got the rope I’d brought in with me, hauled him over to the bed and tied him down, spread eagle–and then took off. I had to go get some supplies for my revenge, after all. I called Gary and told him I’d need a few weeks off, and he was more than happy to accommodate me–I’d be staying with Spitty for little while, getting him ready. I haven’t used a whole tin on someone in a very long time, but this reunion calls for a celebration. Spitty isn’t going to see it that way, of course, but he’s fucking earned this–and he’ll enjoy it plenty, soon enough.

VIP Package (Part 10)

WARNING: DARKER STILL! Scat, incontinence, furry, snuff, abuse.

Every few days, Gerald–in the middle of the night–would cart his filthy body downstairs to collect the mail from their box. However, after several paranoid rants, he’d been forbidden from opening any of it before Sammy had inspected it–and so it was Sammy who gave a squeal when he found the letter addressed to them both from Gay Fantasy Cruise Lines. It seemed to Gerald, that he’d been expecting it for some reason, and so he was filled with terror as his petulant master read the first note aloud with great excitement.

Dear Samuel L. Prescott and Jeremy T. Lute,

We want to thank you again for participating on our VIP Package Program on your recent cruise with us. It requires all of our hard work to ensure that our VIP guests truly have the cruise of their fantasies. The VIP who purchased you as part of your package, a certain Mr. Bishop, was so pleased with you both, that he has requested that you be added as a part of his package on his next voyage! The details of his next trip are outlined below:

Cruise Destination: VIP Exclusive Six Month Around-the-World Trek.

Departure Date: January 18th

Arrival Date: June 23rd

It should be noted that terms of service for VIP exclusive treks are somewhat modified from standard voyages. We are required to inform you that due to the length of the voyage, any Salon Modifications maintained for an extended period are likely permanent. Given this fact, VIP members are given the opportunity to craft new post-cruise identities for individuals who are a member of their package. Any individuals who are removed from a package early, or who are not provided with a post cruise identity, will be converted into standard crew personnel at the end of the voyage.

Your VIP has included a personal message for you both. If you wish to join us in helping our VIP’s experience their perfect fantasies, please register your affirmative consent online, and we will arrange travel for you to join us.

Sincere thanks for sailing with us,

Gay Fantasy Cruise Lines

On a second sheet attached to the cover letter from the cruise line, they found the letter Master Bishop had included for them both. Sammy read this one silently, and then read it again, demanding Gerald masturbate him while he did. Only after he’d cum, did he allow Gerald the chance to see what details Master Bishop had added for them.

Dear Sammy and Gerald,

As I told you both, my fantasies are complicated. I must say that the two of you have been developing quite well, over the last year, and I have…enjoyed much of the footage I’ve gathered from the cameras I had installed in your apartment before you arrived back at home. That said, I want the two of you to know exactly what I have planned for you both–and I do emphasize the word both. I simply won’t sail with just one of you. If one comes without the other, I’ll be forced to do without–you’ll be slave gym bunny like all the rest of the waiters after the first day at sea. But if you both come, well, then we’ll all have some grad fun.

Sammy, my sweet boy. After six months at sea with me, I’ll be proud to call you my son. In fact, you will be my son–or rather, my genetic duplicate, with a few extra splices to keep things interesting. You’ll be groomed into a proper sociopath–unfeeling and uncaring about the needs and emotions of others, consumed by your own desires, greedy, deceitful, lustful, proud, completely incontinent and full of rage. While you’ll always prefer having daddy’s cock plowing you into oblivion, you’ll be given a sizable endowment of your own, and learn how to use it very effectively. Yes, balls the size of grapefruit, a cock over a foot long and permanently erect. My son, you will become a proper freak as well–covered with tattoos and piercings, obsessed with violence and pain. You will be one of my masterpieces, and live with me and my other sons for the rest of my life. You will enjoy them, I promise–our special family is like nothing you can possibly imagine, but it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of having for a life.

Gerald, on the other hand–there will be nothing on this ship for you but misery, though I can assure you that you will enjoy every moment of it. The Salon has been doing some amazing work with animal splicing, something I have been desperate to try, and watching you over the past several months, seeing you fatten up and stuff you face…I can’t help but imagine you as a disgusting hogman. Weighing over a thousand pounds, castrated, nearly mindless, utterly filthy, living life on all fours, your body no longer capable of standing upright, hands and feet and face all twisted into monstrous caricature. It will be a slow process. You will witness yourself lose your own humanity–it will horrify you and thrill you, in equal measure. Watching you suffer this loss will bring me such pleasure, however, and I know that is most important to you–it always has been, right Gerald? Sammy, of course, will have the honor of castrating you himself. But in the end, if you please us well, I will give you what you desire most. I will fuck you, once. I will ram my massive cock into your new piggy cunthole, where your balls had been days before, and you will squeal so deliciously. You will have the most powerful orgasm of your life, as the last remaining bits of your human mind die, and you will be left as nothing more than a filthy pet for me, and especially my new son, to abuse until he likely butchers you in a petty, childish fit of rage a few years–or months–down the road, depending on his eventual temperament.

With that, I’m sure I have secured your mutual interest. After all, what else is left for either of you, besides a life with me in my fantasy? I’m eager to receive notice of your affirmative consent, and will see you on deck in a month for our very special cruise.

Regards,

Master Bishop

Gerald tried to throw out the letter, but Sammy refused. Sammy wanted to go, Sammy saw nothing wrong at all with anything that their Master had told them. Gerald was terrified. He wasn’t terrified of what might happen to him if they went–he was terrified by his own desire to experience it. He had spent the last year constantly fantasizing about his master’s cock, but he’d given up on ever receiving it inside him, and that had made it easier to consider leaving all of this behind him. But now…now he had a chance at happiness, didn’t he? Isn’t this what he’d wanted? At least, that’s what Sammy told him he wanted. But simpler than that, this is what Sammy wanted to do, and what Sammy wanted, Sammy received–like always. In the end, Gerald’s resistance lasted only a few hours, and they both sent in notification of their consent that evening, and sealed their fate.

A month later, Gerald watched the Florida coast recede, while Sammy was having his first reunion fuck with their Master on deck. Soon, all that surrounded them was a brilliant blue haze, the sea and the sky melding together at the horizon. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, mouth pressed to his husband’s stinking hole, feasting on Master’s cum at his favorite trough. At least, if nothing else, they’d be together until the end.

VIP Package (Part 9)

WARNING: VERY DARK. Scat, incontinence, humiliation, violence.

Samuel’s first thought upon waking–as had become normal over the past week and a half–was that he needed to get fucked. But Bishop wasn’t there for him, which was a relief for many reasons, but then who would fuck him then? He looked over, and was so happy to see Jeremy–the old Jeremy–Jeremy his husband, looking like nothing had happened to them both. In fact, he realized that Jeremy looked…quite a bit like Mr. Bishop had appeared over the last week, though he’d need a bit more work in the gym to match him, and his cock would never be big enough, but that was alright, he tried to tell himself. Jeremy was just beginning to waken as Samuel rolled over, trying to coax his husband’s cock to life so he could climb on and ride it, but as hard as he tried, it remained stubbornly soft. In fact, Jeremy didn’t feel any pleasure at all from having his cock fondled, but seeing Samuel there, remembering all the horrible things he’d said, all the pain he’d inflicted, he smacked his hand away and leapt out of bed away from him.

They fought. Samuel demanded he fuck him, that he was desperate, while Jeremy kept trying to get him to grapple with the horrors they’d just been through, but his husband seemed to have no interest in anything beyond his own immediate pleasure. Samuel started shoving his own fist in his hole, berating Jeremy for being worthless as a man, and Jeremy found some micro liquor bottles in the fridge and started downing them, eager for the numbness he’d grown accustomed to over the last week to settle back in over him.

They disembarked. Each hoped that things would improve quickly–the ship had promised that they would be normal again, though it had mentioned lingering side effects. They didn’t speak all the way to the airport. Jeremy was starving, and he parked himself at a fast food restaurant and stuffed himself. Samuel tried to pull him away, tried to get him to overcome the bad habits which had been ingrained in him over their time with Bishop–not for Jeremy’s sake of course, but simply because Samuel had no desire to ever look on someone as ugly as “Gerald” had been. All he could do was criticize and berate him, which only seemed to drive Jeremy further into his gorging. In any case, Samuel needed a fuck–he found a guy on Growlr, and got plowed in the restroom–and when Jeremy learned what had happened, instead of being jealous…he found himself begging Samuel to let him eat the load in a stall, and he relented. Both felt a bit better at least, one with a full stomach, and the other with a fucked ass.

A few hours into the flight, Samuel pissed himself. Jeremy is the one who noticed, when he caught the pang of piss and started…craving the taste of urine on his tongue. Samuel was so flustered he couldn’t figure out what to do–Jeremy had to take care of him, get him into the restroom, change his pants…and suck a bit of piss from the fabric, just…just to see if it tasted as good as he recalled. To his great concern–it tasted even better.

They got home, at last, but the trauma quickly rendered them completely unable to function in work, or society at large. They had plenty of money from their stint on the ship, and so Samuel simply stopped going. Jeremy lasted a bit longer, but the quality of his work suffered from his lack of care and confidence. A math error cost the company a million dollars, and he took the blame–his severance was sizable, but the humiliation was horrific. Alone together, they soon found themselves establishing a new, hellish routine that neither knew how to escape.

Jeremy found himself as little more than a servant, unable to stop himself from obeying and catering to Samuel’s demands, which were growing more and more childish by the day. His own habits from the ship resurfaced, one by one. He drank from the time he woke to the time he passed out. He started smoking again, despite Samuel’s–or rather, Sammy, since he no longer responded to Samuel–angry and belligerent criticism of the habit, but every cruelty only seemed to make Jeremy more eager to smoke the next cigar, being sure to blow thick clouds in Sammy’s direction, the boy coughing and sputtering in anger. The one thing they could agree on was food–both of them needed a lot of it, and each began packing on the pounds. It wasn’t long before Sammy ceased to find Jeremy the least bit attractive, and Jeremy resented his husband more and more by the day. But…but he needed him. He needed someone, right? It was becoming impossible to imagine a life alone, without a…a master. That was one thing they could agree on at least–how much they found themselves missing Master Bishop. They’d each fantasize about him, discuss him, dream of him–neither wanted to admit it, but they secretly hoped they might have a chance to see him one more time, that maybe there was a way out for them yet, and their master would give it to them.

Sammy demanded Jeremy put him in diapers again, and he relented, secretly feasting on the piss and shit, unable to stop himself. Two or three times a day, he would have to find muscular men online willing to fuck or fist Sammy’s hole. On occasion, Jeremy would get to watch, and that was the closest he got to having sex with anyone. He bathed Sammy, shaved his body smooth from head to toe, he cleaned up after him, and whenever Jeremy messed something up–or even if he didn’t–Sammy would fly into a rage, beating him senseless…and whenever he did, that was the only time Jeremy’s cock would ever harden, and occasionally shoot. It was several weeks before he even noticed that Sammy had begun calling him Gerald again–and that he actually prefered that name over his real one.

Fewer and fewer men were willing to fuck Sammy soon, in part because Sammy’s standards were becoming higher and higher. When he didn’t have someone to fuck him, he would demand Gerald fuck him with a dildo, and when that didn’t satisfy, he would give Gerald a savage beating and bondage session, which was usually enough to blow off some erotic steam. Both of them found themselves longing even more for the cruise, longing for Master Bishop, longing for anything other than this new nightmare they’d been trapped inside.

Soon enough, it had been a year. While Sammy seemed to have fully embraced his authoritarian and childish persona, Gerald was beginning to sense the possibility of an end to the madness consuming him. The compulsions felt less forceful, he could almost imagine a life other than this one. He was secretly making plans to leave Sammy, to abandon him and never return, if he could help it. He knew that if he could just get away from him, he might be able to find his way back to Jeremy, to that man he’d been before all of this. He might have been a fuckup before too, but at least he wasn’t this…bearded, shit covered, stinking slob of a man. If the letter had arrived a few weeks later, he might have even escaped, but Bishop had been keeping a close eye on them this whole time, after all, and their master knew when to deliver the killing blow. All along, he’d known exactly how to get what he wanted. After all, Master Bishop’s fantasies were complicated–but not impossible.

VIP Package (Part 8)

I wanted to mention, at this point, that I’m rather heavily indebted to @vikingzombieboyfriend for this story. He has a…particular skill for writing about corrupt, abusive relationships, and it was this theme in several of his tales which helped inspire the twists of this one, as you may have been able to tell.

I also wanted to give a warning: the final three parts of this story, today’s entry and the final two coming next week, are very, very dark. It’s one of the more horrific tales I’ve ever written actually–it easily ranks in the top five. Themes include SCAT, RUINATION, HEAVY BDSM, DIAPERS/INCONTINENCE, FURRY, AND SNUFF. Read at your own risk, as always.

Of course, neither Jeremy nor Samuel was ever truly gone; they were both idle passengers in their bodies, witnessing everything, feeling everything, doing everything, unable to resist, unable to deny their compulsions and desires and humiliating drives. Over the next week and a half of their vacation, each time either one of them, trapped in their skulls, believed that things couldn’t get any worse, that surely Bishop couldn’t conjure some further humiliation or depravity for them to suffer through, one of them would find their new selves descending to some until then unknown depth.

Over the next few days, Bishop focused his attentions on Gerald, making sure his cuckold slave properly understood his purpose and place in their dysfunctional triad. He made sure Gerald’s hatred towards Sammy was only matched by the young man’s revulsion. Jeremy, inside himself, tried to resist, but he found himself hating the young man too, hating him, because…he’d always hated him, throughout these years of their marriage. Hated his passivity, hated his banal indifference, hated how little he seemed to care about what happened between them. Now all of those feelings were so intense, and channeled every time he looked at him–it was impossible for them to not overwhelm what remained of his love. He wanted it to end–all of it. He wanted to beg his Master to throw him out, dispose of him, anything so he wouldn’t have to bear this any longer, but he couldn’t. He needed Master Bishop. Without him, he was just filth–and growing filthier. By the third day, his Master decided that his slave wasn’t…disgusting enough, and so he began serving as their toilet as well, drinking their piss and eating their shit with the same fervor he dedicated to his hours long meals each day, never even bothering to wash his face, horrified at his shit crusted image, and yet…so satisfied with himself at the same time.

It was then that Bishop turned his attentions to Sammy, and began twisting him further still. Samuel had learned to cope, had learned to deny what was happening to his body, to try and dissociate himself. If he could just convince himself that this was a dream, that one day, he’d wake up and everything would be normal, if he could just not care–with perfect indifference–perhaps he wouldn’t have to feel everything so…intensely. It was with some surprise that Bishop harnessed that, and began to turn it against him. Soon, Sammy was becoming indifferent to everyone–the only thing that mattered in the world was his own satisfaction and pleasure. Everyone else–aside from his daddy–existed to make him happy, to obey him, to please him, and if it didn’t please him, then it should be hidden. Gerald’s presence offended him more and more with each passing moment, and he found himself compelled to spout the cruelest comments he could imagine, pleased with how they stung the old cuck. It wasn’t long before he enjoyed hurling the abuse, and he began abusing everyone–especially the waiters and servants aboard the ship, but always saving the harshest barbs for Gerald. Not long after, he began to believe in his, and his daddy’s, utter superiority, and it only fueled his love for Master Bishop further.

His petulance had other effects–particularly a certain laziness when it came to various duties. He demanded that Gerald feed him before the cuck could eat himself. Watching the old man salivate over the food he shoved into the young boy’s mouth could bring him enough enjoyment to overcome the disgust he felt at the old man’s shit caked hands and beard. He found himself losing interest in controlling his bowels and bladder, and it made perfect sense, when his daddy told him he would have to be diapered from then on–after all, his precious boy couldn’t be expected to control himself. He was changed twice a day by Gerald, and the cuck would retreat to his room with the soiled linens, where he would devour the contents in private–unless his Master wanted to watch. Jeremy lost control of his emotions, he would throw violent tantrums, throw things, beat Gerald with the whips and canes from Daddy’s closet, and these beatings developed into full blown BDSM sessions–Gerald tied down while Sammy, diapered, clad head to toe in leather or rubber gear selected by his daddy, would beat and lash him, hurling abuse at him, while Bishop sat off to the side, watching, filming, masturbating his massive cock, always fucking his boy’s sloppy, shitty hole afterward, and forcing Gerald to devour the filthy slurry as his reward–sometimes making him crawl behind while he was undiapered, lapping it up from the floor, wherever Sammy’s permanently gaping hole dribbled it.

But for them both, the only thing which they were sure of, was how much they loved Master Bishop, the man at the center of their lives, at the center of their entire universe. One word of praise from him directed at one of them would cause the lauded to melt, while the other would descend into fits of jealous rage. Only one of them could possibly matter. Only one of them could be the most important. Gerald believed it was him, as the vessel for all of his master’s filth and vices, allowing his god to be utterly clean and perfect. Sammy believed it to be him, for he was the hole, the son, the being who his daddy had created–the vision of the world Bishop longed to see. As the cruise drew back towards harbor in Florida, each was certain that their Master would keep one of them and cast the other aside–that they would be the chosen one.

But true to their contracts, he could choose neither, and Samuel and Jeremy awoke back in their own cabin that final morning, in their old bodies, packed to return to their old lives, with their account credited for the cost of the cruise, as well as extremely generous stipends for them both, equal to several years of work at their already high paying jobs. But when they looked at one another for the first time that morning, they each could tell, in their bones, that nothing could ever go back to the way it had been, before they’d met Master Bishop.

Spray

WARNING: FILTH AND SCAT AHEAD!

The bathhouse wasn’t a place you went often. Only when you got…particularly horny, and were craving something a bit more crazy. Not too crazy, mind you–you’d seen some of the things the men there got into, especially down in the basement. That wasn’t for you, you told yourself. You liked things clear, though you liked a little rough on occasion. But that night, something went askew, didn’t it?

You’d liked him, as soon as you’d seen him. A bit grungy, a bit of a rebel. That mohawk, that…dirty jock he was wearing. He was willing to throw you around, push you up against walls, willing to take it from you too. The two of you wrestling around on the concrete, a few other men watching the scene, curious if there was a chance of joining in. He got you on your knees, and you were expecting to suck cock–instead, he slipped his cock free of his jock, aimed, and sprayed you with a blast of piss. The force of it stunned you–like someone with their thumb over a garden hose. You were soaked in a second. You couldn’t escape the smell, the taste, the thrill of it. You’d never once imagined you might enjoy a scene like this, but as the men circled around you and hoed you down, you found your…mind shifting.

You swore to yourself it was a one time thing, as you walked home in street clothes, your skin still damp and reeking. You didn’t shower when you got home however–you laid down in the tub and jacked off to your stench, and then pissed all over yourself for good measure. After that, the bathhouse became a…regular activity for you, didn’t it? You just couldn’t quite find anywhere else that made you feel the same. You tried to keep away from watersports at first, but as soon as anyone caught a whiff of you, they knew what you really wanted. You felt so…ashamed, walking home, dripping with piss. Knowing that everyone who passed by could tell what you wanted, what you were. But while the shame never faded, you found yourself…enjoying it. You wanted people to know what you were, it made you harder than a gut full of secondhand beer.

You didn’t see him for almost a year. You never even realized you were looking for him, until you saw him again. The lump in your throat–was it fear, or thrill? It was too late to move to another room, he’d already seem you there, in the basement corner–what had come to be known as your “spot” when you were there. You sucked him off for a bit, drank his piss down too, but you could…sense something coming. He spun around, bent over, and before you could do much more than blink, he sprayed the contents of his ass all over your face and chest–and like the piss before…it was more than you could take, more than your mind could possibly handle, and remain whole.

Now here you are, in your corner. You almost never leave the building now–most men only see you as an it, a thing, a toilet, a trashcan, a repository for their shame. He’s over there, your creator. Some man is desperate to fuck his hole–a new top, apparently. Were you unlucky, to have been made into this thing? Could you have been fated to be something else? The man’s in balls deep now, and you’re licking your scummy lips. He’ll feed you, after this–he’ll want you to taste his new creation, right from his own ass. You wish you weren’t hard, you wish you weren’t cumming at the thought of the frothy, cummy shit you’d be feasting on soon, but that you is long gone now, and won’t ever be coming back, not after your taste of this life.

The Power of Society (Part 6)

WARNING: INCONTINENCE, SCAT

Simon tugged his shirt down again as he walked, trying to cover his hairy gut as best he could already sweaty and winded after the one block walk towards campus proper. Fuck, why did he keep doing this? He hated walking, he hated going to class. He felt like a fucking dumbass now–and everyone at the frat hated him for even trying. Hell, he kind of hated himself for trying, even, but he did it anyway. Sure, he was just a fat, slovenly, cum-hungry nerd, but maybe he could still make something of himself. There had to be something more to life than jacking off to filthy porn and playing video games, right? Well, maybe there was, for guys who weren’t nerds like him, but something still told him that he needed to try.

“Oh fuck, is that–who the fuck let the fucking Nerd out of it’s cage?”

Simon had crossed the road over to campus proper, only for a guy passing with a friend by to shout that at him. He looked over, embarrassed a bit for even existing, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the look of sheer revulsion in the young man’s eyes, looking at him. It was like he’d never seen anything more disgusting in his life, like Simon was a smear of dog shit across the man’s carpet. He tried to stammer a reply, but he’d developed a severe stutter after discovering what a nerd he was, and so he’d never really been able to get words out of his mouth.

“Dude, I know it’s gross, but if you say shit like that to it, you’ll only encourage it. You know how nerds get,” the guy’s friend said, and tugged him along.

The guy followed reluctantly, “If we don’t say anything, then the fucking things will start thinking they’re allowed here.”

Simon just stared after them. He’d thought he’d built up a resistance to it–to the stares, the disgust, the avoidance, the pity–but something about that cut right through him. But rather than feeling hurt, what he found instead, was that…it had turned him on, somehow. Unable to help himself, he groped the front of his filthy cargo shorts, feeling a wad of precum squeeze from the head of his filthy cock, forming a bit of a wet spot around the fly, and then yanked his hand away. Class–he needed to get to class. He had to stop worrying about what people thought of him–just because he was a perverted, disgusting nerd, didn’t mean he couldn’t go to class…as long as he controlled himself.

Where that last thought had come from, he wasn’t certain, but it was…right, somehow. Everyone knew nerds had no real self-control. Simon kept walking, trying to avoid people as he headed for class, but along the way, he let off a massive, stinking belch–it tasted so filthy he just stood on the sidewalk a moment, groping himself helplessly, and every cruel comment from the people passing by only made him hornier. He had to stop. If he kept this up, and campus security caught wind of him, he’d really be in trouble. He spied a bench along the path, and thought that if he could just sit for a bit and collect himself, he might be alright. After a few more heaving steps, he got there and plopped down on the bench, as a massive fart escaped his ass…and a little something more than that, which he could feel, warm, in the back of his crusty, cum coated briefs.

He’d just farted so hard, he’d shit a bit in the back of the pants. Fuck, he’s such a fucking nerd–such a disgusting, ugly, fat, perverted, filthy nerd! He licked his bearded lips and started clawing at the front of his shorts, hauling up his heavy gut so he could haul his cock out of the front of his shorts and start jacking off in public, sitting in the stench of his own shit, staring down the people passing by, wanting them to insult him, wanting them to be utterly disgusted by him. After all, he couldn’t really help himself–he was just a fucking nerd. This is just what nerds do, right? He ground his fat ass against the bench, feeling the shit smearing between his cheeks, the first load exploding from his cock, arching up onto the front of his t-shirt. A guy passing by saw him–smelled him, and stumbled past, retching. Simon just laughed, and started jacking off again, but didn’t manage to finish before the campus security guards found him. The two hulking guards ran up, wearing gas masks and their standard rubber containment gear, and the first to arrive used his cattle prod right on Simon’s junk, making the nerd scream and writhe on the bench.

“Fucking nerds–you just can’t fucking help yourselves. An infraction this bad–you’re getting house arrest for two months, you fat fuck.”

The men dragged Simon’s fat ass back to the frat house–he was laughing and belching the whole way. He couldn’t believe he’d lost control like that, but fuck, it had just felt so fucking good! On the porch, the guards secured a shock collar around Simon’s neck and armed it–if he stepped more than ten feet out of the range of the house, he’d receive a debilitating shock and security would be alerted to his violation. Then they opened the door and shoved him inside, still laughing.

“Fuck Si, is that you?”

He looked up and saw a couple of his fellow nerds on the couch, staring at the screen, playing a video game together. “Got all the way to campus, you should’ve seen them. Shit myself on a fucking bench!” he laughed again, and started jacking off again, “Fuck, why the fuck did that feel so fucking good?”

“You shit yourself in fucking public! I bet you fucking jacked off after that,”

“Oh fuck man, I fucking did!”

Fuck man, you’re such a fucking nerd!”

“I know, right?”

“Fuck, I could shit myself right now, man,” one of the nerds said, and bore down, letting off a vile fart. Si crawled over, smelling the fumes as he jacked his own cock. He was stuck in here with these fucks for two months, but it was worth it, right? Some part of him told him this was wrong–the same part of him which tried to get him to leave the house that night, until the collar went off. It summoned security, who beat his fat ass on the lawn and threw him back in the house. There was no denying it–as far as the world was concerned he was just a fucking nasty nerd, and he’d never be anything else–best to just accept it.