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.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 3)

*Meanwhile, elsewhere*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeremiah’s Biggest Fan (Part 4)

How much did Terrance like football? Not at all. In fact, Terrance hated football. He hated most sports, in fact. But within a moment after Jeremiah pressing a button on the Chronivac, all of that changed. Now, he didn’t just love football–it was his life. He watched as much of it as he could, all the time, followed both the pro leagues and the college teams, and so much in his head was pushed out to make room for what he would have thought of as useless stats and figures before, but now…now football seemed like the only thing that mattered to him.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me a fucking football player?”

“No Tubbs–don’t worry about that. Someone with your physique? You’re too big to even be a defensive lineman. Sure, you might have played football back in high school,” he pressed another button, “but you were much too stupid to get into college, even on an athletic scholarship, if you’d been a good enough player to get one,” he hit another slider, “Now, all you are is just a middle aged loser, a pathetic worthless slob who obsesses on football because that’s the only thing in his life that has ever given him any meaning.”

Terrance did his best to fight it, the sensation of his entire history shifting away underneath him. Some of the details were the same as before–growing up gay in a small town–but most of it began twisting into something entirely new. Jeremiah saw him begin to shift again, though more subtly than before. His eyes lost a bit of their intelligence and dimmed, a thick layer of stubble filling in across his flabby face as his hairline began to recede. His body began to smell from a lack of care and washing, and he grew even a bit larger. In thirty seconds, Terrance was essentially gone–now there was just Tubbs, a thirty-five year old faggot pig, who spent his days working a shitty job delivering pizzas, and every second of his free time was devoted to his one true love: football.

Still, it wasn’t quite enough to satisfy Jeremiah. After all, even Tubbs could figure out that knowing a secret like this of a local college football star could be…rather worthwhile to the right ears. No–what he needed was a much more personal loyalty. “Tell me Tubbs,” he asked, typing in a new specification, “Who’s your favorite football player? The one you idolize over everyone else?”

“Aww fuck man! It’s fuckin’ you!” Tubbs gushed, his voice picking up the long drawl of the rest of the hick locals around here. “First time I saw ya play last year man, I knew I was lookin’ at someone special. I…I dreamed about you man, I know you’re gonna be pro, you’re gonna take a damn lucky team to the superbowl one day! I…fuck man, and…and I…” he got off the bed and onto his knees in front of Jeremiah, looking up at him with an almost childlike adoration, “I…anything I can do for you sir. Use me, my holes–I…You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen on a field, and if I can do this for you, if I can make you happy, fuck man it would be such a fucking honor. I know…I’m not much to look at, hell, I’m a dumbfuckin’ loser, I know it, but my ass is a good fuck, and its always open, whenever ya need it.”

“What I need right now, pig, is someone to clean my filthy fucking feet.”

“Oh fuck…Fuck *snort* fuck sir, yes sir!” Tubbs got down and started licking at Jeremiah’s foot, grunting and moaning, supporting himself with one hand while the other fucked himself with the dildo he had in his hole nearly all the time. Yeah–now this is something he could get used to, Jeremiah thought, hopped up on the desk behind him and started shoving his foot into Tubb’s fat mouth, jacking his cock while he watched the pig humiliate himself in front of his young football idol.

“You like those nasty feet pig?”

“Yes sir!”

What do you say pig, when your idol–when your fucking god is nice enough to let you lick your feet?”

“Thank you sir, *grunt* Thank you!”

“That’s right pig–you’ll take anything from me, won’t you, and you’ll thank me afterwards–isn’t that right?”

“Anything sir, I’m your fucking pig sir, anything, please, I’d be honored.”

“Get back on the bed pig, I got one last load of cum for you, and then you’d better get going, or you’ll be late to work.”

Twenty minutes later, Tubbs left the dorm room, adjusting his too small uniform from the local pizza delivery joint where he’d worked since he was a teenager. The front was stained and grubby, but he didn’t care–he had the best football player’s cum leaking out of his hole right this very second, and the world couldn’t get any fucking better than this.

Inside the room, laughing, unable to believe what had just happened, Jeremiah picked up the Chronivac, stepped out the dorm room, and triggered reality to alter and adjust for all of the previous changes he’d made. The room he’d just left was suddenly occupied by a completely different student, and Terrance–investigative journalist and notorious queer–ceased to exist for anyone other than Jeremiah. Later that night, he ordered a bunch of pizzas for the frat house for fun, and sure enough, Tubbs pulled up in his pickup truck, hauled out the six pizzas and took them to the door, gushing over the football players inside, who were a bit…put off that the filthy slob knew their own stats better than they did. But Jeremiah gave him a wink, and that alone had Tubbs fucking himself with his special, Jeremiah shaped dildo in a parking lot until he came in the front of his work uniform, looking forward to the next time he’d have the honor of serving his idol–which he’d have the opportunity to do many times over the next few years, until–as everyone knew would happen–Jeremiah graduated and got drafted immediately by a pro team across the country, and he was gone.

Still, Tubbs didn’t resent him–how could he? He’d settled into his life well–packing on another hundred of pounds thanks to drinking problem and binge eating Jeremiah had helped nurture in the pig. He liked to think that, maybe, he’d helped him a little. That with his sorry life, he’d done something for the one person in the world who really mattered. He watched every game that Jeremiah’s team played, lounging on his couch, drunk, one of his idol’s dirty jockstraps or jerseys from his private collection pressed to his face, bouncing on his dildo, wishing for at least one more fuck from him–and at the end of the season, he got a package that had his squealing with joy. Jeremiah remembered him, and liked him enough to send the pig a ticket to the superbowl–and after winning his first ring of what would be many, Jeremiah gave that pig a night long pounding he was certain would last Tubbs a good long while. After all, loyalty and silence had to have its rewards, right?

The Contractor’s Boy (Part 8)

Roger arrived back at the house and let himself in, pleased to hear the sounds of fucking coming from the den. He dropped the paint by the door and headed in that direction, where he found Gary bent over on the floor, Shane behind him slamming his cock into his father’s hole, growling as he did–at least until he looked up, saw Roger, and realized what, exactly he was doing. “No–No no no…” he said, pulled his cock out and backed away a few steps.

Gary, confused as to why he wasn’t getting fucked anymore, looked behind him and saw Shane had retreated. “What’s wrong fucker? This faggot hole ain’t gonna fuck itself! I though you were gonna show me what a real man fucks like?” He shook his ass, and Shane stared at it, rapt, but tore his eyes away and glared at Roger.

“You fucking did this, sir, you set this up!” he shouted.

Roger shrugged, “I suppose your father here wasn’t very interested in escaping, eh boy? Did that surprise you?”

“The fucker–all he fucking wants is a to sit around, drink and smoke, and get fucked!” Shane shouted, “He fucking wants this, and this is all your fucking fault!” Shane said, stalking towards him. “We were happy! All of us, and you just fucked everything up. Why couldn’t you have just left us all alone!”

Roger leaned on the doorway, and looked from Shane to Gary. “You want me to leave the two of you alone? I could do that, you know. I’ve been alone a long time, and I don’t want to spend years of my life with someone who doesn’t want to be with me. If you want to be here, with him, I can arrange that. I just…well, you didn’t strike me as someone who’d want to live life as a faggot pig,” he walked towards Gary, “What did my boy think of you, Gary? Do you think he likes you?”

“No sir,” Gary said, face to the carpet, “He thinks I’m disgusting sir. He said so himself. He thinks I’m wasting my life. I got him so angry, he was gonna fuck me real rough like before you came back.”

“That’s not–I didn’t mean that,” Shane said.

“You didn’t?” Roger asked, looking back at him, “So you’d be ok if I made you a faggot pig like your old man here? Just think, the two of you lounging around together all day, doing nothing, men coming over at all hours to fuck your holes, feed you piss–feed you shit, even, if you beg hard enough. A nice family of faggots–like father like son. Sounds hot to me boy–get out of those coveralls and boots. We can find some nasty underwear of your dad’s to wear, I bet.”

Shane started stripping, but as he did, he found himself gripped with fear and loathing. No–he didn’t want to be like him, he wanted to be free of this, didn’t he? “That’s not–I don’t want to be like him sir! I’m not like him!” Shane shouted, but his hands were stripping off his clothes already. He hadn’t been naked in ages, and the thought of it was…unsettling to him.

“I thought you wanted to be with your father, boy.”

“Not like this! I hate this, I fucking hate him!”

“Well boy,” Roger said, walking over, “You only have two choices here, so let me spell them out for you. You strip off that gear of mine and join your father as a total faggot, just as disgusting and appalling and shameless as he is, or you stay with me, and be my boy. My boy for real–you fuck that faggot’s hole, and you cum in deep, and you ain’t gonna remember that old life of yours anymore. You’re gonna be my boy for good–forever. But put on that underwear, and you ain’t never gonna forget what you were. You won’t be able to stop being a faggot, of course, but you’re gonna know boy. But it’s your choice. What’s it gonna be?”

Shane was naked now. He knew there were other options, but what? If he stayed with his dad, there was hope–a thin sliver. He might be able to tell someone. He’d at least know–but did he really want to know? Did he want to live like this? He imagined himself there on the ground beside his father, that hungry look in his eye. “Please, I can’t…”

“I’ll tell you something else, boy–right now? Your father knows too.”

Shane felt his stomach twist.

“He knows who he was. If you fuck him, though, he’ll forget. It’s torture for him, you know. He hates himself. He just wants to be free. You can give that to him, to you both, if you just fuck him.”

It could be a lie, he knew that. He couldn’t very well ask his dad and know for sure. It didn’t change anything, really. He couldn’t imagine being trapped like this–knowing what his life had been, and forced to humiliate himself day in and day out. He walked over, drooled some spit onto his cock, and shoved it back into Gary’s hole. “I’m sorry dad, I’m so fucking sorry…” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry, you hot fucker! It’s what we both fucking want. Now breed my piggy hole, like a proper fucking man!”

“Yeah–fuck that pig rough. Be selfish. I want a selfish boy,” Roger said, “A boy who only cares about his pleasure, and mine too, of course. Who takes what he wants, and doesn’t bother asking. Who’s greedy, and nasty, and rude. Come on boy, smack that pig around, show him who’s boss around here!”

Shane smacked his father’s ass, and felt a jolt of pleasure. He was close–so fucking close. Could he do this? Was he really going to give into this? He tried to hold back, but Roger urged him over the edge, and…and why fight it? It felt fucking good, didn’t it? Yeah–raping a pig’s hole always felt fucking good though–not that you could really rape a pig like this. They would take a fuck any day, and anywhere–fucking disgusting, but what did he care? Still, he took his own pleasure after, eating his own cum back out from the pig’s hole–he did love a filthy ass, after all, and he was pretty sure this pig hadn’t wiped up in days.

“Boy, you can eat hole later–we gotta finish painting.”

Reluctantly, he pulled free, licking his lips. “Yes sir, sorry–just hungry is all.”

“You’re always hungry boy!” Roger said, but hauled him up and kissed him, “That’s just how I fucking want you though.”

Shane laughed, “Yes sir! I’m your greedy fucking pigboy sir!” he laughed, and lit a cigar. He felt…good for the first time in a long time. He felt like himself. He felt happy, and free, and as always, it was all thanks to Sir.

The Contractor’s Boy (Part 7)

The next few days, while they were alone in the house together, Shane realized that he was zoning out more than he had in quite a while. In fact, over the past month, he’d been surprisingly lucid and aware of himself–and of what Roger was doing and saying at any given moment, but this reminded him of when he’d just arrived home from college. Roger was changing things again, planting ideas and directions in his head, but he had no idea what they might be. College–that was something he hadn’t thought about. The trees were starting to change color, and he should have been back on campus weeks ago–but that wasn’t his life, not anymore, and he was starting to doubt it ever would be again.

After all, even if he could figure out what Roger was doing to him and his father, what then? It felt like his imagination had shrunk–the idea of ever being without Roger, without being his boy, it seemed so far-fetched as to be impossible. Still, it was his father he felt the most sympathy for, more than himself. Watching him everyday, in the same ill-fitting suits, leaving the house for work with a belch, half drunk from the beers Roger made him drink each morning–there was no sign at all that he could even tell something was wrong with all of this. But worse–he seemed so happy now. Before, he’d always seemed so stressed, and angry. It had been hard at times, especially for his mom, but this wasn’t better.

Then, on a Wednesday, Shane was painting when he heard the front door open, and his father came in. At first, he thought he must have zoned out longer than he’d thought, but it really was only shortly after noon–far too early for him to be home already. He came in and found Roger, a big grin plastered on his bearded face, and announced, “Fuck feels good–finally got my ass fired today! Don’t have to wear this fuckin’ shit anymore, don’t have to go to fuckin’ work, fuck!”

He started ripping off his clothes while Roger congratulated him, but Shane could only see the glee on his father’s face–and in that moment, something shifted in him. He knew, as his son, he should feel sympathy for him, that his father had loved his job–but instead, what welled up was contempt. He was so fucking happy about not having to work anymore, but here Shane was, working up a sweat every fucking day. He was too stupid to even realize he was being controlled by Roger! He pushed the feelings aside, but by the time they left, his dad was planted in a recliner, naked aside from some nasty looking underwear, smoking and drinking…and Roger winked at him as they stepped out the door, but didn’t broach the subject.

From that day on, his father was always home while they were working, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in Roger and Shane–that is, unless they were having sex. Then, it seemed like he was always there, watching, staring at Shane in particular with a look of desire in his eye that made Shane…hate him. Didn’t he realize it was his own son he was lusting after? Why couldn’t he fight it? Why couldn’t he at least try and help? Did he want this? Had he been wrong about him all of this time? That weekend, the first of many visitors appeared at the house, other men arriving to see his father, “friends” of his that Shane had never seen before in his life, and his father had sex with all of them, begging the fat, dirty fucks who came by to fuck his drunk ass. Worse, listening to his father beg for cock would make Shane incredibly horny–and Roger, seeing his boy with a hardon, would of course encourage Shane to take a break, and go watch his father get fucked while he jacked off. Shane didn’t know if he obeyed because he had to, or because he wanted to. Still, he held out hope all the same–and then, he was given an opportunity so golden he couldn’t resist it.

One afternoon, they ran out of paint. When they needed supplies, Roger almost always made Shane go with him to the hardware store, but today, he wanted Shane to keep working while he ran over there quickly–alone. That meant, for close to an hour, he’d be alone with his father in the house–if ever there was a chance to escape, this would be it. He watched Roger go, and as soon as he’d heard the truck drive off, he ran for where his father was in his recliner, drunk. “Gary! Gary, come on, we have to go,” Shane said, “Roger’s gone for a while, and this is the only chance we’re going to get.”

His father just looked up at him in the recliner, and nodded. He stood up, groping himself, and leered at Shane. “Yeah boy, let’s go to the bedroom–I was worried you were just a bottom for him, but looks like you can’t resist this ass of mine either.”

“No, don’t you get it? We can fucking escape!” Shane shouted, shaking his father by the shoulders, “Don’t you fucking remember fucking anything?”

His dad didn’t pay any attention–he just dropped to his knees and dug Shane’s cock out through the hole Roger had cut in his coveralls for easier access. “Yeah boy, let me see that fuckstick of yours–fuck, hard already! You really do want it bad.”

He backed up, and slapped his father across the face, “You fucking idiot, you have to fucking wake the fuck up!”

His father just groaned, “Fuck–god, ya really know how tah treat a faggot properly, boy,” his dad said, hauling his cock out of his underwear, “I love the rough ones.”

“You’re disgusting,” Shane said.

“Fuck–you fucking know it, just a disgusting faggot–that’s all I wanna fucking be. So fucking use me! Beat me, I don’t give a damn. Just make sure ya fuck me with that big cock boy, because that’s what makes this faggot pig real fuckin’ happy.”

Gary crawled forward on his knees and licked at the head of Shane’s cock, making him shiver. He should run. Just forget him, and save himself. But that wasn’t what he really wanted, was it? It wasn’t what either of them really wanted. Instead, he shoved his cock down his father’s throat, listening to him choke, and slapped him again. “Be careful what you ask for, faggot,” he growled.

The Contractor’s Boy (Part 4)

“No–No, you can’t do this sir, you–they remember me–they have to! I’m their fucking son!” Shane shouted, looking back at the house. At his house. At his parent’s house where he grew up. How could they not even recognize him?

“Them? Trust me boy, they don’t have a son. Don’t even have sex anymore–haven’t had sex once since I started working for them. He’s a closeted faggot, and she’s fucking her boss, and planning on leaving his sorry ass in a month or two. He’ll keep the house though–sort of. It’s the least I can give him, I suppose.”

“No way, my mom would never, she’d…and my dad isn’t gay!” Shane said, “I don’t…I don’t want to go with you, sir, please, let me go home.” He tried to open the door, but while his hand could grip the door handle of the truck, his body refused to pull it and open the door. Why wasn’t his hand working right? What in the world was wrong with him?

“I’ll tell you what, boy–I’ll let you go talk to them, see if you can convince them. If they believe you, that you’re their son, then I’ll let you stay with them–if they want to take you in. But look at you–fucking smell yourself, you fucking pig.”

Shane couldn’t resist the order, and fuck, did he reek. Then again, he hadn’t changed clothes once in weeks, and he spent all day and night sweating hard and cumming all over himself–and that was before Roger had started using him as a cumrag. He was filthy, stains up and down the front and back of him. But still–he knew he was right. He knew it. His hand worked, he got out of the truck and ran for the front door, pounding on it, terrified that Roger would chase him and order him back, but Roger just got out, leaned against the side of the hood, and watched.

His mom answered the door, and she…didn’t look happy to see Shane there. “Oh…uh, did you or your boss forget something?” she asked.

“Mom–Mom! It’s me, I’m your son. Please, let me inside.”

“Excuse me?” she said with a laugh, “I don’t have a son.”

“Who is it?” his father asked, coming to the door as well, smoking a cigar.

“It’s…I don’t remember his name–Roger’s boy. He…it’s nothing. You were just leaving, right?” she said.

“Dad, please–I’m not…I don’t know what he did, but you remember me, right?”

His dad raised an eyebrow and looked to his wife, who rolled her eyes. “He…says he’s our son, as if that cock of yours has ever gotten hard in the same room as me once,” she said. The tone was acid, and Shane saw his father wither slightly, turn, and retreat back down the hall.

“Mom, this isn’t you! Why are you doing this?” She tried to shut the door, but Shane forced it open and tried to bully his way inside.

“Roger! What is the matter with your boy?” she shouted, but Roger was already walking over.

“Don’t worry Ma’am, I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” he said, grabbed Shane by the collar of his coveralls and hauled him back from the doorway. “It’s time we left, right boy?”

Shane was crying again, looking at his mom, terrified that she couldn’t remember him.. Her eyes–she was scared of him, but why? He hadn’t done anything wrong!

“Apologize to her. You were very rude, boy.”

“S-S-Sorry…Ma’am…”

“Now, get in the truck,” he said, and shoved Shane down the steps. “Don’t worry Ma’am,” Roger said to her, “As soon as you close the door, you’ll forget this even happened.” She nodded, still a bit shaken, but Roger knew that would settle it, and kept pushing Shane to the truck.

They rode in silence for a while, Shane still stunned. Everything had been normal that morning. He’d made breakfast, he’d talked with both his parents for a bit before getting started on the weekend’s tasks with Roger. Just another Saturday. “Why do I remember them, though?” he asked himself, but Roger heard him.

“Because I want you to. Because–fuck–it’s gonna be fun breaking you, boy. It’s been fun already, but it’s only going to get better from here. Fucking lucky I found you boy, you fell right in my lap. Now, how about dinner?”

They pulled into a fast food drive through, and Roger ordered a ton of food. Shane didn’t feel hungry at all, but Roger told him to eat, and he couldn’t disobey. “I…You did something to them. What did you do?”

“Same thing I’ve been doing for months, boy.”

“Wait, months?”

“Been doing it to you too, boy. I could make you forget them if I wanted. I could make you forget everything. Make you dumb as a brick. Still might do that, later, but I wanna see how you do at home first. See how agreeable you are.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“It’s a good racket, boy. Pick a rich mark, start a nice long project. Free food, maybe fuck a handsome husband for a few months–year if I’m lucky, before they start to run dry of savings. Then I move somewhere else, pick a new target. But I’ve been…lonely, boy. You’re dad back there–I liked the look of him a lot–he was someone I could really have some fun ruining. Was going to take him under my wing, sell off the house once we fixed it up together–but then you come home! Fuck boy, handsome as shit, an athlete–I just had to fuck you up. Was just gonna make you drop out of college and become a proper workin’ man, but…but the longer we worked together, the more I wanted you instead of your daddy. You’re just so…soft,” he said, stroking Shane’s face, “Malleable. You’ll do anything, and you don’t even question it. I can control anyone, but I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who wants to be controlled like you do.”

“I don’t want to be here! I want to go home!”

“Ha, your mouth says one thing, but your heart says another. Your heart wants me to collar you, to humiliate you–make you into a fat, dirty pigboy for me to use for a good long time–so that’s what we’re gonna do, right boy?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Shane said, much to his own surprise, but whether it was Roger’s tricks, or his own secret willingness, he didn’t know anymore–he just kept eating. When Roger told him to jack off, he did that too–and then they headed home, and Shane slowly resigned himself to the possibility that it was far, far too late to do anything about the nightmare he’d found himself in, other than live in it.

The Contractor’s Boy (Part 3)

Shane settled into the new routine of his life with little fuss. He would wake up early–always clad in his work gear–head downstairs and start cooking. His father would come downstairs to eat breakfast around the time when Roger would arrive at the house, and while the three of them ate, Shane’s mother would drift through the room, in her own world, and head to work. After eating, his father would leave as well, and then Shane would join Roger and get started on the work for the day.

He was learning quite a bit, however, and the tasks he was given were becoming quite a bit more than just fetching and carrying. Still, the project didn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense–what exactly were they doing in here, anyway? His father had only ever mentioned getting the house renovated, but had never been more specific than that–but what on earth was this new room even for? He might try and ask Roger these sorts of questions, but quickly learned that he shouldn’t–he’d earn a stern rebuke at best, or if he pressed the matter, Roger would make him bend over the sawhorse while he paddled his ass red.

Usually, however, those sorts of questions wouldn’t occur to him at all. He would just focus on whatever task Roger had given him in that moment, and complete it to the best of his ability. Still, several times a day he’d notice a detail, and realize that something about this entire situation was…wrong. Like when he took a bathroom break one day, and lingered at the mirror, staring at the filthy coveralls he was wearing–that he’d been wearing for nearly two weeks straight. He hadn’t even taken the boots off in all that time either, not without Roger’s explicit permission–say, if he got something in the bottom of one–and then it had to go right back on. The front and the crotch were covered with stains from his own loads of cum, and recently, from Roger’s. He’d taken to jacking off as well, and while he’d often make Shane suck him off, he nearly always shot his load onto Shane’s coveralls, and afterwards make Shane tell him how much he enjoyed being Sir’s cumrag. But usually, a thought like that would derail his concern, and he’d forget about his worries, or he’d start jacking off, or he’d ignore them–knowing that broaching the subject with Roger would be a poor choice.

Still, things were changing. There were a few differences he’d noticed when he’d gotten home from school that had gotten worse–his father’s whole appearance, for example. He’d always been very concerned with his looks, but he’d suddenly made all sorts of changes–and not all of them were flattering. For one thing, he was gaining weight, enough to create a bit of a paunch in the front of his shirts when he went to work, stretching the buttons slightly. He’d started growing out his beard, as well. It had been kind of funny, when Shane had arrived, because the grey in the face had confirmed that his father had obviously been dying his hair to a younger black–but he never dyed the beard, as it grew, and the grey roots of his hair were beginning to show as well. It made him look rather…distinguished–at least, it did until it got a bit overgrown and shaggy.

Then, there were the cigars his father had started smoking–the same brand as Roger, in fact. His father had always hated smokers, and yet he seemed perfectly at ease with his new habit. When Shane had tried to ask him when he’d started, in fact, his father had looked at him like he was a bit crazy–and Roger had insisted that his father had been smoking them for years. Still, that couldn’t possibly be right, unless he’d been hiding it from his mother this whole time. In fact, her behavior was perhaps the most bizarre of all. Normally, she was always micromanaging both her husband and son when they were home, but when Shane had arrived, she’d seemed so…distant and uninterested in them both. Now, there were some nights when she didn’t even come home at all. The only person she talked to was Roger, who’d ask her how she’d been lately, and they’d have a private conversation outside–usually while Shane and his father ate. Everything was different, somehow, and yet, it felt to Shane like all of it was completely normal.

But today…something was different about today. For one thing, Roger was nervous, but in an excited sort of fashion. It was a Saturday, and so both of his parents were home for the day, but Roger had mostly given Shane a list of construction tasks to complete in the room that afternoon, while he’d gone and taken both his father and mother into another room to discuss some of his thoughts on the project’s progress. Shane had expected it to take a few hours, but they’d been hours now, and his list was almost finished. Being unsupervised this long…shouldn’t he be doing something? Trying to get…help? But why would he need help? Instead, he kept working–Sir would be…upset if the list wasn’t done by the end of the workday–he knew that.

He finished the tasks, and sat down on a bucket, groping the wet crotch of his coveralls, ready to milk out another load as a reward, when Roger came back into the room with his parents. “Alright–how’s the list boy?”

“All finished sir,” Shane said, “I…I was just gonna jack off.”

“That can wait boy. Looks like the boy and I are all finished for the day then, so we’ll be leaving,” Roger said to Shane’s parents. “Clean up the tools, boy, and then let’s go.”

“Do you need me to make dinner like usual sir?” Shane asked, a bit confused by what Roger had just said.

His mother laughed, “Oh, he’s very sweet to offer, but no.”

Roger winked at him, and Shane got a bit anxious. That wink…it never meant anything good. Still, he cleaned up the room as Roger liked it, and in ten minutes they were finished. “Well come on boy, it’s time to go home. We’ll take tomorrow off, though, and be back on Monday,” Roger said.

“But…I mean…” Shane said, looking at his parents, “I am home. I sleep here.”

His mom and dad got…rather strange looks on their faces, and looked over at Roger. His mother, in particular, looked quite disgusted. “That’s not appropriate–I thought your boy would behave better than that.”

“No boy, that isn’t appropriate talk, is it. Apologize to the nice lady, and then get your butt in the truck.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, mom,” Shane said, but Roger whacked him upside the head.

“You address ladies as Ma’am, boy. You know that.”

“S-Sorry Ma’am,” Shane muttered.

“Now get going.” Roger shoved Shane towards the front door, and he knew he should object, but the world seemed to be spinning, and he was crying, and he looked back at his parents, but they…didn’t even seem to recognize him. And then they were outside, and into Roger’s truck, where he grinned at Shane’s face. “They won’t miss you boy, don’t worry–and you’ll be back Monday morning anyway for work! But I’ve been missin’ you at home, boy–where you fuckin’ belong–and where you’ll be staying for a good long time.”

Trucker Baptism (Sketch)

Avery was on a road trip to visit his newly married brother a couple of states over–it was a drive he’d made fairly often, and by far, the thing he hated the most was having to stop on the road to go to the bathroom. The fasted highway there wasn’t the busiest, and the two rest areas along the way weren’t particularly well maintained. Still, he also wasn’t a fan of pulling off onto the shoulder just to take a piss, and so he resigned himself to taking a stop at one of them, and pulled off the road.

There were actually a number of semi-trucks parked off to the side, as well as a few smaller cars like him. When he got into the grungy restroom, he was surprised–he had to stand there and wait for a urinal, because both were occupied by guys. One seemed fairly normal, and the other looked like a trucker–thick beard, heavy gut–he let off a belch as he pissed and wiped a bit of slobber onto his sleeve. He finished first, however, and backed off–Avery realized as he walked up and undid his fly that the slob hadn’t even bothered to flush. He reached for the handle, a bit surprised by how dark it was, but before he could flush it away he the stench of it hit him.

It was strong–some of the strongest piss he’d ever smelled, but while he wanted to gag, he found his body reacting differently–he took a deeper breath, and felt his knees start to shake a bit. What was the matter with him? Just flush it already! He tried, but his arm was weak, his head dropping lower to smell it better. The man beside him finished pissing and gave him a disgusted look before booking it out of the room, leaving Avery alone–or so he thought.

Behind him, the trucker was smirking, watching as Avery kept smelling–snorting really–and dropped to his knees in front of the urinal, hauling his cock free as he did, unable to believe how turned on he was.

“Always nice, getting a chance to spread the good news,” a voice said behind him. He couldn’t…quite turn away from the piss in front of him, but he heard heavy footfalls as the trucker walked up beside him, looking down and smirking. “Nice, ain’t it? Never smelt anythin’ like it in yer life, I bet.”

Avery didn’t quite know where to find his words, and so he nodded a bit, eyes still glued to the piss in the bowl.

“Thought we were runnin’ out! Ain’t found a convert in a while. Good tah keep the faith alive though,” the man walked up, bent down and ran his hand through the piss, sloshing it a bit, and then pulled it out, dripping, and wiped Avery’s forehead with it. It ran down over his eyes, which he shut tight, past his nose, to his mouth–helpless, his tongue darted out for a taste, and his cock leaked precum even faster than it already was. “In the name of our Glorious Master, are you ready to receive your baptism, brother?” the trucker asked him in his ear.

The trucker didn’t wait for a nod, or a yes–he palmed Avery’s shaven skull and shoved his face into the piss, pressing his face to the porcelain while Avery shuddered. He could taste it–he could smell it. It was inside him now, but what? More than the piss, but it wanted more, it wanted to be deeper. He hadn’t managed to get much of a breath, and the trucker wasn’t letting him up for air. He struggled harder, but the man’s weight was leaden. He tried to reach for the flush lever, but couldn’t find it. Unable to fight any longer, he inhaled the filth, and felt the still warm piss flood into his lungs, filling him with…with the Master. Master’s will, God’s will. He could…see, as his vision blurred, a man, a massive fucker, reeking of piss and musk. He would serve him, he was meant to serve him he–

A fist slammed into his gut, right on his diaphragm, and Avery coughed, spraying piss all over the floor where he’d fallen. The trucker was beside him, and pulled Avery’s head into his lap as he coughed, and he felt the stiff shaft of…of his brother’s cock pressing against the side of his face, but he didn’t flinch away–he rubbed against it, horny, aching to serve him, to serve the master.

The man let his cock out, and Avery started sucking at it, hungry for cum, delighting in the taste, digging in his own pants for his cock, only to find it had somehow doubled in size, rivaling his brother’s in length and girth. With his other hand, he discovered other changes, but he didn’t grasp the full scope of his conversion until he’d drank his baptismal load of cum and been helped off the floor. In the mirror…it was him, and yet it wasn’t. Big gut stretching his hoodie, pants bursting at the seams to contain his wide ass, thick beard on his face, and hair coating his body.

“Come on brother–ya have a load of piss fer me, I think, and then I need a nice long fuck. Haven’t had an initiate in ages, ‘n this trucker pig needs tah worship some God Cock, don’t you?”

“Fuck yeah,” Avery said, his deep, gruff tone making his cock leak, and he leered at his partner. “Ain’t been tah church before though, so yer gonna have tah show me the way.”

Slave Swap (Part 4)

When Master woke him up, they most certainly were no longer in his sizable mansion, where Cameron had been living in his first year of service. Now they were in a small studio apartment–deep in the city, from the sound of traffic outside–the sort of living quarters any citizen could expect as a guarantee in this era. Nothing fancy, and none of clean from the looks of things, but it was similar to where Cameron had spent much of his youth. “Where are we, sir?”

“This is where you’ll be living, Slave. I’d rather not have you dribbling any more piss on my carpets. You’ll still be working for my company, but I can’t have someone like you as my personal assistant. You’ll be a janitor now–something which will…suit your body’s tastes, I assume. You’ll also be receiving a much smaller allowance from this point further, although there will be…opportunities for you to earn more, if you’d like. After all, if there is one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re highly motivated by financial reward. Still, we have one final adjustment to make, but I wanted to make sure you were awake. Slave, run personality file: Jug.”

The sensation was always…nerve wracking, when Master ran a personality file. Still, he’d been through enough of them to know what to expect, from his first day–after all, it was how Master had turned him gay. The contract gave Master wide licence to modify not only his body, but also his mind, his memories, his personality, his intellect–provided a backup of his original is kept on hand. But this one lasted longer, and the mental nausea was more severe. Whatever Master was doing to him, it was more substantial than anything else he’d done to him previously. At last, it was over, and Jug reached out for a wall to steady himself, and let off a great big belch. “Fuck sir, mah head feels like ya screwed it off in shook it up real fuckin’ good.”

That…didn’t sound like him, but his thoughts were suddenly running much slower than he was accustomed to.

“Don’t worry Jug, you’ll feel better soon enough. It’s just something to…smooth your transition. After all, if you’re going to be a janitor, you’d better think and sound like one, right? And someone your age…well, you need a bit of history, don’t you? In any case, I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes sir,” he said, and Master left him in the apartment, to explore the small space, and to try and sort out what, exactly, his master had fucked up in his head. Why had Master called him Jug, anyway? His name was…was something else, but then again, he’d been called Jug ever since he’d drank that whole gallon of piss in one fucking sitting, years ago, and the name had stuck. It was…it was a badge of pride, wasn’t it? The memory horrified parts of him–the vividness of it. It wasn’t real, he knew that, and yet, to Jug, it felt as real as anything else. He sat down, diaper squishing audibly under him, his body still shaking, the pain coming back now that he had nothing else to focus on.

His body has needs, that he knew, but they weren’t needs that he wanted to satisfy. Why had Master just…left him here? With no guidance, and no direction? He hadn’t even…fed him before he’d left. In a sense, he knew he should feel…free on his own, and yet the hungers growing inside him made him feel more boxed in and controlled than any time in his first year of service. He turned on the TV, but then got up from the chair to explore the room. There was a small supply of cigars in a battered humidor on the shelf, but he fought the urge to smoke. There were a few beers in the fridge, and his thirst…but he also knew he wanted cum…and piss more than alcohol or water. There was no food anywhere, but Jug also didn’t know how to cook. He’d…have to get something delivered, or go out if he wanted to eat.

He heard his phone buzz and shake on the side table, and he went to retrieve it, and found a message from Master. “I’m sure the monkeys on your back have started scratching. I selected this location particularly for you. There’s several gay bathhouses and bars within several blocks, many of them with rather seedy reputations. I’m sure you can find some men willing to feed an old faggot like you, especially in the dark. I’ll be watching. Or you could always kick the habit. I…weakened the original desires, as hard as that might be for you to imagine–the body’s owner wanted his slave’s body to be insatiable. It won’t be pleasant to resist them, I can assure you, but I admit I might find your strength of will to be quite arousing–though I think I’d still rather see you submit, slave. Still, perhaps you’ll surprise me–I do love surprises.”

Was this really just a game to him? Jug felt used, but he knew what he would do–he was going to fight this shit. He didn’t want this life, he wasn’t going to give into this filth. He’d fought so long, his entire life–hadn’t he? He could recall a youth where he’d struggled, but it was like someone else’s story now. Jug, on the other hand, had led a life of debauchery and excess, and just thinking and remembering all those loads of cum he’d sucked down, all those jugs of piss he’d emptied to prove his earned nickname, it was making his old cock rock hard.

But that wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. He sat down on the chair with a glass of water, and ordered some food from the tablet on the wall. He could fight this, he was stronger than any of this. He’d…prove to his master that he was different, that he’d earned his last body, that he could please him by being close to him, that he didn’t deserve to be treated like this.

Method Roleplay (Part 5)

He stumbled out of the bathroom, but felt a strange sense of vertigo–he was in a hall, but not…the hall he should be in. The walls were covered with paint that was chipped and peeling, the carpet covered in stains. There should be a doorway across from him, where the computer had been in Brett’s office, but there wasn’t a door–a bit further down the short hall was one, which led to…the bedroom he and daddy shared together.

No, this had been Brett’s apartment, they weren’t living together yet, right? He opened the door, and saw the messy room covered with clothes, and he could smell them both in there, their musk, their sex…fuck, it was so hot, how much it reeked. It got Evan worked up just like it did Brett, smelling the stale, stinking air. His dad’s cum was still dribbling down the crack of his ass, and he ran one hand up it, getting it good and coated, and started licking it off, grunting and moaning as he rubbed his little cock.

Why…had he come in here again? He’d been looking for a computer, right? But…they didn’t have a computer. They were too poor for that–Daddy just had his smartphone, and that was it–but hadn’t they listened to something together? There had been something, he was sure of it, but it was like the harder he tried to grasp it, the further away it got. He…he should talk to daddy about it. Daddy would remember it right? He had to! Daddy was so smart–he was just a dumbfuck little shithead boy–or at least, that’s what daddy said he was, and daddy was usually right about those sorts of things.

He turned around and walked back towards the main room of their apartment. He could hear the TV on, and smell…smoke. The smell concerned him–was something burning? He found his daddy where he expected him, on the couch, watching sports on TV, a can of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other, but this wasn’t right. This apartment wasn’t right. Brett should be changing back to his old self, but things only seemed to be getting even worse. After all, Evan hadn’t said anything about Brett being a smoker, and now he was sucking down cigar smoke? It was like reality was moving around them, and trapping them in the fantasy they’d created.

“Daddy? I…I know it’s hard, but I think we need to change back now?”

Brett looked over at Evan, a confused look on his face, and belched. “What the fuck are you talking about, boy?”

“Re-remember? We listened to that…thing together? That song, or…or somebody speaking? Maybe it was a book. You remember that right?”

“Boy, ya know yer old man’s memory is pretty shot. Ain’t too bright, ya know.”

“But do ya remember?”

“Boy…” Brett paused, “Boy, I remember a lotta shit, but ain’t none a it makin’ much sense right now. But I’m feelin’ a whole lot better, now that I got a cigar ‘n a couple a beers in my gut, and I’d feel a bit better with my boy next to me eating out my nasty pits, so git over here, sit down with yer daddy,” he said, patting the cushion beside him.

Evan didn’t want to disobey him and get another spanking, so he did as he was told. As soon as he was on the couch, Brett threw an arm around him and pulled him in tight, Evan’s face inches from his sweaty pit, and they reeked of sex. He gave a grunt without really meaning to, and felt a bit of his cares slip away.

“Yeah, that’s my sexy boy, ya make yer daddy real fuckin’ happy, ya know that?”

“No daddy, I’m…this ain’t how I’m supposed tah look–it ain’t how we’re supposed tah look. Ya do remember, I know ya do.”

“I was just bein’ thick boy.”

“No! I was lyin’ before! Ya were right! This ain’t right!”

“People can’t git younger, Evan. I ain’t ever gonna be a kid again–the world don’t work like that. How fuckin’ dumb are ya?”

“But daddy–”

“Boy, shut up–I wanna fuckin’ watch TV ‘n not care about shit until work tomorrow.”

“Ya can’t go tah work lookin’ like that! No one’ll recognize you.”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Brett said, looking at Evan like he was crazy, “I been a mechanic there fer years.”

“Ya ain’t a…mechanic…” Evan muttered, but as he did, he saw his daddy’s clothes change in front of his eyes, becoming a set of grease covered coveralls, his hands coated black, and the scent of oil and metal mingled with the other odors of their apartment. “Daddy, ya gotta stop, or ya ain’t gonna be able tah git back if ya keep goin’!”

“Course not, boy–but I got ya with me, so I’m fuckin’ good.”

“No–No, I’m–this ain’t me daddy, I don’t care what ya wanna be, but this ain’t me,” Evan hauled himself off the couch, and started fishing around for clothes to put on. He had to get out of here–maybe get back to his apartment, where he could remember himself better, and change back. “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ live like this. It was just supposed tah be a game! I don’ wanna live like a fuckin’ nasty pig!”

“Boy, watch yer mouth, ‘n sit yer ass back down this instant.”

“I got a job daddy, I got a future, and a life. I ain’t givin’ that up fer some fucked up fantasy.”

“Please. You? Git a fuckin’ job?” Brett said, standing up, “Boy, yer thick as a fuckin’ brick, ‘n fat, ‘n lazy. They even fired ya from the fuckin’ garage, remember?”

“Daddy, I don’t…wanna remember that…” Evan said, but he could. He could remember how his daddy had gotten him work there after he’d dropped out of high school, but he’d just sat around eating and jacking off until their boss had fired him. And now…now he just…

“All yer fuckin’ good for boy, is sittin’ ‘round here, stuffin’ yer face, jackin’ off like a good pigson, and when I git home ya serve yer daddy like a good little porker should. Ain’t that right?”

“Nuh-uh, ain’t…nah daddy…” Evan said, but his words were slow, and even thicker than they had been. He could feel his body growing, his gut sagging and covering his cock completely, the smells of the room growing more intense. “Mean…I gotta…” and with that, his mind broke. He really was too stupid to figure this out–what the fuck had he been thinking? He knew better than that. He was…he was just his daddy’s pig–he was never gonna be more than that. “S-Sorry dad, I know I’s just a dumb pig ‘n stuff.”

“It’s alright boy,” Brett said, put his hand on Evan’s head, and pushed his 400 pound, idiot son to his knees. “Daddy’s got some nice beer piss fer ya, pigboy–‘n then how’s about we order pizza ‘n git ya fed nice ‘n full?”

Evan liked the sound of that a lot, and he gulped down daddy’s piss, grunting and snorting as he did, and by the time he’d been stuffed full, over two hours later, neither of them would have ever believed that the day before they’d been anyone other than the incestuous pigs they were now.