The Fetish Gun (Part 7)

Jeff held down the trigger for a few moments, before releasing it; the light dying away and revealing Ben once again. He was essentially the same, but with a few very important differences, the most obvious being the thick chain necklace he now wore, with an industrial padlock holding it together Jeff had no idea where the key was–he’d lost it ages ago, but that didn’t matter. As far as either of them was concerned, Ben would never be taking it off for the rest of his life. Jef stepped closer to him, their combined musk overwhelming them both, wrapped one hand around the back of his pup’s neck, feeling the lank, greasy hair in his grimy fingers, and thrust his tongue into Ben’s eager mouth, tasting him for the first time, and for the thousandth.

This wasn’t the first time Jeff had been subjected to setting C. When his friend had found the gun, that was the setting he’d used to turn him into his duplicate uniform master. What he hadn’t expected was for the changes to flow in both directions this time. Granted, the first time he’d been perfectly neutral, so perhaps that explained why his former half hadn’t changed at all. Still, that was something to figure out later–he pushed down on Ben’s shoulders, and his pups knees immediately buckled, hauling out his master’s pungent cock just in time to catch a facefull of piss blasted across his face.

“What…happened? Why I so…fuck…*moooooaaann*…”

Jeff looked over to where the now incredibly freakish cow on the other side of the couch. He chuckled to himself as he pissed down his pup’s throat, and pointed the gun at Wade, who was still helplessly twisting his massive, leaking nipples.

“Nooooo…” he groaned, trying to back away, but there was nowhere for him to go.

“Don’t you worry–I’m just going to help you become the cow you were always meant to be–the cow you want to be, I’m sure,” Jeff said, and pulled the trigger. After a few seconds, he released it, and Wade stood there, all intelligence drained from his eyes. He was no longer even capable of speaking–just grunting, moaning, and mooing of course. His body was relatively unchanged, aside from the fact that he was covered in a tattoo pattern of brown spots and the word “COW” etched across his forehead, a heavy steel door knocker pierced through his septum hanging lower than his lips, and a chain collar similar to Ben’s, but this one hooked to a cow bell resting on Wade’s massive chest.

He’d finished pissing, and his pup had moved onto his usual blow job, happily sucking at Jeff’s cock, desperate to be of service to his master. With his two targets relatively neutralized, Jeff finally had a chance to inspect the damage which had been done to him, when Wade had shot him earlier, and he inspected himself, and his mind, getting to know his new self. Physically he was similar–aside from some of his musculature being traded for a layer of fat–but that helped him and his pup stay warm in the winters as they travelled on their bikes. A couple of filthy, nasty derelict bikers, that was them–a gang of two, bathing in piss, drinking cum, going from city to city, robbing and raping as they went, taking what they needed before taking off again.

Part of him was disgusted–but he was used to that at this point. That bit of him, that old quivering Jeff that he could barely remember anymore, he didn’t fucking matter. Still, should he change himself back? Give himself back his pristine uniform? His perfect body? He thought about it, watching Ben suck his cock, and decided against it. He didn’t want that anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted this before, but he wanted this now, and that was more than enough for him. Still, there was the matter of revenge on his former half, and how to deal with him.

Ray had been the one who’d found the gun–he’d started all of this. The two of them had split up tonight to try and find the guy who’d stolen it from them–but it had never really been them, now had it? Ray had always called all the shots, made all the decisions, but now he was going to be in charge–and looking at his new cow, he realized he had the perfect idea of what to do with him, when he got back to the bar for their rendezvous. Fuck, just thinking about it, he was gonna explode, and he shot his load down Ben’s throat, his pup drinking it down eagerly into his belly, before standing back up with a grin on his face. “You look like you have something dirty planned, boss,” he said.

“Heh, you know me too well, boy,” Jeff said, “Come on, I have some business to take care of tonight.” Jeff picked up a leash he usually used for his pup, but instead he attached it to the thick ring in his cow’s nose. “You too–you’re gonna love this cow–just you fuckin’ wait.”

The Fetish Gun (Part 6)

Back in his apartment, Wade settled down on the couch, parking Ben between his legs where he could suck down all the milky cum he wanted, and began experimenting with the gun on his new whore. Setting B, it seemed, was the easiest–it simply turned someone into whatever he wanted them to become. Setting A, as far as he could guess, would tailor the target to their current environment, but he wasn’t certain. Setting D amplified someone’s current form and fetishes to be even more extreme than before. That left two final settings which he had no clue about. One of them had to change people back, right? That was probably setting E–the last one. Out of curiousity, he turned the dial to E and fired it at Ben, figuring he could always change him back–but nothing happened. It was like the light wouldn’t even stick to him, or do anything at all. More confused than ever, he turned the dial to the letter C and fired it at Ben again. This time the light stuck, enveloping him in an aura like before–however when it dissipated Ben hadn’t changed at all. He fired it again at him, but like with setting E, the light refused to stick. Was it broken? Why in the world wasn’t it doing anything?

That was as far as he got, before a booted foot started kicking at his door. Ben pried himself away from Wade’s cock, who stood up and looked down the short hallway. After three kicks, the bolt broke through the door frame and the door swung open, revealing one of the uniformed men he escaped from the night before, his balls still massive, and he did not look happy. The man saw the gun in Wade’s hand and charged at him–Wade raised it up and shot him as he came crashing towards him, and the light engulfed him…and Ben, standing beside him, an umbilical tendril connecting them both together for a few moments, before disappearing. The gun had done nothing to stop the intruder’s momentum and he slammed into Wade, the gun flying from his hand behind the couch, and he began wrestling with the man on the carpet, eventually throwing him to the side, scrambling up to his feet, and finding Ben standing there, the gun shaking in his hand, the barrel pointed right at him.

The stranger stood up next to him, and the three of them remained still, allowing Wade to see what had just happened. It was clear that setting C was designed for two targets–both Ben and the man had been changed–and it looked like, to Wade, that the two of them had absorbed each other’s fetishes and lives, meeting somewhere in the middle. Both of them were dressed head to toe in leather, however it was no longer a police uniform, but appeared to be cast off biker leathers, all of it heavily worn, tattered and filthy. Wade could smell them both, in fact–Ben had stank of musk and piss as they’d come back to the apartment, and now they both did. It was clear that Ben’s obsession with piss had worn off in the other direction.

“What…what the fuck should we do with him?” Ben asked, looking at the man like a fellow conspirator, “He fucking…fucking fucked with me Jeff, we gotta, I don’t know…make him pay.”

“Look, Ben, just calm down, and give me the gun. It’s all going to be alright,” the man said…but how did he know Ben’s name? “Give me the gun, and the two of us will sort this whole thing out.”

“No!” Wade said, “No, don’t give it to him, he’ll just–” but that was as far as Wade got, before the light struck him in the chest. He assumed, at first, that the gun would still be on setting C–however, he started to feel a familiar warmth, and realized that the dial must have twisted when he’d thrown it, meaning things were about to get a whole lot worse. He tried to move, tried to reach out and deflect the ray, but his arms wouldn’t budge. It was getting harder to think, harder to focus on much of anything, but he tried to, he tried to keep himself together, until the light finally dimmed away.

Ben stared at Wade on the other side of the couch, unable to believe what he was seeing. If the man who’d accosted him in the alley had been a freak before…well, now he was even stranger. He’d lost even more height, bringing him under five feet tall, but he’d packed on even more muscle somehow, making him look like a short fleshy wall–especially his pecs, which ballooned out from his body before sagging down, made heavy by the milk inside them already seeping from his huge, two inch long nipples, running down the front of his body. His cock was nowhere to be found–just a nub over a sack of balls larger than anything Ben had imagined possible, larger than a basketball, resting on his thighs. Wade ran his hands over his body, trying to process what had happened, but his mind was suddenly too dull to do much thinking at all. There was…something about a gun, something important, but it was already fading as he started twisting his nipples with his fat hands, milk spurting from the onto the couch, his nub of a cock spurting as well, while he let out a loud, surprisingly authentic moo from his gaping mouth.

Ben was still staring at what he’d done, when Jeff (that was his name, but Ben had no idea how he could possibly know that…except how could he not? The two of them were inseparable, of course) walked up to him, and gently lifted the gun from his hands. “What…what did I just do? I didn’t mean, I…”

“Hey man, it’s alright, I know,” Jeff said, turning the dial on the gun, “Hold still, this will make everything better.”

Ben turned in time to see the gun fire, and everything disappeared in a blaze of light.

The Fetish Gun (Part 4)

Wade waited until night to emerge from his apartment. Part of him knew he should try and keep from looking too conspicuous, but that proved easier said than done, with his limited wardrobe. He ended up stuffing his balls into some bulging rubber shorts and paired them with thigh high rubber waders. He couldn’t find anything that would cover up his leaking nipples–everything was either a harness, or had holes cut for them to pop free through, and the more tops he tried on, the more he enjoyed the look. He ended up picking out a rubber tank cut so narrow that his nipples were revealed through the wide cut arm holes, and last he grabbed a rubber hood. If those two uniformed guys he’d stolen the gun from were still looking for him, at least they wouldn’t be able to get a good look at him.

He hit the streets, and immediately regretted emerging this early in the evening. It was a Saturday night, and while seeing people in strange fetish garb wasn’t that odd in this neighborhood, it was clear from the stares that if his goal was to avoid attention he was going to have to give up on that. He had the gun in a small backpack he had over his shoulder, and even though he didn’t know what the settings did (and even though he liked his body) he also couldn’t deny the temptation to duck into an alley and try and become something more normal. Of course, the other question was whether the gun was even capable of making someone normal again–for some reason, he kind of doubted that it even could. Still, he’d find out soon enough–if he was going to figure this thing out, he’d have to find someone to experiment on.

It was pretty clear at this point that the settings didn’t have anything to do with their literal letters–but that just made things even harder to figure out. Setting D, he was pretty sure, had simply amplified his existing fetishes, making them stronger and warping his life around them further. The only other setting he’d seen was B–but he hadn’t seen enough to know for certain what it’s rules might be. So he wandered the streets for a half an hour, looking around for someone he might be able to use as a test subject. He needed someone alone, away from large groups of people. Finally, he caught sight of someone he might be able to use–a young, somewhat drunk guy slipping into an alley, no one else with him, and Wade slipped after him, pulling the gun from the backpack. The question, then, was what setting to use–might as well try something new, he figured, and rotated the dial to setting A, crept closer to where the guy was pissing against the side of a dumpster, and fired.

The light from the gun was…prismatic. It struck the young man, coating him for a few minutes, and becoming opaque–when it dissipated a moment later, the guy was still there, but…well, instead of the casual straight cug chic he’d been wearing, he was clad head to toe in well worn denim gear. Instead of pissing on the dumpster like before, now he was pissing into a plastic cup, licking his lips, and while Wade watched, he took the full cup and drank the entire thing down in a few gulps, stroking his hardening cock as he did, before looking over his shoulder and seeing Wade standing there. He looked surprised, sure, but he also looked, eager. “What, you got a load for me?”

The young man turned around, and Wade could see that his gear was soaked down the front–it even looked like he’d pissed himself at some point, a patch of wet running down one leg of his jeans. Had the gun sensed the guy pissing and turned him into a piss freak? He hadn’t been thinking about piss…beyond thinking about the guy pissing. Had it taken it’s cue from his own thoughts? Any one of those ideas seemed reasonable, but it was hard to know with any certainty from a single example. Still…he did need to take a piss. And the guy did look hopeful and more than a little eager.

The young man got on his knees and Wade walked over, pulling his tiny, yet engorged cock from his rubber shorts and unloading his bladder across the man’s face. More had changed about him that just the clothes and the piss fetish–he didn’t look older exactly, but he did look…nastier. Like he’d spent less time in bars and more time in alleys like this, getting pissed on. No, if anything, he looked like the alley suited him. Like he belonged here, like he had changed to match the place, more than anything else. If he was asleep here, Wade doubted he would have even noticed him, the grey denim disguising itself against the concrete. He finished pissing, and the guy licked the piss from his mustache. “I’ll suck that cock too–twenty five bucks.”

Wade didn’t have any cash, and he told him that. The guy seemed disappointed, but whether it was because he wouldn’t be getting any money, or because he was also thirsty for cum and was sad he wouldn’t get any without undermining his own business, Wade didn’t know for sure. Either way, it was obvious that their interaction had completed, and Wade started retreating to the opening of the alley–his target didn’t move, just stayed witting against the dumpster, making no effort to leave, like he belonged there. This didn’t seem…good. Maybe Wade couldn’t make things normal again with the gun, but he could try to make them different. Someone more helpful, someone he could bring home with him, to keep testing the gun on, but what setting? He went with his gut, twisted the knob on the gun to setting B, and fired at the young man one more time.

Jockstrap Curse (Sketch)

No one’s first spell is the greatest. A first spell is usually like first sex–awkward, not at all what you were expecting, and something you can’t take back. I was a wizard sure–but before I knew that I was a nerd, and gay, and the target of every bully in my high school. Tim was a linebacker on the varsity team, and he was as cruel as he was stupid. He cornered me after school one fateful day, dragged me into the locker room, and tried to force one of his unwashed jockstraps into my mouth–without knowing what I was doing, the world shifted between us, and suddenly it was him shoving the jockstrap into his mouth…and sucking on it…and…moaning, as he groped his cock. Needless to say, I didn’t want to be anywhere near this scene, and so I beat it as fast as my short legs could carry me.

I avoided him for days, as best I could, but he caught up to me eventually. But while I expected him to bash my head in, instead he was begging me to fix it, whatever I had done to him. I tried to tell him that I had no clue what he was talking about, but he refused to say anything. Just when I thought he might open up, Zane–another linebacker, and well regarded as one of the dirtier guys at school, found us–but instead of them both teaming up to bully me–he ordered Tim to come with him–and sure enough, Tim followed, though from his face he was none to happy about it, and more curious than anything else, I followed after them both. They went into the bathroom and took the handicap stall together–I peeped through the crack, and found myself watching Tim sucking and licking at Zane’s filthy jockstrap–crusted with piss and cum, Zane humiliating him the entire time, before fucking his throat. Zane left, leaving Tim in the stall, face coated with cum and tears in his eyes.

He told me, that at first, it had just been his jockstraps that he was obsessed with, but then, one practice, he’d caught a whiff of Jack’s–the quarterback–and immediately he’d been unable to resist him, begging his team captain to fuck his ass after practice–after worshiping his jockstrap of course. Jack had essentially owned him for a day–until he’d smelled Zane’s even filthier jock, and he’d started worshiping and serving him instead. He’d tried smelling Jack’s again, but suddenly it did nothing for him–he needed the filthiest jock he could find, and he didn’t know what to do. I, of course, didn’t know what to do either. I had no idea I was even a wizard at that point, but I promised him I’d try to do something. That was Friday–but come Monday, Tim had disappeared–he never returned to school again.

The whole town was worried–but clues were scarce. That said, I had more information than anyone else. I found out that Tim held down a part time job working at a gas station frequented by truckers–and I had a sneaking suspicion as to what might have happened to him, but who would believe me? Even if they believed me, what good could they do? I thought about telling the police, but before I could, the guild intervened and took me in for proper training–still, I always wondered what had happened to him. So when I graduated, I tracked him down with the intention of freeing him from the curse I had never meant to cast in the first place.

Now, keep in mind that I might look thirty, but I was training for close to twenty years. Finding Tim was still easier than I had expected–first spells always left a rather strong trail through the world, if you knew what to look for, and so I traced his path. I found the trucker–now in his sixties–he had rode off with that weekend, unable to help himself. After that, he ended up living at a small truck stop diner a few states over for a while, enslaved to the previous owner and chef, before someone even filthier picked him up–another trucker, who he remained with for a quite a few years, before a chance run in at a biker bar brought me to his current home.

A single wide trailer which looked like it had never been cleaned. The man who owned him was unemployed, but made a small living off running drugs with a local motorcycle gang. Tim hadn’t left the trailer in years, by that point. Even if there was someone filthier than the biker, it was doubtful he would ever have a chance to find them and escape. But I also discovered that with each subsequent owner, the spell had grown stronger–eroding more and more of Tim’s mind away until serving jockstraps–and his owner’s cock, was all he could think about. He was chained in the small bathroom beside the toilet, surrounded by a pile of filthy laundry, soaked in piss, that served as his bed. He seemed to be well fed, at least, judging by how large he was–if I had to guess, around three hundred and fifty pounds–his hair and beard long and unwashed. Still, a promise was a promise–I tried to free him, only to discover that this new mind had no interest in being free. I was at least five years too late. I can’t say he didn’t deserve some of what happened to him–but…well, that’s the way curses work, I suppose. Now, are you going to cooperate, or would you like to see what I can do to you now that I know what I’m doing?

Father’s Rules (Part 6)

***Warning*** Really dark. Physical and emotional abuse, extreme aging, amputation.

His father rarely brought home the same man more than once, and once he had Blake willing to do anything he wanted, he rarely brought home anyone at all. There were a few that came over regularly, but it was always focused on sex. But as soon as they stepped in the door, Blake could immediately sense something different between them. They came home, and his dad wasn’t drunk off his ass, and they were…laughing. He introduced Anthony to his filthy brother, but instead of using him…Saul told Blake that he should go spend a few hours at the gym–give them some privacy. A small part of Blake was relieved, but his new self was…hurt. Hurt that his brother didn’t want to use him, hurt when he saw the look of contempt and loathing in Anthony’s eyes. He worked out, but during his multiple breaks for a cigar outside, he fumed. What did that guy have that Blake didn’t? Sure, he was young, he was clean. He wasn’t obese, just chubby and soft in all the right places. But could he take two dicks in his ass at once? Could he drink a gallon of piss in one sitting? Did he have teeth you can take out, like Blake’s proper mouthhole? No! So why send him away? Why do all of this to him, if you didn’t want to use him?

Blake returned that night. Anthony was still there, sleeping with Saul in the bed, and Blake started a fight. He wanted to know why Saul had sent him away, why he couldn’t play with him. Anthony was disgusted, and told him so. Saul suggested he leave–that he needed to have some words with his brother. Saul finally confessed everything to him. He’d been dating Anthony for a few months now, behind Blake’s back. Blake wanted to know why, and Saul told him it was because he wanted someone in his life who wasn’t a pig. Who had some self-control, and some basic hygiene and who wasn’t in their sixties. Blake exploded. Saul stopped responding, marched over to the list, and scrawled a new rule:

My son has to move out out of the apartment.

Blake begged and pleaded. Where was he even supposed to go? Saul was uncaring, and shoved him out of the apartment and locked the door behind him; he searched his key ring for the key to the apartment but it had somehow disappeared, so he started banging and pounding on the door, screaming threats until the police arrived, cuffed him, and dragged him off.

Saul posted his bail, but said that was the last he wanted to see of him. He’d already talked to their boss and gotten him fired, and told him he’d have to find something else to do with his “retirement”. That if he ever came near him or Anthony again, there’d be hell to pay. With nothing else to do, he emptied his wallet at the bar, and decided he might as well use the only skill he had left, and started turning tricks with anyone desperate enough to fuck him, usually only asking for a bed or a couch and a meal for payment, instead of money. He knew enough perverts from his years living with his father that he was able to survive, at least–although now that he was at their disposal and rather helpless, he found himself at the mercy of each man’s own extreme natures. One man offered him a home in his basement, but only if he slept in a cage, and he suffered as the man’s old helpless pig for two month, until he too grew tired of him and kicked him out again. He met several men who would pay him to be in amateur porn flicks, and he found his sexual limits pushed in all sorts of strange–often painful–directions. Throughout, he would still see Saul and Anthony on occasion at various bars. The meetings were always coincidental–the list wouldn’t allow him to seek them out–and he would always leave as soon as he noticed them, but not without incurring another year or two of aging each time. Before too much longer, he was nearly eighty–his hair pure white, contrasting with his riot of tattoos. It was around then that he went home with someone too rough–someone who beat him senseless, shattering his arms and legs in multiple places, before dumping him at the hospital.

Blake woke up in a bed, his father looming over him. He tried to speak, he tried to yell, but his dad shushed him.

“Don’t worry dad,” Saul said to him, “I’m here for you.”

“But…but where am I?” Blake replied, “Where–did you say…dad?”

“Of course–you know me. It’s Saul, your son.”

Blake couldn’t speak, tears welling up in his eyes. He hurt all over, but he managed to look around the room. It was small, and looked like a hospital–some other old man was in a bed next to him, sleeping, some monitor beeping quietly. “Is this the hospital? Why…why can’t I feel my legs…”

“I’m…the doctors said you were too obese to save your legs–they had gone necrotic. I’m afraid that they had to amputate them, dad–after, you know, your fall? They saved your arms, but they say you won’t be able to use them very much in the future. ”

Blake refused to believe it. He started screaming, and an orderly came in, helping him calm down, before showing him his missing legs–one at the hip, and the other at the knee. His arms and hands were still in casts, but he could…feel the damage enough to know they weren’t lying. He was too terrified to do anything but cry, and his dad stroked his bald head gently.

“Don’t worry, I picked out this nursing home especially for you. You’ll be quite happy here, and I’ve made sure you’ll be well taken care of now, isn’t that right Mr. Allan?”

“Of course, Mr. Emerson–I’ll follow your instructions to the letter, I promise.”

“Good,” Saul said, “My father has a very particular set of needs, after all, and I’m sure you’re just the man to help him through these last years of his life.”

Blake tried to protest, but he was too tired to speak. Saul turned and left, leaving him with Mr. Allan. He was young–probably in his thirties and very muscular. He came around the side of the bed, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock. “Yeah, your dad’s told me that you need all sorts of special treatment to stay happy, and it just so happens this sort of thing is my specialty.”

Blake tried to resist, as the young man reached in his mouth and pulled out his dentures, but once the cock was in his mouth, he decided to just enjoy it–and he did enjoy it. He was especially thankful when Mr. Allan shot deep down his throat, and followed the cum with a load of piss–just how Blake liked it. After, he helped him into a wheelchair and pushed him outside, lighting a cigar for him and helping the old man smoke it, before reaching one hand under the blanket covering his stumps and jacking his old, soft cock until it leaked out a load of cum–and then wheeled him back inside, and lifting him into his bed–but only after hooking up a milker to his cock and a sliding a large vibrating dildo into his hole–to help keep him happy, Mr. Allan said.

Yeah, happy. This…this wasn’t so bad, was it? He told himself, as he spasmed and let loose another load into the milker. But then again, if this wasn’t so bad, why couldn’t he seem to stop himself from sobbing?

Father’s Rules (Part 5)

***Warning*** Darkness ahead.

The list began growing longer all over again. His dad would still bring home men, but now instead of just watching, Blake was forced to serve them and his dad sexually all night long. To further his sexual education, his daily routine of masturbation began incorporating any number of toys–at first, just dildos, but then also clamps, stretchers, pumpers–before long Blake was compelled to fuck his hole regularly as he masturbated, and had to wear a buttplug at work and the gym. His father forced him to have his nipples and cock pierced, and they were pumped and stretched as well. He fought, of course. He fought hard, but there was nothing he could do, except watch himself grow older and older in the mirror, his hair picking up strands, and then streaks of grey–though grey was a bit of a misnomer. He smoked so much, that they were really just yellow. His face grew wrinkled, his eyesight failing and forcing him to wear glasses. Eventually, one day–either from exhuatsion or simply terror at his own age, he decided to give in.

He worshiped his dad happily, cleaning his entire body every chance he could get. He would offer up any of his holes to any man his father took a liking to, and happily submit to any kind of sex. Slowly, he even began to forget that there was ever a time when he wasn’t his dad’s personal whore. Reality, thankfully, shifted with him. He went from being his father’s son to his brother. He hoped that would be enough for his father, he hoped that, maybe, he would let things slide, let the list die, so he could be free–instead, Saul saw his son’s new eagerness as an excuse to double down and force him to go even further.

He established a cum quota on the list–the number of loads Blake would have to swallow or take in his ass–raw–every day. The number began at a manageable five, but soon escalated to a nearly impossible fifty. Blake was forced to spend nearly every moment of his day seeking out men to service sexually–and he soon became a regular feature of local gloryholes, bathhouses and gay saunas, where he would occasionally collect enough loads to satisfy his father’s demands, but often his failure would simply mean disobedience, and he continued aging. He hoped that when he grew older than his own father, the list’s power would wane–but it made no difference, as he became his father’s older brother, resting in his upper fifties, once he realized how low he had to go in order to meet his father’s arbitrary quota.

His desperation had rooted out any remaining desire to disobey–he became meek and desperate to please, one eye always on the list, hoping it would finally shrink to nothing, but there was always something else–a new commandment that he drink ten loads of piss a day. Another, forcing him to eat his own cigar butts, as well as any cigarette or cigar butts he found, not to mention he would happily serve as a spittoon for anyone who asked. His nicotine addiction became crippling in short measure–before too long, simply smoking his cigars wasn’t enough for him–he would have to smoke and chew at the same time, swallowing his own foul spit, just to keep the tremors at bay, but finally, his father seemed pleased. He encouraged him, told him that his son had finally become a real man, and the praise…the praise made him so happy, it disgusted him. But the list waned, it waned slowly, but he held out hope that the end was finally in sight.

In those rare times when he was home alone, he would often just stand in the bathroom, staring at himself, trying to hold onto some bit of his past, trying to remember who he’d been. It had been a little over a year now. A whole year, and he was older than his father, his thick, tangled beard reaching down the length of his belly, his hair–what remained, at least, now that he was balding severely–reaching halfway down his back. He reeked all the time–like he hadn’t showered in ages, like a full ashtray someone had pissed in. His teeth had started rotting out of his months ago, and he’d gone into the dentist to get a full set of dentures. Saul and his friends appreciated it–he loved the feel of his “brother’s” gums around his cock, much more than teeth. All of his clothes were soaked with piss, cum, tobacco spit, ash and sweat–no one at work could get within a few feet without facing his stench. Yet, every time, in front of the mirror, cigar permanently clamped in his jaw, a huge wad of tobacco also pushing out his cheek, he would end up jacking off. He would jack off, staring at himself, because a part of him, a part of him growing larger every day, liked it. Liked how much he reeked, liked the feel of the dildo thrusting in and out of his loose hole, loved licking the cum from his gritty, filthy hands after he shot his load. Loved that he was a perverse, nasty old bear, constantly hungry for cum and piss and smoke. Despairing, he’d leave the bathroom, until even that despair abandoned him too. Until that became a routine too–after his father caught him–forced him to enjoy his new body, to feel confident in his perversity.

The list was almost empty again. Saul seemed to have forgotten about it, mostly–that, or Blake had finally become the disgusting pervert he’d always wanted, and had no more desire to change him. Just as Blake had suspected, it had been his father all along. Saul had given up pretending, at this point. He lorded it over him, that he could do whatever he wanted to him, and Blake couldn’t do anything to stop him. Hell, Blake didn’t want to stop him. He liked this. He liked being his father’s–no, not his father. He didn’t think of him as a father anymore, not really. His brother’s pig. His younger brother’s filthy sex pig. But then, his father brought home Anthony.

Father’s Rules (Part 4)

It wasn’t often that Saul didn’t manage to bring someone home–his standards were relatively low–or, he preferred his standards low. Blake was beginning to suspect it was a matter of choice more than anything. Hell, he’d watched his dad have sex with who knew how many men. Some of them he was certain were hobos he’d picked up off the streets. He was drawn to their desperation, it gave Saul a certain level of control over them that he couldn’t otherwise get, a form of control Blake was well acquainted with. He came home, and Blake sensed that he shouldn’t be there. He tried to excuse himself for a late night trip to the gym, but Saul grabbed his wrist and pulled him over the the couch, where he suggested he help his dad out with a blowjob first. Blake told him there was no way he would ever suck his dad’s cock, not after what he’d done to him. Saul slapped him. Blake tried to punch him, but couldn’t–as always. They fought for a moment, but Blake couldn’t keep him from the list, where his dad wrote:

My son must have sex with me whenever I want.

Blake tried to fight it, but his body is no longer interested in what he might think. His dad yanked down his filthy underwear and rammed his cock in his ass, Blake begging him to be gentler, but Saul just spanked his ass, telling him to fucking enjoy it, that this is how real men fuck. He came quickly, and stumbled off to his room where he passed out, Blake sobbing himself to sleep on the couch, staring at the list. He’d been close–so damn close…

Saul woke him up with his cock at five-thirty. Blake sucked him off. They went to work, together, Saul making him blow him in the truck on their mutual cigar and lunch break, and then came home. Blake had said nothing to him all day, and Saul tried to apologize, tried to tell his son that the list had made him do it. Blake exploded, calling his dad a rapist, calling him a pervert, and he stormed out, spending the rest of the afternoon and evening at the gym, trying to lift away his frustration, and he considered simply staying away entirely, and not going back. He didn’t have to go back there, he could just leave, but something…something dragged his feet back home…where he found his father, once again drunk off his ass, sitting on the couch, naked. Blake found himself sinking to his knees and licking his father’s filthy body clean, from his stinking pits and crusty feet, to his sweaty balls and ripe asscrack. Only then, could he finally beg his father to fuck his fat, nasty pighole. Saul was only too happy to oblige him, and it hurt, but not as much as the night before. In fact, Blake realized he’d soon be used to this, just like he’d gotten used to everything else. It was only afterward that he noticed the list had grown longer, again.

My son must worship and clean my body every day.

My son must beg for me to have sex with him at least three times a day.

Saul came up behind him, stinking of smoke and booze, and ran his hands over his son’s body, “You think I’m a pervert, son? Maybe so, but you’ll be a pervert soon enough too, begging me to fuck you every day, obsessed with my body. And last I checked, you can’t rape the very, very willing.”

“You sick fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No Blake–the question is what’s wrong with you! I think I’ve neglected a very important part of your education, Blake. I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced and educated in the ways of sex, and who better to show you then your father? I thought I was sparing you, by keeping this distance between us, but you haven’t really learned anything, have you? No, you’re still the same prick, you just look hotter. Well don’t worry–we’ll have you singing a different tune here soon. You’ll be a perfect fucking pigson.”

He shoved Blake against the wall, and Blake could smell him, smell them both. Smell the musk between them, the smoke from both of their cigars, the booze and coffee on their breath, and his cock…his fucking cock was getting hard. When Saul leaned in and kissed him, pushing smoke into his lungs, he tried to push him away, but his efforts grew weaker until he was kissing him back, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Their lips parted–Blake was panting, Saul at ease with a smirk.

“P-Please…” Blake said.

“Please what, son?”

He meant to ask him to stop–he really did. But what came out was Blake begging his father to fuck his face, his knees buckling, Saul only too happy to use his son’s throat. Blake tried to resist, but his hand found his way into his filthy briefs and started jacking his own cock, cumming even before his father did.

“I don’t think you’re going to be sleeping on the couch anymore, do you?”

Blake didn’t respond, and he tried to hold out for the whole night, but when he woke up to smoke a cigar, the longing in him was undeniable, and he climbed into bed with his father, asking him to for a midnight fuck while they smoked. So close–he’d been so damn close, but things were only going to get worse, Blake realized–or, from a different perspective, better–he thought, as his father wrapped him in his burly arms, cock still lodged in his ass, and they drifted to sleep.

Father’s Rules (Part 3)

Blake woke up, hungover, at six in the morning like always, only to discover more rules had been added to the list while he was asleep:

My son must masturbate to the smell of his own pits, his dirty underwear, and his father’s dirty underwear.

My son never showers, brushes his teeth, or cuts his hair or his beard.

His father had already left for work, and he spent the whole day fighting the new rules–trying to trick himself into getting wet and cleaning himself, but the best he could do was wash his hands–without soap. He was disgusted with himself, but he couldn’t stop from smelling himself, couldn’t stop smelling his dad’s underwear as he jacked off madly, soon falling back into his routine of smoking, drinking, eating and jacking off. He had to do something, he had to. He held out for about a week, but finally, he broke down sobbing one morning, begging his father not to leave him alone in the apartment, that he couldn’t take this anymore.

“I tried to be reasonable.”

“I know, but please, I’m sorry. Whatever you want. I’ll do anything, just…just make it so I don’t have to smell myself, please, I fucking reek…but I’m starting to like it dad, I’m starting to fucking like it!”

Blake looked up at his dad, but Saul was looking away from him. Why couldn’t he look at him? Finally, he responded. “I can’t. I can’t erase the rules I made. That’s not how it works.”

Blake just stared at him. “W-What?”

“The list is educating you, Blake. The rules don’t disappear until you follow them without even thinking about them. Until you don’t even realize you’re following them. Until you want to follow them. Do you remember that first rule I made? About you masturbating?”

Blake nodded.

“Go look for it.”

It wasn’t on the list. It should have been at the top, but he’d become so used to spending almost his entire day jacking off…he hadn’t even noticed when it had disappeared. “How…how long has it been gone?”

“Probably two weeks now.”

“You mean…you mean I’ve been jacking off this much on my own…for two fucking weeks?”

“You’re going to be jacking off like that for the rest of your life son, trust me. You couldn’t do it less if you tried. Look at those fucking balls on you, I mean, they’re fucking huge. You’re made to pump cum out now, son, you don’t have a choice anymore.” Saul looked away again, “Look, the list…the list wants me to punish you, Blake. To be honest..I don’t remember writing those last two rules, I just don’t. But I thought…I thought about them and they just…appeared on the list. I don’t know what it’ll do if you keep fighting me. Please, for your own sake, just…let’s figure out what to do together, alright? You’re already thirty or so…if you aren’t careful, you’re going to be as old as me before too much longer.”

Blake didn’t want to believe him, but did he have much of a choice? Even if his dad was lying to him and had written those rules…if Blake didn’t obey, something worse was bound to happen, regardless whether it was his dad doing it sadistically, or the list itself forcing his hand.

“I should never have done this to you, I know that. But if you just…if you be good, it’ll be over soon enough. I promise. I figured it out when I was a kid, when my dad did this to me. I know you can get past it too.”

Together, they sat down and talked–for the first time, really. Saul suggested that, if he wanted to get out of the apartment, then the best thing he could do was get a job. Blake didn’t know what sort of job he could get, however, looking like he did–so his dad asked his bosses at the construction company he worked for, and they agreed to hire his son on a temporary basis, to see what he could do. It was hard work, for sure, but with his dad helping him–and with a few rules urging him on to be a hard worker and quelling some of his…nastier…urges while he was out in public, Blake was given a full time position after a few months. His dad helped him out with a few other rules as well–especially by requiring Blake to lift weights regularly at the local gym. It didn’t change the fact that he was well past obesity, but before too long, between the hard labor and the weightlifting, he’d gone from total pudge to a 400 hundred pound, chubby bull. He’d stopped aging as well, now that he was cooperating, and was holding stable at thirty-two years old.

Many times, Blake asked his father to make some rules that might help offset his earlier punishments. The guys at work complained about how bad he smelled, for one thing, and his hair and beard were simply unmanageable, and seemed to only be getting longer. He also wanted him to help him cut back on the cigars. The addiction had gone from constant to nearly crippling. He could barely last half an hour without smoking one, and he’d usually have to get up three or four times in the night just to satisfy his nicotine craving. His dad said that there was simply nothing he could do. The list refused to accept any rules that would reverse earlier changes–he could try to balance the equation with other rules as best he could, but there was only so much he could do.

Blake was becoming more and more certain that Saul wasn’t telling him the whole truth–and that the real reason he wouldn’t change him back was because he liked his new son better than his old one. Granted, Blake liked his dad better too, now that they had more common interests, but he still couldn’t forgive him for doing this to him. Still, he couldn’t deny that there was an attraction there. He’d been watching his dad fuck for so long, that he started to…admire him, and the way Saul would look at him sometimes…that worried him even more. Still, he watched the list grow shorter and shorter by the day, doing his best to follow the rules to the exact wording, feeling them become a second nature to him, so he could finally be free of the curse. But then, one night his dad went out to the bar, but didn’t get lucky with anyone–and returned home very drunk, and very, very horny.

Persistence’s Rewards – Part 4

***WARNING*** SCAT

“Fuck man, you fuckin’ reek.”

“No fuckin’, shit, Greg–fuckin’ awesome, right?”

“How many loads did you drink?”

“Lost count at thirty.”

“Damn, you’re a fuckin’ pig.”

“You complainin’?”

“You fucking know I’m not,” Greg said, pushing his neighbor against the wall in the lobby of their apartment building. running his hands over his taut gut, pumped full of piss at the bathhouse they’d been at all evening, where Shane had spent his first time strapped into the urinals there, as happy as any true piss pig could be. Greg, meanwhile, had been collecting samples–he had some ideas for new beer recipes he was eager to try, now that he had a brand new hunting ground here, and a nasty pig neighbor for a willing test subject. He leaned in and gave Shane a deep kiss, sucking salty piss from his mustache and beard, feeling his ten inch cock press out against the yellow jockstrap he was wearing with rubber chaps and a yellow rubber vest–an outfit Greg had given him as a gift before they’d left for the bathhouse earlier.

Shane had had a much better morning than the last few days. He’d woken up to a piss soaked bed, but rather than find it strange, he’d unloaded a second blast of piss all over himself, making sure to get as much of it into his mouth as he could, before jacking off three times, coating his huge gut with cum. By then it had been early afternoon, but he’d already been fired, so who fucking cared what he did anyway? He sure as hell didn’t, but fuck he was horny. He got on a pair of briefs and knocked on Greg’s door, pushing his way in when he opened the door, kissing his neighbor’s filthy mouth, licking out his pits and ass crack before slamming his ten inch cock in deep, Greg begging him to fuck him harder, ordering him to fuck him harder, like a real pig. The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon fucking, before Greg ordered a few pizzas for them both, which they demolished, and then they’d headed out for the night’s festivities.

“Fuck, it was hot seeing you with that tube down your throat, all those fucker’s pissing right into you–gonna have to take you back there tomorrow, fill you up some more.”

Shane shook his head, “I gotta… look for a job. Can’t pay rent with piss.”

Greg smiled, and groped his cock some more. “Trust me. I’ve had more than a few beers with our landlord–he’ll be more than willing to take a few of your pig loads in his ass as payment.”

Shane smiled at him. Greg thought of everything, not like him. His head hadn’t seemed to be working so well today–like he was just operating on instinct and desire. It was easier just to do whatever Greg told him to do, than to try and think of anything on his own, even now, his brain felt like it was just idling in his skull–there and running, but not producing anything of note. It was…freeing, really. Not having to think so hard. He could just exist and fuck and drink piss, like he really wanted.

“Speaking of pig loads, I could use one myself,” Greg said, “Let’s get up there.”

“Sounds good to me,” Shane said, but as they headed into the lobby, they peeled apart unexpectedly, as Shane headed for the stairs.

“Yo, the elevator’s over this way, you dumb fuck.”

Shane just stared at him. “I…always take the stairs though.”

“Pig, get over here and in the damn elevator with me.”

Shane didn’t move, and Greg strode over, angry that he still hadn’t managed to get rid of all of it. “I said, come on, piss pig.”

Shane just stared at the stairs, wondering what he’d been thinking, wanting to take them, and he let Greg pull him back towards the elevator. Something…he could almost remember something. About climbing, about wanting to…to be better. Thinner. Successful. But he wasn’t that person, not anymore. They got in the elevator, but Greg was fuming, the mood killed. “S-Sorry…” Shane said, though he wasn’t quite sure why he was apologizing.

“You’re such a stubborn bitch, you know that?”

“Sorry…”

He was just going to be trouble. He could tell. He would make a mess of things, if he didn’t take care of him right now, for good. He hated it though. He hated having to use it. It meant he’d failed, if he had to resort to that. They got off at the tenth floor, and Shane tried to veer off and go to his own apartment, but Greg grabbed him and pulled him next door. “No, we’re having a nightcap.”

“I don’t want a drink, Greg. I don’t need to drink anymore,” Shane said, anxiety growing in his swilling gut, “You don’t have to make me drink. I’ll…I’ll be a good pig! I’ll take the elevator, I’ll drink all the piss you want! I swear.”

He fought. Greg had to cuff his hands and feet, had to clamp his mouth open wide, before getting his most powerful brew, so dark it was almost black, and feeding it to him drop by drop. One drop, and Shane’s entire body went slack aside from his cock, which grew even larger, now longer than a foot, ball churning, cum spewing from the tip in a constant stream, but not enough, he could tell. A second drop, his hair filled in even thicker across his body, so thick his skin was barely visible, all of it slick and wet with sweat. Greg waited, eyes narrow and angry. A third drop–no one had ever needed a third drop. Shane’s body filled with fat, firm gut sagging into a heavy, hair covered apron, pecs softening into moobs, but still not enough. A fourth drop, and finally, he heard it–the loud wet fart, the stench of the pig finally losing all control of himself, of his mind dissolving to bits in his skull. Four fucking drops, but it was over. What a god-damn waste.

He uncuffed the animal, and the pig rolled over, smelled it’s shit on the floor and started eating its own mess, pissing itself at the same time, and Greg just watched it, before dragging it into the bathroom, stripping off its clothes, and chaining it around the apartment’s toilet, where it remained, groping it’s fat body and huge cock, reaching around occasionally to coat it’s hands with its shit and lick them clean. Eventually, it’s body grew tired, and it curled up on the floor. At first it dreamed of falling down an endless staircase into the depths of some unknown abyss, but even that faded into darkness before too long, and it never dreamed again.

Persistence’s Reward – Part 3

Why was he even bothering with this? What was the point? He sat down on the stairs, feeling another button pop off his shirt, as he gasped for breath in between the fourth and fifth floors. He was climbing earlier than usual today, because he’d been fired from his job. He replayed it over and over in his head, the entire day, wondering what in the world had made him do any of it. He’d woken up late again, just like the day before, and found himself in a sopping wet bed. He’d told himself that it was just night sweats, that he’d just been hot all night long, but he could smell it, he could smell it, and he knew it was piss, that he’d pissed himself in the night, and he’d…he’d jacked off. Jacked off, rolling in his own mess, and then, without even taking a shower, he’d gotten his clothes on for work, even though he knew he shouldn’t go, that he should just call out and feign illness, he went anyway. And there, right there in a meeting with his boss, it had happened. He’d pissed himself. He’d pissed himself, a full bladder, and he hadn’t been able to do anything, just stand there while Mr. Montgomery stared at him, watched the tent grow in his pants, and tell him to leave, and not bother coming back–they’d just send his things home by mail in a few days.

And so here he was, climbing the stairs again to the tenth floor, exhausted and fat, his pants still soaked with piss and sweat. He could smell himself, he could smell himself, and his cock was so fucking hard, and as he sat there, he felt it again. That warmth, piss flowing from his dick right into his pants, soaking the seat of his pants, flowing down the stairs in a stream from where he was sitting, and all he could do was watch it. Stare at it, and think…think about getting down and licking it up, think about how…how thirsty he was, how horny he was. That was what got him up and moving again–he knew that if he stayed there, he would get down and start licking it up, he’d lick it up and jack off, and even though he wanted it, he knew something was wrong. Wrong with him.

He was fatter. He was hairier. He had a beard growing down to his chest, even as his hair was receding back past the crown of his head. He reeked and sweated non-stop. And for some reason he was still climbing these damn stairs, when he should just get in the damn elevator, but he also knew that if he did that, he would be seen. Someone would see him, and they would know what he is, they would know that he’s a nasty pig, a nasty fucking pig…He hit the seventh floor, and couldn’t stop it. The friction of his thighs, the smell of his piss soaked clothes, his sweat and musk, his cock started pumping out a massive load of cum, and he nearly fell back down the stairs from the force and pleasure of it, snorting and grunting, fighting up one step at a time. It happened again below the ninth floor, and by the time he finally emerged into his hallway, he barely even felt human. Too exhausted to stand, he fell to his hands and knees, crawling down the hall towards his apartment, snorting and grunting for breath, but Greg was there in the hall, blocking his way.

“You look like you could use another drink today,” he said, why don’t you come inside and hang out for a while?”

No. No, not that. He turned around and started crawling back towards the stairs, shaking his head, even as his cock was screaming for him to go inside.

“You really are a persistent one, aren’t you?” Greg said, following him, “I’m amazed you can still climb those damn stairs without having a heart attack, but more than that, I’m amazed you’re climbing them at all. Most people prefer sitting on their ass after one date with me, but you, you just keep on fighting.” He straddled Shane and sat down on his back, forcing him to the ground under him, listening and feeling him struggle, “Where do you keep all that gusto of yours? You’re never going to be happy as pig if you don’t let me get rid of it, you know.”

“Not…Not your…pig…” Shane huffed.

“Oh trust me, you’re most certainly a pig, and certainly mine. So what is it, Shane? What is it? If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to have to get rid of everything, you know…”

Shane kept trying to pull himself out from under him, when he felt something warm on his back. He could smell it, the pig in his head taking over and salivating. Piss, his fucking piss. Greg got up, still pissing the front of his shorts, and he pulled out his cock, walking back to his apartment, leaving a trail behind him, Shane turning around and dragging his tongue across the carpet, following him at a crawl until he was inside the apartment. In the middle of the front room Greg was standing over a dog bowl brimming with beer, and he was pissing into it, and he knew he shouldn’t, he knew it, but his body, his nasty piggy body couldn’t help itself. He crawled over and started lapping up the beer and piss, drinking it down as best he could. It took him a while, and Greg came around behind him, pulling off his soggy clothes and started fucking his ass. He licked the bowl clean, drooling from the mouth, groaning and grunting, his eyes glazed over once again.

“Don’t you worry, pig,” Greg said, “I’m sure we can get you sorted out tonight. By tomorrow, we’ll have you set as a proper pig for life.”