Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 10)

The rest of the night went smoothly, though Stan may have strayed from his explicit list of naughty men on occasion, to punish a few people who may have not deserved it, but it didn’t really matter–the pigs and bears and cubs all thanked him for it afterwards, licking his boots, his holes, or the cum dribbling from his cage. He felt so…happy now, so free. How had he managed to exist with all of this bottled up inside of him for so long? Now that it was out, he could barely remember what he’d been like before all of this, before he’d been given this great gift. The list whittled down, and dawn approached on all of the horizons he visited around the world, and as much as he was enjoying the night, he was happy when he finally came to the last name on the list–what he hadn’t been expecting, however, was to recognize it.

It was his name–his old name, maybe, he might say. He checked the notes, and found a personal note from Timmy the elf, addressed to him, Stan:

“By now, I’m sure you have discovered that I misled you during our initial meeting, but I hope that you can forgive me. I’m also sure that you have discovered our true intent as well, but I have a feeling you have probably enjoyed yourself more than you might have ever believed. Regardless, our deal stands. Your one year of service is up. If you wish to go back to your old life, simply leave your clothes in the sleigh–all of them–send the reindeer off, and everything will go back to normal–no one will have even noticed that you were gone. However, if you wish to continue your service, you are welcome to return to the North Pole for as many years as you are able and willing. I hope to see you soon, but if I do not, I understand.”

Go back? No–no, he could never go back. Not after this, not after what he’d experienced, not after what he’d become. But he also knew he couldn’t simply leave, either. This was his family, he had created them. He could at the very least say goodbye, and leave them some gifts. He slipped down the chimney and began poking around the house, eventually finding his way to the master bedroom, where he had spent so many years, but where his widow, Emily, was now sleeping alone.

From various bits of evidence around the house–some photos of them only Emily had liked that he’d hated were hanging were up, an ornate urn on the fireplace–it looked like his alter ego had simply died in the last year. Good riddance. But there she was, just as she’d always been, and he hated her so, so, much. He hated her for all the years he’d toiled away with her, both of them desperately unhappy, neither able to satisfy the other. Emily had always dreamed that all men adored her–she would, in an effort to garner his interest, attempt to inflame his jealousy, but she had never actually slept with anyone else that he’d known of. The room still reeked of the perfumes she insisted on wearing, along with all her makeup on the vanity–he had never once seen her face bare, in all their years together, like he’d married a mask. He focused, and all that reeking perfume turned into sweet, manly musk on the air, as he slipped into the room. Fussing with his cage until it came free, his massive cock unfurling. He’d never really given her a proper fuck, in all these years, so he might as well give it to her now.

He climbed on her, and rolled her onto her stomach. She didn’t fight him, the welling of lust in her at his hands was enough, but she tried to scream when his massive cock worked its way into her ass, but the scream faded into a moan, her physique expanding, filling out, hair growing across her body, until after a few minutes, Emily was now a fat old man, bucking back to meet Stanta’s thrusts, his vagina closing up, but leaving a miniscule, clit like cock and two tiny balls barely hanging at all below it. With a final thrust, he pumped his ass full of cum, and gave him the rest of his gift–from now on, his musk would be so powerful, that no man would be able to resist fucking him, but only so long as he remained as filthy and unwashed as possible. He would need to, however–his musk is the only way an old, disgusting, small cocked geezer like this was ever going to get someone to fill this hole. That desire would drive him more than any else, the need to be fucked at all times–if he needed men to adore him, then they’d have no choice. He pulled out, and Emil groaned, reaching around with a hand and shoving several fingers in all at once, pumping them in as he twiddled his tiny cock and shot a load all over the disgusting bedspread, before collapsing and falling asleep immediately, hand still firmly planted in his own hungry ass.

Still, Emil was only one of the people currently in the house; after their father’s sudden death, it would seem that all three of his son’s had come home for Christmas to soothe their former mother’s angst. Such good boys–now their father could deal with them all at once, instead of having to cross the country to find them. Still, Stanta was struck by how little he really knew of his son’s, even after all these years. he’d spent so much time pushing his own desires onto them, that he’d never really let them express themselves. Well, Stanta would fix that. These boys were going to get everything they’d ever wanted for Christmas this year, whether they liked it or not.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 7)

“Your father gave you so fucking much, and how did you fucking repay him? By being some fucking bum on his fucking couch? Well I think it’s time you learned how to show your father the fucking respect he deserves, boy,” Stan said.

Another red name–another horrid young man deserving Santa’s punishment. This one–Liam–was nothing but a lazy moocher. Dropped out of college after two years–he couldn’t handle the pressure. He moved into his father’s basement and has barely left since. Couldn’t even bother to get a job, just a chubby, stinking lout Stan had found snoring on the couch in front of the TV, even as his father worked two menial jobs to support them both. Well no more of that. “I don’t, I mean–” Liam tried to say, but with a twinkle of magic, his lips suddenly shut themselves.

“No, I think what we need is your father down here, to help you learn to appreciate everything he’s given you,” Stan said, and with a snap of his fingers, Liam could hear someone upstairs above them, and a few moments later, his father came marching down the stairs, naked, not at all sure what was going on, and why he couldn’t control his own body. “Jerry! I was just talking with your slacker of a son here about how he’s wasted his life and your generosity. I think, if anything, it’s time for you to take a load off, what do you think? Liam–get up–let your dad here rest his tired feet.”

The son stood up, and his father took a seat, both of them terrified of this massively obese Santa figure in their midst, and neither of them able to control their own bodies. Jerry plopped down on the old couch, and with a flash, both of them were twisted up in Stan’s magic. When the light died away, Jerry tried to get up, but discovered that…he couldn’t. No, not that he couldn’t that he didn’t want to. That he didn’t have to. This was his fucking house after all, he deserved a chance to fucking enjoy it! Liam, on the other hand, found himself overwhelmed by his father there, dropped to his knees and licking his father’s feet…just…just like he always did.

As Stan watched, Jerry’s body began to expand, filling in with fat, his hair growing long, lank and unwashed, mouth reeking as he leered down at his boy slathering his nasty feet with spit. “Yeah boy, work that fuckin’ tongue–show daddy how glad you are that he let’s ya live here with him.”

Still…not enough. He tried to resist the urge for a moment, looking at the father and son. Surely this was enough punishment, right? But he wanted to see them suffer anyway, and his mind, it wouldn’t stop imagining the most horrendous things…“Here Jerry, have a smoke–enjoy yourself,” Stan said, handing him a thick cigar he hadn’t noticed in his hand to him, which Jerry was more than happy to light up, while Stan got down in front of the very confused Liam. “I know it can be hard, supporting your father like this, but you do it for family, right? Holding down three jobs…not that you don’t enjoy them. Janitor at a local gym–gives you plenty of time to perv out in those nasty locker rooms right? Trashman in the mornings, but you like that too–picking up all that junk, hell, the nastier something stinks, the harder it gets you, right? Hell, just walking into those porta-potties you clean out on the weekends is enough for you to shoot a load into those filthy coveralls you never take off, right?” He stood back up and looked down at Liam, now a very different young man. He was wearing the nastiest coveralls Stan had ever seen, moaning loudly and rubbing his cock as he worshiped his father’s feet. He looked over at Jerry, and the cigar he’d given Jerry was doing it’s work–he’d packed on so many pounds all of a sudden that he probably wouldn’t be able to stand up even if Jerry wanted to. The father’s guts gave a rumble, and he farted–Liam immediately shoving his face between his dad’s massive thighs, snorting in the foul stench, cum splattering it’s way from his cock across the base of the couch.

“I know ya gotta get tah work soon boy, but Daddy’s got a big load of shit for you, and I know ya don’t wanna clean it up off the couch tonight. Well, I know ya like cleanin’ it off the couch, but I don’t feel like sittin’ in it all day, waitin’ fer ya tah git home.”

“Sure…sure thing Daddy…But…maybe ya can piss while I’m gone, ‘n I can suck that out? I’m always so thirsty when I get home,” Liam said, and pushed his dad’s legs up, giving him better access to his dad’s shithole. Stan didn’t want to watch…but he did anyway. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene, and couldn’t tear his hand from his cock, eventually giving in, getting down behind Liam, ripping the back of his coveralls open a bit wider so he could slam his cock into the boy’s disgusting hole. He fucked him quickly, but after he came he couldn’t bear to be there any longer, and fled back up to the roof as quickly as he could, unable to believe what he’d just done to those two men. That…that he’d wanted to do that to them.

He’d been trying to avoid admitting it, but he was changing. This job, was changing him. This wasn’t the person he wanted to be, this wasn’t good, what he was doing, and yet…he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to stop, because in his heart, he enjoyed it. But this wasn’t God’s work, this wasn’t the work of any God. He…someone had to stop him. He couldn’t stop himself, but maybe…maybe he could get out of this somehow, stop anything like what he’d just done from happening again. He had to, this was out of control, and Stan knew that if he didn’t do something soon, he’d never be in control ever again. Because this…this felt too good. And that scared him more than anything else. He’d…he’d do it at the next stop, no matter what, before he lost his nerve, and before he got anymore lost in this…joy.

Dream Camp (Part 7)

Is he dreaming now? The thought occurs to him too late to do him any good. One moment, he was certain he was awake, lounging with his son, the next, he is no longer certain of anything, the sky oversaturated with color, Max crawling towards them both across the ground. He seems scared, but his terror is no longer enough to keep him away from what he wants. He circles around them, keeping his distance, snorting and huffing, but Barry knows that if they just remain still, he’ll approach eventually. Each time Max reappears in his field of vision, something…changes. His nose flattens. His bottom incisors have grown out past his lips. His muscles have bulged out, especially his shoulders, collapsing the length of his neck. His hands aren’t hands, his feet aren’t feet. He’s making this…noise, a desperate whine, snout twitching with need, a dark red, almost purple tongue hanging from his mouth, glistening with spittle in the harsh light. His clothes have disappeared, revealing a body coated with hair including much of his face by a thick, but short, beard.

His circling has become tighter now, and he finally stops at Barry’s side, sniffing him, his cock hardening, nose snuffling at his pit. Barry lifts his arm, and his own musk–it’s so much stronger suddenly, so strong even he can barely contain the lust that pulses through him when he smells himself, Max digging in, licking and slobbering, Christian, in his lap, groaning, rubbing his cock, his dad pulling him closer, into his stench. He can sense it spreading to him, encompassing them both like some strange cloud. Max is now licking his body mindlessly, but Barry and Christian are focused on their combined stench, their unwashed bodies, their greasy hair and tangled beards–

“Ummm…Mr…Mr. Brooke?”

The sun felt so good, so warm.

“Dad? We should get going–we still have five miles.”

Barry stretched on the ground, still against the tree. Max, whatever he was now, something between…well, he didn’t really know, really, but he was happily licking his grungy hiking boot, one strange paw like hand groping at his hard, strange looking, cock. He looked up and saw Christian standing already, pulling on his grimy, sweaty uniform. It was another scout who had come to find them, a guy in another patrol named John, eyes still wide at the scene he’d stumbled upon, but by the time Barry had stood up, everything seemed so…normal, suddenly. Barry pulled up his pants, soaked in his musky sweat, and buttoned them, but left his huge cock flopping out the front where it could air out a bit. “Thanks, must’ve fallen asleep there,” he said, walking past John, placing a hand on his shoulder, his stench making the young man tense up and spasm, as he spontaneously shot his load into his underwear. Barry chuckled. Fuck, he loved his boys. He leaned in and gave him a forceful kiss, one hand shoving its way into the young man’s pants, coating itself in cum before pulling out, feeling John moan into his mouth, hungry for his spit. Barry drew away and licked the cum from his fingers, and the scout leaned in, rubbing his face against his scoutmaster’s hairy chest.

Barry looked over, and saw Max was busy cleaning off his son’s cock, and now he could actually get a better look at what, exactly, he was. He was indeed something between a man, a pig and a dog, if he had to try and pin it down. He had a pig’s snout, definitely, with two short tusks pushing out on either side. His tongue was…very long, he saw, as he watched it lick Christian’s cock–it could stretch from head to root with no trouble at all. The rest of Max’s body, however, was a bit…harder to describe. He was coated with fur–not like a person, more like the pelt of an animal. His hands were closer to paws, but his feet were more like trotters, or hooves, and a short, bushy tail stuck out above his hairy ass. His body was substantially more muscular, but in a rather beastly fashion, and the muscle was covered with a thick layer of fat as well, giving him a firm and brawny physique. As he licked, he was busy rubbing his own cock, which was bright pink and…and definitely not human, with it’s odd slimy texture and narrow, pointed head. It was big, too–at least ten inches, which looked larger on him, because Max had shrunk considerably, down to about five feet tall, though his new posture didn’t help, hunched over like that.

The scout licking and chewing at his chest hair was getting him all riled up again, and he pushed him back gently, knowing that if he got started all over again, none of them would get back to camp before nightfall. But when he saw the young man’s face, he gave a bit of a start–his previously smooth face was now coated with dark stubble. Had he…done that? He couldn’t know for certain, but it looked good on him. Every boy looked better as a man, after all, and if he could, he’d make men out of all of them, he thought with a chuckle.

“Come on, ya’ll, let’s get back and get moving,” Barry said, “We’ve rested long enough, I think.”

Together, the four of them walked back to the troop. Barry led the way with Christian, the scout rubbing his stubbly face and wondering what had just happened to him, and Max following behind them, snorting and grunting happily, still stroking his cock with one paw, licking the palm clean of its slime on occasion, his old life now well and forever behind him.

Hopeless (Part 3)

You stumble into the parking lot, still pumping cum out the bottom of your shorts, where it’s running down your thick, hairy legs. There’s something wrong with you. Well, of course there is something wrong with you, you’re worthless, but this is different. You’d gone so long without cumming, for weeks–or maybe even months, you couldn’t quite remember, and now that the dam had been broken, your gut was churning, your balls are aching, you’re sweating from head to toe. People stare, no–gape at you plodding to your car, mouth open, snorting, eyes wild. You throw open the door and go to climb in, but hit your head on the frame, your knees scrunched under the wheel. It isn’t until you process the fact that the space is smaller than usual that you manage to reach under your seat, past your massive cock, and shove the seat as far back as it will go. Is this even your car? Your key worked, it…smells like you, but it doesn’t feel right. You shut the door and immediately feel claustrophobic, panting and panic rising in your chest, but you have to get home, you’ll be safe at home, you aren’t safe here.

It’s a fifteen minute drive to your home from the gym, and it’s harrowing. Your bones ache, muscles pulse. More than once, a sudden, full body spasm of growth sends you speeding forward or swerving into other lanes–the fact that you don’t end up in an accident or arrested is a minor miracle. You park, throw open the car door, and manage to squeeze yourself free of the confines of the car, whimpering and moaning. The exit is anything but graceful, and you end up toppling out face first onto the pavement, but you’re free, at least. you grab the car door to help yourself up, but when you pull on it, rather than gaining any leverage, you feel the car door bend down in the frame towards you instead, the car tipping slightly to the side as you drag yourself up. It’s so…small, like one of those clown cars at the circus. You abandon it, running for your apartment, and your shorts finally can’t bear the pressure of your package and thighs, bursting at the seams, your foot and a half long cock and massive balls flopping out into the open, your shirt following soon after–you tear away the tattered remains once you reach your door, crouching in the hallway, fumbling with the keys you’d kept in your hand, but they’re so small and you’ve grown so clumsy that you can’t fit the key in the lock–in frustration you simply start pounding on the door–and it opens.

Without worrying how, you start the next task of finding some way of squeezing through the doorway, the only thought you have is making it inside. You end up pushing yourself in sideways–you’ve grown much too tall to walk in, and your shoulders are too broad. It’s close, but you squeeze inside, heaving for breath, feeling your body continue growing as you do…and you realize you’ve trapped yourself. There’s simply no way you’ll be able to fit yourself back out–but why would you want to leave? Out there, all there are are people who will stare at you, look at you like you’re a freak–because you are a freak. You don’t want to go out there, you don’t want to leave. Your trainer, who’d opened the door for you, closes it behind you but doesn’t lock it–you don’t even notice that he’s there until he standing beside you, stoking one massive, hairy arm, talking to you, calming you down bit by bit, that buzzing sound returning, and soon you’re shivering at his touch, at his words–and you realize that you are sitting down on the ground–and he’s standing next to you–but he barely comes to your shoulder. How…how big are you, really? How big is your cock? It doesn’t seem real, hanging there between your legs. You must be at least ten feet tall–far too tall for your ceilings. The only way you’ll be able to move from room to room is by crawling…but is this even your apartment? Now that you’re more calm, this doesn’t…seem familiar. The floorplan is too open, there’s almost no furniture…where did you drive yourself, anyway? Where did you just trap yourself?

“Look at you, you’re a beast–a gigantic, disgusting beast,” he says, walking around you in a wide circle, taking all of you in–the hairy body, the long beard, the massive cock and balls, “You’re going to be so popular, so many people have been waiting for you to finally blow.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t elaborate. You try to talk, but words…don’t come easily to you anymore, and he has no interest in anything you might ask or want to know. He leaves you alone–but you don’t feel abandoned. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe. The the men begin arriving. You have several visitors each day, and all of them come for one reason–to abuse your massive cock. The ride it, they worship it, the suck it, they drink your cum by the gallon. None of them care about you, about the body attached to this marvelous beast of a cock–but then, why should they? You know you’re worthless, unworthy of anyone’s attention. You’re simply happy to know that there’s one part of you which is worthy of desire and that’s enough for your simple mind. The only person who sees you is your trainer–no, your owner now–when he visits. He comes every few weeks–you look forward to those visits more than any other, because finally, he has allowed you to serve him. You pull him close, gently, lick him clean from head to toe, worship his cock and balls with your mouth, letting him know how thankful you are. How thankful you are that he has given you purpose. How thankful you are that a hopeless, giant-cocked beast like you, could ever hope to be owned by a man like him.

Hopeless (Part 1)

You met him at the gym, but whether it was by accident, or by a choice he made, you never found out. He asked you to spot for him on the bench press so he could push his max, and you were willing to help him out. You’d seen him at the gym before, but had never thought much of him–probably in his mid 30’s, bearded with a shaved head, a bit hairy. Muscular, but with a small gut all the same. On the bench, while you guided the bar up and down, you listened to him grunt, your eyes focusing on the curve of belly that appeared, inch by inch, as he lifted, an odd…buzzing in your head, vision tunnelling slightly, until he failed, and you snapped back, helping him rack the weights back, your head still…fuzzy. You worked through a few more sets with him, and then he offered to help you, counting for you as you pressed. You couldn’t lift nearly as much as him, but he encouraged you, he made you feel…good. You parted ways with a handshake, and from that then on, you noticed him more and more, every day, and both of you struck up an acquaintance, spotting each other from day to day.

He wasn’t the first guy you’d been attracted to, but he was…different. The way he made you feel, when you were close to him, it was something you’d never felt before. At the same time, life outside of the gym started to become more…difficult. You found yourself messing up at work more often, you felt…exposed in public. Friends you’d known for years were suddenly saying strange things–that you seemed distant and disconnected, that you were quieter and didn’t talk as much. You felt hurt at their comments, and saw them less, even as you started going to the gym more. Whether that was because you simply had more time, or because, at heart, you wanted to see him more, you couldn’t tell. You couldn’t quite be honest with yourself yet, could you?

Still, he never pushed you away. He never said you were too quiet, or too disconnected. Without really noticing when it had happened, he’d taken control of your workouts, almost becoming your personal trainer. You would arrive early and wait for him–the idea of working out without him felt…wrong. Scary, even. You might hurt yourself, or do something wrong, if he wasn’t there, watching over you. He pushed you away from your cardio focus, and you began lifting more, and longer. It was exhausting, but you were doing so good! You could see it, too. You were bulking faster than you’d ever imagined possible…but it was more than just muscle. You seemed…taller, too, although you convinced yourself that was probably your imagination. Your cock, too–it seemed longer. Thicker. It felt thicker when you jacked off, thinking about him, about your trainer, about…about how good he made you feel.

Without really noticing, the gym became the center of your life, and he was the center of your workout. Everything else was driver further and further to the periphery, so when your boss called you into his office, it felt like…some strange intrusion. You hoped it wasn’t more work he needed you to do today–you wouldn’t want to be late for your workout. You knew that your work had been slipping, but when he laid it all out in front of you: the missed deadlines, the simple errors, the poor presentations, your unprofessional appearance, the ill fitting clothes, your lack luster hygiene, it made you…feel so small, even though you towered over him. You wished your trainer had been there, so that you wouldn’t…have had to care. So that comfortable buzzing could have taken over, so he could have just…just told you what to do, what to say. You had no excuse, no reason to give, you could barely even speak at all. Your boss had only been planning on reprimanding you, but somewhere in the one-sided conversation he decided to just cut you loose entirely. You packed up your things, and didn’t know what to do–so you went to the gym, and you waited.

It was hours before the two of you were supposed to meet for your workout, but what else could you do? It was so hard to…to think, to make a decision. You felt paralyzed. But he…he was so confident, and he was so…such a natural leader, and you had to follow, you had to. When he arrived, you tried to tell him what happened, but getting the words out was difficult. Talking, in general, had become more and more difficult lately, and the buzzing when you were near him only made it worse, the stuttering, the words missing from your vocabulary, you couldn’t get it out, and so you just worked it out. You worked out, hoping that would help you focus, but all you felt was dimmer. It made you feel hopeless, and even more overwhelmed than before. What was wrong with you? You hadn’t always been like this. Thank goodness he was here, watching out for you, or else you would probably hurt yourself so much. At least you were looking good, looking bigger. With his help, you’d been packing on the pounds lately, and even the beard was looking better, now that you’d been growing it for a few months, though your hair was lank and greasy, and…just ugly. You stank too–when had you taken a shower last, or brushed your teeth? You hadn’t been taking care of yourself, not at all. You were disgusting, you were filthy, and ugly and…and you hated it.

You hated yourself, and there, on the bench, you started sobbing. You’d been trying to keep it inside, trying to ball it all up, but you had no guard left anymore, and you were certain, as soon as he saw how weak you really were, he’d leave. Abandon you, forget about you–worthless, hopeless you…but he didn’t. He sat down next to you, and put his arm around your now hulking shoulders, cooing at you, consoling you. The buzzing grew a bit louder, and you, slowly, calmed down. When you felt up to it, you continued your workout, and things felt…easier, for the moment, until you were finished…and he walked away from you in the parking lot.

Of course he was walking away, he had his own home, but the terror that gripped you, when he did, was something you couldn’t comprehend, and you started following him, chasing after him, and caught up to him as he climbed in. He saw you there, the desperation on your face. “Don’t….leave me…” you said, those three words so inadequate to how you felt, but the only three you could find in your empty head.

He thought for a moment, looking you over, and said, “Go home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mr. Lear’s Buddy (Part 3)

Things were different for Buddy from then on, when he finally woke early Saturday afternoon, from his very long sleep. He’d…tried to resist. He really had, at first, but once he’d understood how…how good it could feel, how wonderful it was to have someone like Mr. Lear inside him, guiding him, controlling him, it was easier to just…let go. Together, Mr Lear and Buddy spent the next hour or so jacking off–for real now–exploring his young, husky body, Buddy amazed at the range of pleasure the old man could bring out in him. Sure, he’d jacked off before, but it had never felt like…like this. It was no wonder people jacked off so much, if you knew what you were doing, of course. And Mr. Lear had shown him that Buddy had no idea at all, what he was doing. He’d just been…floundering all this time, in desperate need of someone’s help. Well now he didn’t have to do anything at all. Mr. Lear would do everything for him! All he had to do was go along for the ride.

He felt a bit bad for his dad, however. He eventually came up to his son’s room to investigate the moaning he’d heard, over the din of the television downstairs. He opened the door, and was appalled at what he saw–his son covered in his own cum, jacking off openly under his roof like some…some fucking faggot! Buddy’s dad wasn’t all that much brighter than his son. He hadn’t even managed to graduate high school, ending up working away his life in construction. he was a big brute, heavily muscled with a thick full beard–it didn’t take much effort for Mr. Lear to have him on top of his own son, drooling, licking up the cum from his skin, disgusted with himself at his own actions but unable to do anything to stop himself.

But what to do with him? Such a horrible little man couldn’t be allowed to just continue being…horrible, after all. Mr. Lear started by stealing most of his cock. Buddy had been modestly endowed–around four inches, his father was a bit larger, at six. Together, however, Buddy’s body was wielding a ten inch, incredibly thick cock, and his father was left with not even a dicklet, but a dimple and a hole. He was humiliated at the sight of himself–which gave Mr. Lear a horrid idea–so he forced his new father to take any number of pictures of himself, in all sorts of demeaning positions and in his wife’s underwear, and made him start posting them online–his face exposed of course. He couldn’t stand it, but the thrill for him was so powerful, he started compulsively oozing from his new cumhole.

Mr. Lear had no real interest in returning to school–he already had enough knowledge to satisfy multiple PhDs, but his new body needed at least a high school diploma. When Buddy suddenly stopped failing classes, some of his teachers thought it was a miracle–the hopeless student, not just uncaring, but too stupid to really know what caring was–suddenly improved. Was he cheating? No one could prove anything–but some of the teachers found out the truth, soon enough.

Mr. Sonders, for example. He was easily the fattest teacher at the school, weighing in close to six hundred pounds, though this year he’d resolved to lose as much of it as he could–at least until Buddy’s body showed up at his desk one day after school. Mr. Sonders, Buddy discovered, had been Mr. Lear’s pet piggy–and while he put up quite a fight against falling back under his master’s control, he was soon crawling around the floor, squealing and oinking, begging his master’s forgiveness for daring to lose any of the weight he’d worked so hard to gain. In a matter of months, he was larger than ever, and as punishment he could no longer cum without his mouth packed with food–or a cock.

The football coach was equally unhappy to discover Mr. Lear was back from the grave, but he too, was back to his old habits before too long–no longer showering or changing his clothes, licking out the locker room urinals and toilets after practice, wetting the bed each night in his bachelor pad, since his wife had long since left him after his hygiene had first slipped. One thing that was unforgivable, however, was that he had shaved off his long, grungy beard, and cut his hair. As penance, his hair began growing incredibly fast–he had his old beard back by graduation, and it would only be getting longer–and filthier.

Buddy had no real hope of getting into college, of course–not with his abysmal track record in school. That didn’t seem to bother him, however, and he took on a conveniently open janitorial position at his old high school, and moved out on his own, into Mr. Lear’s still vacant house. After a few months, his father and mother divorced–his photos had finally been found online by his wife and work buddies. He was forced to quit his job out of shame, and move in with his son as his personal maid and slave. The brute spent his days in woman’s panties and heels, but Mr Lear forced him to work out even more and start juice up, turning him into a massive muscle monster bottom, filming slutty, humiliating videos for his online fans…and that was the last Buddy saw of him…of anything, actually.

He’d been fading for a while now, as Mr. Lear took over more and more space up in his mind. Before too long, even he wasn’t sure he existed anymore–when Mr. Lear finally convinced him that his existence was simply an impossibility, he finally winked out entirely, leaving his body to his Master, for the rest of his new life.

The Bathroom of the Lost (Part 1)

RJ pushed open the door too hard, so it slammed into the back wall, and then stepped into the restroom. A cocky fucker, always ready for action, whether the bitch wanted it or not. One bitch he’d been accosting that night, it turned out, had had enough of him and decided to be dealt with, like all the rest. He rounded the corner, and looked around, confused, the door swinging shut behind with a bang. This bar was one of his regular hangouts, but this wasn’t the restroom. He’d been expecting a small room, barely enough space for the sink, crapper and urinal and the walls between them, but this space was at least three times the size, with no sinks at all–one side of the long room lined with urinals, the other with toilets, and not a partition in sight. The lights were dim and seemed to cut out halfway down the room, leaving much of it shrouded in darkness.

Had the owner planned a fucking remodel or something? He turned around and grabbed for the door handle, but found himself swinging at air. There was no door behind him at all, just more wall, not even a seam to show that a door had been there at all. “What the hell?” he said, “Hey! What the fuck is this, let me out!” he screamed, his voice echoing in the tight room.

“No one can hear you,” a voice said behind him, “or maybe they can, but they don’t care.”

He spun back around, and saw a figure moving in the corner of the room. The man had been crouched down between two urinals, on the edge of the darkness. He stood up now, and he was wearing what looked like a gym outfit–a loose tank, mesh shorts, trainers–but everything he had on was filthy, the tank stained with all sorts of filth, the shorts stiff. The room smelled stale and musky, and RJ was certain that a good amount of it was him.

“I was getting worried, I’ve never been alone in here before, but–”

As the man spoke, a row of lights cut out, shrouding the stranger in total darkness, and he stopped talking entirely. RJ waited a moment or two to see if he’d continue talking, and then stepped forward into the bathroom slowly.

“Yo, you there?” he said, “Man?”

He approached the place on the edge of the darkness where the man had been, and suddenly the lights flicked back on–more of them, in fact, illuminating more of the bathroom than before–but the man had disappeared. Cautious, RJ kept going into the room, trying to remain in the middle between the row of urinals and toilets as best he could, and the lights kept flickering on as he walked. There was no way the bathroom could be this big–it made no physical sense. After about twenty feet of walking forward, he finally stopped and went to go back, only to discover that the lights had turned off, trapping him somewhere in the middle of the room, darkness on both sides.

He hurried over, planning to just run through the dark and back to the wall where he’d started…but something made him pull up short before crossing the penumbra of the shadow. This wasn’t darkness. This close, he realized it was almost solid, and something in his gut, something deep inside him, told him that he shouldn’t go in, that he needed to stay in the light, that he was somehow safe in the light, although he didn’t know what that might mean, safe. Where had that man gone? He shouted out again, but his voice seemed to disappear into the void. He was about to step back from the darkness, when one row of lights flicked on again, right in front of him, and the man appeared inches from his face, facing the other direction, blinking quickly–like he’d emerged from hours in the dark, rather than a minute.

He was…different too. He looked to be even grungier than before, and that ripe musky smell from before had only grown stronger, and…and something else, something else about it too, it was making him hard, it was making him…want to fuck, and he let out a moan, unable to help himself.

“Oh god,” the stranger said, “Oh please, not again, oh fuck…” he didn’t have a chance to get a good look at himself before RJ pushed him up against the wall between two urinals and started licking his sweaty, greasy neck, grinding his cock against him, the musk shutting off his mind little by little, making him unable to think about anything beyond fucking this man, this stranger. RJ tried to get a grip on himself, tried to stop himself. The man was pushing at him, but he only grew rougher, yanking down the man’s pants and slamming his cock deep in the man’s filthy ass. The idea of fucking another man had always turned RJ’s guts, but suddenly the desire to fuck this hole had consumed all of his thoughts.

“You have to stop, please, you have to try and keep control of yourself!” the man screamed, “This is what it wants, what it wants, but you have to, please…”

But RJ couldn’t stop, and he didn’t stop, for what felt like several hours. He raped the nasty stranger, licking up his sweat and grease as he did, swallowing it all down, as much of it as he could, and he would have kept going too, if the lights hadn’t suddenly switched off above them both, and something like hands had dragged him away from the stranger, and into the bathroom’s dark void.

Breaking Point (Part 5)

It was the end of August–the Friday night when, in his old life, Leon would have been finishing up all of his college packing, and getting ready for college orientation next week. Instead, after spending the week working on the site, finishing up friday completely coated with mud and filth–as usual–the guys on the site gathered around him for his weekly shower, pissing some of the muck away while he grunted and snorted, trying to deny the fact that he was enjoying this, sucking down cigar smoke as he did. But he was grinning for a different reason–I’d been hinting that I’d felt like he’d seen the light, that I’d be willing to give him back his life. When he was done with his shower, I went into my trailer, opened the safe, and pulled out the cigar that contained all of his old life, and slipped it into my pocket. He saw me, of course–he thought better than to ask when I’d let him smoke it, but the way he held his head high…he was certain everything was going to sort out right in the end. He’d have his old life back, the one he “deserved”–yeah right.

He expected us to drive straight home; instead, we drove into town. He probably thought we were going to a club–I’d started taking the pig out in public, to a few bathhouses and leather clubs, where I’d rent out his mouth and ass. I have to give him credit–as much as he hated his body, this life as my pig–he relished the attention. He’d found…a bit of a calling, in fact, in his new desires, not that he dared admit that to me.But tonight, we kept going, past the club district, down to a…less friendly part of the city, and I gave him a task–that the first thing he’d have to do, his first task to prove to me that he was ready–was he’d have to find a some poor homeless soul willing to let Leon suck his cock, and bring him back to the car so I could talk to them.

Finding guys off the street willing to get their cock sucked wasn’t difficult–but I had veto authority. Each one he brought back that I didn’t feel…fit the picture I had in my mind, I’d make Leon suck them off as promised, in the cab of my truck, and then send him off to find another. Finally, he returned with someone I felt was worthy. He looked like he’d been on the streets for quite a few years, hair and beard overgrown and ragged, but in the old man’s eyes–I could see…worth. It’s difficult to explain, perhaps it was just intuition. I told the man that I’d like him to come home with me for a thousand dollars up front, for a night, and a thousand dollars more if he helped me with my pig. He was wary, but he wasn’t willing to turn down an offer like that. He piled in–it was hard to decide who stank more–Leon or the derelict–Leon of course couldn’t figure out why this guy was returning home with us. This weekend, after all, was supposed to be about him. About his redemption. This fucker had nothing to do with him, so he thought.

Back at the house, I got the guy’s name–Ned–offered him a drink, and said I had to get my pig ready. He was happy enough to drink a straight from the whisky bottle, and I led Leon down into the dungeon in my cellar, where I told him the next part of his final punishment would take place. I got him bound standing, arms pulled high, legs spread wide, and gagged him quiet. Then I went back upstairs and invited Ned downstairs. I pulled a chair over in front of Leon, had Ned sit facing him, and he was obviously confused. I reassured him–and offered him a cigar. He tried to refuse, but I insisted, placing it between Ned’s bearded lips, and lighting it for him. He took an inhale, and it was clear he enjoyed it–then again, who wouldn’t enjoy the taste of youth and vitality when you’ve had neither in decades?

Ned slouched back in the chair a bit, breathing deeply off the cigar. Each time he exhaled, there wasn’t nearly enough smoke–he was absorbing almost everything he took in, just like I’d hoped would happen. Now that he was relaxed, I took some scissors and began cutting his clothes away from his body–it was a few minutes into that process that Leon, behind me, began to realize that something was amiss, and started struggling and snorting, hoping to get my attention. I made him squirm for a few minutes, until I made sure Ned was comfortable, and then walked over to where Leon was rattling his chains like a needy prince.

He couldn’t speak, but I knew what he wanted to ask, from his gestures and the desperation in his eyes. So I told him the truth, finally. That I didn’t think he’d earned his life back, but that I hadn’t wanted his opportunities to go to waste, languishing away in my safe. So I figured I might as well give them to someone else, who would probably get more out of them than Leon ever would.

He was sobbing, he was yanking on the chains hard enough to bruise his wrists, and all I could think about was how hard my cock was, watching him crumble–I walked behind him, and slipped my cock into his ass, fucking him slow while we watched Ned suck down Leon’s life in that cigar…and he broke. He broke…completely, into tiny pieces. He couldn’t even hold himself up–he just went limp in his chains, staring at Ned, tears streaming down his face, making paths through the mud crusted there, and dripping onto the concrete below. He was mine. I’d broken him, and that made him mine, and when I came, oh fuck, but I wasn’t done yet, oh fucking no, I wasn’t done yet–

Breaking Point (Part 4)

I told Leon that if he could prove to me that he deserved to have his life back, then he’d get it back at the end of the August and go off to college, just like he’d imagined. I don’t think he quite realized the power I had over him at that point, not right away. Up to that point, other people had always felt incidental to him–just figments of agents that he could ignore at will, who had no real impact on his desired course through the world. He’d always simply expected other people to move from his past. The collision with someone like me–who had not only the desire, but also the ability to oppose him, was incomprehensible in the immediate aftermath of this new body. Still, he began to understand I putt him through a few paces in the trailer, while the rest of the crew carried on working outside, finishing shortly before quitting time. That was when he realized he wouldn’t be going home to his parents–to his room, to his friends. Instead, I informed him he’d be staying with me for the time being–and that he’d best behave himself, or he could kiss that future of his goodbye.

I live in a small house a good ways out of town on a couple acres of property–enough to assure myself a good measure of privacy. I had several guest rooms (and a rather cozy dungeon in the cellar) but Leon wasn’t a guest, he was a pig–meaning he got to sleep on a dog bed out in the garage. Meaning he had to be naked in the house at all times. Meaning he had to be ready for me whenever I desired him, and willing to perform whatever sick tasks I might have in mind. I gave him a week to get adjusted to his living arrangements and new body, before I ramped up his training.

I taught him to take pain and enjoy it. I forced him into bondage for hours on end. I taught him to drink piss and eat out my nasty crack after a good, long shit. He obeyed me both because he had to, and because he was becoming increasingly desperate to have his old life back. Finally, that cold demeanor was beginning to crack, the reality of the fact that he could do nothing other than submit wearing him down slowly but surely. I hurried him along a bit, by forcing him to serve his co-workers as well, quickly graduating him to our communal urinal, toilet paper and cumdump at the worksite. He was forbidden to shower, wear anything other than my dirtiest laundry (which fit his obese frame rather poorly) or shave, and soon stank to high heaven of piss, sweat and cum. The loss of testosterone from his now puny balls gave him a thin, patchy beard that only made him look older and more grungy as it became crusted with filth.

Finally–finally! He broke.

It was the middle of August, on the weekend. The weekends were particularly grueling for him–on purpose of course. I generally kept him in bondage for long periods of time, and at this point I had also fit him into chastity–although finding a cage small enough for his now puny cock was a challenge in itself. It was time for dinner, and I released him from the cage I’d decided he’d spend the day caged in, and he seemed…more reserved, somehow. I made him crawl behind me into the kitchen, where he found I had brought in a trough–and I dumped a pot of cold slop into it, telling him to eat up.

He broke out in sobs. Massive, heaving sobs. It wasn’t the greatest humiliation he’d suffered by far, but it was somehow a sign of how far he’d fallen. He started pleading and begging with me, telling me he was sorry, that he didn’t know how he could make it up to me, that he just wanted it to stop, that he couldn’t take another day of this. I listened. I let him poor his heart out, but soon all I could feel was my rock hard cock. When he’d run out of words, I ordered him to eat–watching his eyes go wide in terror–but he couldn’t resist. I got down behind him and started fucking his loose hole, letting the rough fuck tell him what I had no interest in saying, no interest in his revelations. That I was as unfeeling towards his exhaustion and terror as he’d been towards everyone for his entire life. That tears wouldn’t move me. That his understanding of needing to be punished wouldn’t absolve him from his due punishment.

If he’d just suffered, I probably would have let him go, but later that night, he asked me about the end of August, when he might get his life back. His…arrogance, to even ask…I told him to wait a couple of weeks, but I was…so furious, at him even daring to ask, at his…perhaps that was the ultimate cruelty, letting him keep believing, but I couldn’t let that stand. Seeing him break, it only partially, only made me want to drive him even deeper. I wanted to see him suffer more than anything now, and I couldn’t…stop fantasizing, about this idea I’d had. I’d planned it, in case he didn’t give in…but I’d never done something like this, Then again, I’d never dealt with someone like Leon. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dealt with horrible young men as cruel as he is–a good number of them were still employed with me, to this day. But I’d never…something in him, in his cocky resistance, in his confidence that even now he’d eventually be free of me, of all of this, even though there was nothing–nothing–he could feasibly do…it was a high I couldn’t deny myself, and I wanted to see that little meek castle crumble to dust. Did he deserve it, really? Probably no one did–but Leon needed it. I needed it, and it would be…perfect.

Breaking Point (Part 3)

I toyed with him for a bit. Helped him explore his body, experience it a bit, kneading his fat, jiggling it, giving him a better idea of what had happened to him, lifting his head up and helping him see what had happened to him, but he went with denial. I had just drugged him, and he was hallucinating. None of this was possible, in his mind. That’s an understandable reaction, but his denial was rooted not in confusion–but instead from a place of utter narcissism. He simply couldn’t conceive something like this could possibly happen to him, he was so confident in his invulnerability. It was…so aggravating.

I admit, a good amount of the pleasure I get from this work is in seeing them break. The late breakers, I love them because the eventual disaster of their ego is so total, once it hits them, that it’s so much more satisfying. I’ve encountered this same narcissism before, of course, but the amount of work it takes, for these assholes like Leon, to really destroy them? It sometimes feels like more effort than it’s worth. I couldn’t very well slow down now, however. If I backed off, then he’d only grow ever more insufferable to everyone he ever encountered in the future, and I couldn’t do that to them. I was this far already, so I’d just have to keep going.

I had toyed with him long enough, now, that he had assumed that this would be the extent of his changes–so when I got back down in front of him and wrapped my lips around the cigar once more, he began demanding to know what I was doing. I toyed with the easy route for a moment–I could simply pull out his narcissism, his sense of victory, his confidence that the world would eventually always right itself in his favor, but what would that accomplish? It would still exist, in the cigar, ready to be inhaled by whoever smoked it. No, it would have to be extinguished in some other way. I inhaled deep, and pulled out his heterosexuality. Another inhale, I pulled away his dominant spirit and ability to disobey. And finally, with a massive breath, I tugged at his youth and began syphoning it away from him and storing it away in the expanding cigar.

But how much to take? How much would be enough? For someone like this fucker, it would have to be substantial. He had no real idea what was happening at first, it always starts as this sudden fatigue of the spirit, but the physical reality comes chasing on the heels. I could see his bush start lightening to a faded grey, the same with the light dusting of hair that remained on his massive belly. His face grew lined and creased, hair receding back until all that remained was a horseshoe cropped short. Jowls sagged onto multiple chins, and the rest of his fat lost it’s support, and also began to droop in folds around him where he sat, no longer firm.

That was enough, I figured–besides, I had almost nothing else to work with. The cigar had nearly overtaken his entire cock, leaving him with a one inch nub buried inside his gunt. His balls were so small that his sack could barely be distinguished from his fat. I pulled the cigar away and slid the band down to the middle, feeling it secure everything I had taken from Leon in place until I needed it later.

I showed him the cigar then, and told him what it was. Everything I had taken from him–it could be his again, all he had to do was smoke it. I could see him trying to make his hands work properly to grab for it, but I just laughed, went to the safe in my trailer and locked the cigar inside, telling him that if he was a good piggy he could have his old life back at the end of the summer, but for right now, his boss had other needs. The paralysis had began to wear off, and I told him to get over here and suck my cock. I didn’t help him—he tumbled from the chair, no longer able to resist a direct order from me (well, from anyone, in fact) and crawled weakly to where I was standing, fat dragging on the floor. I could see the disgust in his face–he hadn’t realized just how much I had taken from him. He…wanted to suck me off. He wanted to obey my orders. It felt good, all of a sudden, and that betrayal did more to unseat his confidence than anything. He was being betrayed by his own body–and seeing that happen right in front of my eyes, well, I didn’t last long, I can tell you that.

After he swallowed down my cum, I gave him a handful of normal cigars, telling him he’d be smoking them non-stop from now on. He immediately lit one up, trying to suck down too much smoke, and coughing it back up immediately. While he coughed, I told him that he wouldn’t be able to go back home, not looking how he was. His parents and friends wouldn’t even recognize him, if he tried to find them. As far as the world was concerned, his old self had never existed, but he would still need somewhere to stay. Thankfully, I had a solution. I knew Leon wouldn’t like it, of course, but what did that matter? To get him to the breaking point, he needed to be lowered further still, so when the full scope of his new life struck, well, it would be all the sweeter for me.