Tag: slob

Good Things – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

Eddie found that his days at work were increasingly interrupted by a constant need to excuse himself to the bathroom in order to jack off. He knew, in his head, that he should try to moderate, that these changes were eventually going to cascade out of control, but it was so much easier to lock himself in a stall, whip out his cock, and blow a load, or two…or three. The changes tended to come in spurts–sometimes nothing would change at all. It was a few days since he’d bought the curse, and things had settled into something like a new normal–he loved his muscular physique. Every cum seemed to make him bigger, manlier, and hairier, and he relished it. He relished it so much in fact, sitting here on the toilet, that he might cum four times in a row this time.

He heard the door open, and he stifled his groans. Through the crack in the stall door, he saw that the person who’d come in was none other than Mr. Greely himself. He’d softened up to Eddie since the changes had begun, and was no longer threatening to fire him over his sales numbers, but Eddie still hated him. Hated him so much, he could just…just suck his cock. Fuck yeah, he could suck his fucking cock so fucking hard. With a shudder, he shot another load, this one splattering against the door, where his eye was pressed to the crack. Something had changed in the air, he could sense it.

“I can hear you in there, Eddie. If you want my cock, faggot, come on out, and you can get it.”

Was…was this really happening? Eddie tried to stop himself, but he flew out of the stall, his dress pants still around his ankles, and licked his lips. Mr. Greely shoved his cock down his throat, and came in less than a minute, Eddie somehow managing to shoot on the floor twice in the meantime. Mr. Greely tsked him, “You’re such a slob, Eddie. At least clean up after yourself.”

Eddie’s first thought was to just get down and lick it up, but he fought that desire off and grabbed some paper towels instead, while Mr. Greely left the room. In the mirror, he noticed that his hairline had started receding a bit…and was his body looking a bit softer? Fatter? He shook his head–it still wasn’t too much of a good thing.

By next week, Eddie had taken to eating his lunches in his truck. He didn’t remember when his car had turned into a truck, but he appreciated the fact that it offered a bit more room for him to spread out in. He’d tried eating at his desk, like usual, but lately he’d just spent his entire lunch hour in the bathroom gloryhole he’d drilled a few days earlier, sucking cock, that eating out here in the parking lot was easier. Besides, he was fucking hungry today–hell, he’d been fucking hungry all week.

He let out a belch, unwrapped another hamburger from the sack in the passenger seat, and went back to stroking his cock with this other hand, not noticing he’d smeared the shaft with grease and  a bit of ketchup. It was a bit harder to jack off, with this new gut of his, but he kind of liked it. It made him look older, more mature and refined. Being a muscle bear had been nice, but now he really did look like a true man. The receding hairline had bothered him at first too, but once it had pushed back past the crown, it actually looked kind of good. The same thing with the beard, which had grown long enough to brush his fat chest, and was streaked with a bit of grey. It all just looked…good to him. Almost as good as the mechanics he was watching from his parking spot.

He fucking loved them–he could always tell when he was sucking a mechanic off in the bathroom, because they stank of sweat and grease. He’d usually blow a few loads by the time they came, which he’d lick up off the floor and stall wall, as he waited for the next person to come in for a blow job. He downed the hamburger in three huge bites, belched again, chased it with the rest of the cheap beer he’d bought, and then reached for another burger, but found the bag empty. He was still hungry, but that would keep him satisfied for a bit. He took a moment to light one of his fat cigars–he didn’t miss the cigarettes at all–and then rubbed his gut, smearing his grubby dress shirt with grease, enjoying the taut sphere jutting out in front of him, and saw Big Red slide out from under a car.

He came once just at the sight, and then kept stroking, getting ready to shoot again. No one called him Big Red but him–in fact, he was the shortest mechanic at the dealership–but his cock, fuck, it was fucking huge, and thick, with a tangled red bush. He shot again, and saw Big Red turn and stare right at him, lick his lips, and then grab the bulge in his coveralls. Nearly tripping over himself, Eddie got out of his truck, nearly forgetting to hike up his pants and zip himself up. Sure, he was a mess, but he had a date with a big red cock in the bathroom–he could never have too much of a good thing like that.

Our Demons (Part 4)

He wiggled his toes. He hadn’t been able to do that in a while. His finger uncurled from their fists reluctantly, trying to remember how to work. They felt strange, like they had too much weight to them. The rubber pulled back further, along his arms and legs, and there were some sensations Rich was expecting, but that didn’t happen. He…couldn’t feel any air against his cock, even though the rubber was no longer covering it. It was still buried in…something warm and soft. Without the rubber holding it back, he felt his gut spill out, followed by his chest. He must be fatter, but how much fatter? He wanted to touch himself, he wanted to feel himself, but Master had ordered him to stay still, sitting back on his knees, hands on the floor. Now only the hood was left. Two rough hands…rough. How long since he’d felt skin against his skin? Skin besides the feeling of a hand or a foot in his ass, besides a cock down his throat, or a filthy ass puckered against his tongue? He shivered. His skin got chills after being trapped in the suit for so long, and his entire body felt slimy and clammy with sweat.

The hands pulled the hood free in one movement, and the light was blinding. He hadn’t seen anything since the hood had gone on…days ago? Weeks? He’d been unable to keep track of time. He’d tried to count cigars, he’d tried to count fucks and loads and so many other things to keep his mind busy, but he’d just…sunk in. Accepted it, enjoyed it even. He blinked a few times, and realized he was kneeling in front of a mirror. There was some kind of white blob in the reflection–was that him?

It was him. What in the world was he, even? Fat. He was fat. No wonder he couldn’t feel his cock–it was buried beneath his huge fat apron, between two thighs larger than anything he’d ever seen before. He couldn’t look at it. It was disgusting. He looked up, and caught his own eyes, but his face, even his face was wrong. His mouth seemed too wide, the nose too big, eyes too small. He no longer had anything resembling a neck–his head just dissolved into folds of fatty jowls and chins which cascaded down onto his chest, where two huge moobs shook with every labored breath. His hair was gone–all of it. His entire body was completely smooth, his head, his face, his belly. His skin had lightened to a ghostly, sickly white, and the sheen of sweat all over him only made it worse.

He looked away. He couldn’t look at that. He looked over and down and saw a pair of leather boots, followed them up, and found a massive, six and a half foot tall brute looming over him. Derrick–no, not Derrick was gone, or dead. This no longer even looked like him. His entire body was covered with leather, a crisp, shiny uniform, up to his neck. The face, though. Beneath the thick beard he could see a sharp jawline too angled to be human. In fact, the entire face looked like a crystal with flesh stretched so tight over it it might rip at any moment. He was smiling. He was smiling, and it’s eyes were red, and it’s teeth were sharp, and there were bones pushing through the skin above his eyebrows, blood dribbling from two of the wounds, unnoticed by it.

He needed a cigar. He couldn’t think about any of this. Almost as if he was anticipating him, the brute, the demon, took a thick cigar down, shoved it in Rich’s mouth, and lit it to life. He sucked in the smoke…and realized too late that he had made the final mistake. There was something else in this cigar, something…another it. Another thing like whatever it was in Derrick’s body. He coughed and hacked, trying to force it from his lungs, but his body felt so…heavy all of a sudden. Leaden. It was just so much effort. He slumped to one side, tried to catch himself, but ended up crashing to the floor on his fat side, wheezing.

“Oh Rich, I think you dropped something,” it said, bent down and picked up the cigar and this time jammed it so far down his throat where he lay that he knew he had no choice but to inhale. “Oh Sloth, Mr. Sloth. Do come play with me. I’ve enjoyed the mortal, I truly have, but oh how I long for a filthy, filthy Sloth…”

Rich was trying to fight, trying to rationalize with whatever it was inside of him, but while Derrick had at least been able to reason with the Wrath now inhabiting him, Sloth was unreason. Rich would plead, but pleading was too much effort, wasn’t it? In fact, why think at all? Why bother with a mind? It was mindless, it was acidic. Every effort he made against it simply dissolved. It was irrelevant. Useless. The ego is useless. He was useless. Yes…why even exist at all? That was the question he suddenly had to face. Why exist?

Rich was too exhausted to answer. There was no answer, really. He could see that now. It would be easier, really. So much easier to just stop fighting. He sighed, and let the demon inside of him run amok. His memories dissolved, his desires fled. What was he even? A voice? A will? What was a will in the face of utter sloth?

Wrath watched eagerly, as the cigar burnt down. He could see the light in Rich’s eyes dimming, the iris’ and whites dimming to greys and then to deep tar black, without any reflection at all. The cigar burned to ash, and the mouth hungrily chomped it to bits and swallowed it down. “Wrath….Wrath……Fuck…hole…….” the blob managed to say, with a voice something between a whisper and a gargle.

“Oh you piece of filth, I know what you want,” Wrath said, and rolled it over. It was so heavy suddenly!  But he found the hole, sucking and hungry at the rear, drooling some foul smelling filth down the crack, and shoved his fist in as deep as he could with a deep howl.

I think I might have gone a bit overboard. But fuck, the first time I smelled him…I knew it had to be him, I had to. I mean, sure, my son’s hot. I know, I know I shouldn’t say that about my son, and I’d never do anything with him, and I love his mom too. But there’s just something about some guys–muscular, younger, and musky. Fuck, it’s the smell that does it for me, more than anything. I might have, on occasion, when I’m alone, snuck one of my son’s dirty, sweaty singlets from the laundry and jacked off with it pressed to my face. But Max. Max was something else entirely.

Given my, uh, interests, and the fact that I got off work earlier than most people, I could often catch my son’s wrestling practices after school, and I’d go there to cheer him on. Sure, he was a bit embarrassed, but he kind of likes it too, I think. But really, more than anything, it means I get to check out his hot friends in their singlets, and Max…maybe, maybe he’s not the best looking one. A bit too boyish for me in the face, I like them a bit more rugged, with some hair on their chest. Max shaves, I think, but he’s a star wrestler, just great at it. That second practice, I saw him pin my son in half a minute. I felt bad for him…but you know, also a bit envious. When practice was over, they were talking, and I went over and introduced myself, and fuck, I could smell him. It was just so fucking strong, you know? And he’s a big guy, six foot four or something, and he was just looming over me, sweaty, reeking, and he was talking at me and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I still don’t know how I got out of there without cumming in my pants or shoving my face in his pit or crotch or fuck, fucking anywhere.

And so…so I knew I had to do something. I needed…a memento, something of his to enjoy, and so, when I got an opportunity next practice, I went rummaging through the locker room. What I really wanted was a practice singlet, but I didn’t find anything like that in his locker or bag, but I did find a jock–a nice ripe one. I was so horny, I jacked off right there on the bench, cumming into the pouch. That’s a bit odd, right? I mean, why fill it with my stink if I like his so much, but I…I like the idea of filling his shit with my cum, making it smell like both of us, but more than anything, making it smell fucking filthy. Because as dirty as it was, I wanted it to be worse. I liked…like imaging that he’s this really filthy fucker. That…that I could have found the jock cum stained, yellow with piss and sweat…

And that’s…well, I’m not really sure why I did anything that came next. I stripped off my pants and briefs, and pulled on the jock, threw my jockeys in the trash, and wore Max’s jock out of the school, and then I just kept wearing it. I was going to take it off when I got home, but…I just didn’t want to, really. See, my wife, she hates my snoring, so we’ve slept in separate bedrooms for a long time. I mean, that’s just what works for us, we still fuck and everything, but, well, not for the last few months, because I’ve worn Max’s jock the whole time. At first, I just wore it, but then I started cumming in it too, and…and pissing in it. A few times I even wiped my ass with the pouch. And all the while, I kept going to practices, watching him. I was obsessed. I knew it wasn’t right, that it was sick, but I just couldn’t stop myself, it’s like…like something else was in me, making me do these things. The only time it came off was so I could press it to my nose while I jack off, and then it goes right back on. It’s brown. Like, really brown. I can smell it through my clothes. I have to be careful at work, my wife, fuck, she doesn’t know what to think, my son doesn’t even notice, and I didn’t even know what to make of it until today, the day of the wrestling finals.

We had to get here early with all the competitors, but as insane as I knew it was, I went to the bathroom and pulled off the jock, and then went into the locker room, found Max’s bag, and stuffed it back inside, and then headed to the stands, commando and sweating like a nervous pig. What in the hell had I just done? I hadn’t even washed the thing, it reeked of me. I mean, he wouldn’t know it was me, but what if someone had seen me do any of that? I’d be arrested and labeled a pervert for the rest of my life, but nothing like that happened at all. Instead the matches started. My son got eliminated in the quarterfinals, but Max…nothing was getting in Max’s way.

He stepped out for his first match, and he looked a bit uncomfortable. I noticed him…adjust his crotch a couple of times. Then he got in the ring, and he was a beast. Merciless. He had his opponent pinned in less than a minute, and held them a bit longer than he needed to, and his eyes, they seemed a bit distant. He got up, adjusted his cock and I could see he was hard. I realized then, that he must have the jock on under his singlet.

My heart caught in my throat, but what could I do? If I said anything, people would think I’m a pervert. If I went and found him, he’d know who’d fucked with his jock for the last few months. His next match came, and this time I noticed something else, he had a five o’ clock shadow across his face, and he was looking cocky and confident, and like he knew he owned the place, but then things went…a bit crazy.

He got in the ring, had the other guy pinned in moments, but he didn’t stop there, he was pushing him down onto the mat, face down, and grinding his crotch against his ass. His stubble was filling in and pushing out into a beard, his hair darkening to a dingy, dark brown, and soon it was sprouting all over his body. The kid was shouting, trying to get away, and a few of the coaches and the ref tried to pull him off, but Max whirled around and clocked one of them so hard in the jaw he collapsed, knocked out. The rest pulled back, Max returning to his pinned opponent, grabbed the ass of the singlet and ripped it away, pushing apart his ass and jamming his cock into his hole. The scream, fuck, the scream.

People in the stands freaked out, and started leaving. My wife left, but I stayed, unable to look away, my cock hard as a rock and leaking in my pants. He was fucking the wrestler, but he was snorting the air–long, loud and gruff snorts–then he turned towards me, right where I was in the stands, and leered, ramming his cock deeper, and deeper, and deeper, but it was me he wanted, me he was smelling, and I ran. I’m still running, but I can hear him in the halls behind me, hunting me. He’s hunting me, and I don’t think I can keep running for much longer.

You check back over your shoulder, and sure enough, he’s still following you. You can hear him panting, and the occasional whine. You’d seen him earlier in the leather bar, dressed in nothing beyond a skank jock, blowing some rough looking guy off in a corner, but once you’d left to walk the several blocks home to your apartment, he’d slipped out after you, and had been following you since. A couple of times you’d turned around and yelled at him, or thrown a bottle, and while he backed off for a bit, he still persisted.

A gay guy playing pup is following me home–you couldn’t make this shit up. Maybe it was just his thing or something? The guy hadn’t even put on any clothes–he was just wearing that same jock, ass naked. Luckily the streets were deserted, and the few people around didn’t give either of you a second glance. Odd how some things can start to seem normal. He just isn’t your type though, and while the persistence is flattering, you get into your building, make sure he stays locked out, and head up to your apartment, happy to be alone–at least until you hear scratching at your door, and a familiar whine behind it.

You check the peephole, and there he is. How in the hell did he get in the building and find your apartment? Still, you’re worried that someone might see him outside your door–and the last thing you want is the building supervisors on your case, and so you open the door a crack. He refuses to leave. In fact, he just seems thrilled to see you, and licks your face when you lean in too close, trying to shoo him away. He’s making such a racket that you eventually just let him in, rather than risk being seen with him in the hallway.

He bounds around the room, barking and panting, jumping up on you and nearly knocking you to the floor, rubbing his face against your crotch. You try to tell him no, but your cock is saying different, and he knows it. Relenting once more, you let your cock out of your jeans and he starts sucking on it–finally calming down once you feed him a load of cum. However, he refuses to drop the act, and when you try to force him to leave, he barks and whines outside your door loud enough to wake the entire floor, and you let him back in again. Worried he might take the pup thing too far and piss right on the carpet, you make him use the toilet, which he does begrudgingly, and then, exhausted, you head to bed. After much effort expended in keeping him out, you eventually let him up and under the covers with you, where he spends the whole night hogging the bed.

When morning comes, you hope that you can finally put an end to this ridiculous charade, but several things happen which complicate matters. First, you realize that if you force him out during the day you will be sure to be noticed by your neighbors, and second, you see that something new has appeared on the pup in the course of the night–a leather dog collar with a tag hanging from the D-ring with your name and phone number on it. As soon as you read it, it’s like a strange veil lifts from your mind, and you realize that of course this is your pup–Spike. How could you have forgotten that? And while forcing him to leave would be impossible, you also realize that you have no real desire to make him leave. After all…where would he go?

He eats the human food you give him, though he refuses to use his hands. He presents his ass to you regularly, whining and begging until you relent and fuck him. By the end of the day, you’re fucking him rather willingly, and at night, you make him beg for your cock, like a proper pup should. This shift is just obvious enough to be noticeable, and yet too slow to be worrying, but that evening, he refuses to settle down, and instead is pawing and barking at the door, like he wants to leave, but you no longer want to see him go. Still, he grows louder and more insistent, and unable to stand it, you open the door and let him out–but he doesn’t bolt. He stays in the hallway, bounding and barking…and you realize that now he wants you to follow him.

And with that, you realize that you don’t know where you are. This isn’t…this isn’t your home, or your stuff. What are you even doing here? You throw on some of the clothes around–they aren’t yours but they’ll have to do, leave the apartment and head for the elevator with your pup, and out of the building, onto the city street. It’s the middle of the night and the streets are dead, the pup takes off at a run heading south, and you shout at him, racing to keep up. His path zigs and zags a bit, but you neither lose him nor have much of a sense of where you’re both going. The apartments turn slummier, and messier, and things begin to look a bit more familiar to you. Your pup eventually stops in front of an old tenement and waits for you to catch up. Your pup noses a lose brick–you move it and find a pair of keys, one that opens the door, and the other that opens the door to a rundown studio apartment–home.

You feel safe here–comfortable. It smells like your brand of cigarettes, and you recognize the filthy clothes strewn around the room as yours, and smell your musk. Spike is happy to be home too, and you reward him with a fuck for being smart enough to lead you here. Still, looking at the clock, it’s almost time to get to work at the construction site…right? Something about all of this still feels off, but you pull on a nasty jock, a pair of camo pants, and a white wifebeater stained brown with sweat, and take a whiff of your pits, feeling your cock harden at the stench. Looking around for your wallet, you find an empty, ornate glass bottle on the table, along with a note:

Follow your master home, and you will be his forever.

Have him follow you home, and he will take your place.

You have no idea what to make of it, but luckily pup knows where your wallet is, and brings it to you, happy to finally have the master he’d always wanted.

***

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Commission – The Roadhouse Men (Musky)

~1994~

“Marty look, I know I let you help out around here on occasion, but you can’t really expect me to–”

“Ed, I don’t have anywhere else to go. He kicked me out!”

“Weren’t you saving the cash I’ve been givin’ you?”

“He already found it. I don’t have anything. Please, I’ve thought about it, alright? I really have.”

“Eddie, just let him do it,” Danny boy said, where he was sweeping the bar floor in a pair of bright green gym shorts and nothing else, “Bruno and I could use the help, right Bruno?”

The big, hairy bear behind the bar, dressed in a perfectly shined leather uniform didn’t say anything, but he never said much, really. Ed looked at them both, and then at Marty. He’d been waiting on the stoop of the roadhouse this morning when Mitch Evans had dropped Danny Boy off in his truck. Ed had arrived half an hour later to Danny Boy patting Marty on the back while the young man sobbed, telling him how his dad had kicked him out of the trailer for being a queer. Ed was sympathetic, and it was because he was sympathetic that he was reluctant.

“There’s no way back, you know. You won’t age. You won’t be able to go against my orders. You’d be giving up a whole lot. How about I just hire you as a barback, under the table? You can sleep in the backroom with Bruno, until you get back on your feet–”

“I don’t…” Marty said, and then stopped. “I don’t want to be a barback, Eddie. I want…” he looked over at Danny Boy, where he was standing, but Eddie knew he didn’t want Danny Boy. Marty’s tastes ran decidedly older–and quite a bit ranker–than his green whore. What he wanted was what Danny Boy could do. He could bend men to his will–no man older than forty could resist him. Marty had spent his life powerless, and the power of the whore was immediate and tempting. Ed knew the temptation–he made quite a bit of his living off it, but there was so much more to Marty than that.

“Danny Boy, would you please tell Marty here that your life isn’t as glamorous as you make it seem?”

“Are you kidding? I fucking love my job, daddy.”

“Danny…”

Danny strutted over, “What? You made damn sure I like daddy dick, it’s your fault.” He leaned over the bar and gave Ed a deep kiss, before returning to sweeping.

“At least you’re letting him have a choice,” a deep voice said, and they all turned to Bruno.

“No need to go dredge up that old shit again,” Ed said.

Bruno shrugged, “It is fun. It’s…powerful. I know why he wants it.”

“That doesn’t mean he should want it.”

“You can’t protect him, sir, or rather…If you really want to protect him, then you should keep him.” Feeling he’d said enough, we went back to stocking the bar for the evening. Ed scowled at the bear’s wide, hairy back.

“Fine. If it’s really what you want.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but you need to think about it, and be really sure this is what you want. You need to go out, take a walk–make damn sure. Don’t come back until after seven, got it? Or the deals off.”

Marty nodded excitedly, and rushed out the door. Ed sat for a moment, and then turned to Bruno. “You can finish that later, Bruno. We got somewhere to go. You keep cleaning, Danny. We’ll be back in a bit.”

Bruno and Ed waited a few minutes until Marty was a ways off, and then climbed in Ed’s truck and took off towards town, to make a pickup for tonight’s party.

***

Marty returned at quarter to seven, but Ed wasn’t going to disbar him on a technicality. By nine, he was good and drunk on the house brew, and word had spread around that everyone’s favorite little barback was going to be joining the Roadhouse crew full time, and the betting pool started up, guessing what color he might be representing by the end of the night. At ten, Ed called for silence, helped Marty to a table in the middle of the bar, giving everyone a good view, and then pulled out a bottle of fortified wine, pouring a glass of the deep magenta liquid into a tumbler for the young man.

“Purple?” Marty asked, “What the fuck’s purple? How come I can’t be something cool, like red?”

“Trust me Marty, if there’s anything you’ll enjoy, it’s purple, now drink up.”

The room was silent, but everyone could see that Marty was choking. Suddenly faced with the crucial decision, everything didn’t seem quite so easy as it had in the sober daylight. “I don’t…I don’t know, maybe you were right, maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t…” he stood up.

“Sit down, Marty,” Ed said, and he immediately plopped back down in the chair.

“How…how did you do that?” Marty asked, “I didn’t…”

“Oh Marty, I’m sorry, but one of the first things you’re going to have to learn is that you don’t get to say no–not anymore. Now drink.”

He picked up the glass, hand shaking, trying to spill it out, but then it was at his lips, the acrid liquid in his mouth. It didn’t taste like wine, it tasted like some foul jockstrap which had fermented at the bottom of a laundry heap. It tasted like a bum’s unwashed armpit smeared with rubbing alcohol. It tasted…really damn good. Soon, Marty was being passed around the bar, swigging openly from the bottle, only noticing slightly that he could suddenly distinguish the subtle differences between each roughneck’s musk and sweat as he passed them by. He started lingering more, sniffing and licking necks and bare pits, tasting each of them in turn. His pants had disappeared, as had his shirt. Looking down, he’d grown somewhat leaner, with a bit of a belly, his body smooth, but covered with a riot of purple tattoos that hadn’t been there earlier. He grabbed one pierced nipple with one hand, threw up his other arm, and licked up his own sweat, his hand brushing against something stiff over his head. Looking at himself in the mirror across the room, he saw a bright purple mohawk greased up in spikes six inches high, his head shaved smooth on both sides. In fact, he was hairless aside from a purple goatee, a thick purple bush around his cock, and his thick purple bushes under each arm. Metal studs gleamed magenta all over his face, with studs in his nipples and a thick gauge PA in the head of his cock. He looked so fucking nasty, he fucking loved it.

A whistle sounded behind him, he spun around. “Hey Musky!” Ed said, “Dirty Doug’s got something for you.”

Dirty Doug was one of the roadhouse’s filthiest slobs. Massively fat, he always stank, his hair and clothes unwashed. Marty had always had a bit of a thing for him though, but now, seeing the fat slob bent over, pants down, his crusty crack pointed towards him…he licked his lips, strutted over and got down on his knees. Parting the crack, he admired it for a moment, and then dug in, licking and gnawing at the hole until Doug rewarded his attention with a loud, nasty fart right into his mouth. The hot air was putrid, and Musky moaned loudly as the room cheered. Doug followed it up with a second fart, and Musky felt his cock spasm, spraying cum across the floor in front of him. Dan flipped over and pushed the head of his cock into the whore’s mouth, leg’s up, still farting as Musky sucked, watching his purple eyes roll back in pleasure until Doug finally sprayed a load of cum across his pierced face. He didn’t eat it–instead he rubbed it in. It felt so much hotter, the sticky sensation on his face and skin as it dried.

“Well everyone, why don’t you all give our newest whore a round of applause, eh? Welcome him to the family, Musky!”

Everyone cheered, and inside himself, this new self, Marty sought some sense of shame, but all he felt was pride. He liked the applause. He liked knowing that he’d done his job well.

“Now, however, we have a little surprise for you. See, you not only love stink, you put out quite a bit of it yourself. It’s pretty powerful stuff too, from what I hear. How about we all watch Musky work his magic on someone, eh boys? And it turns out I know just who Musky can use for a test run. Bruno? Bring the man out. Let’s see was Benjamin thinks of his son’s new profession.”

Bruno came out of the back room of the roadhouse, holding a leash, and following behind him was Marty’s father–Benjamin, naked aside from the collar tethered to Bruno’s gloved hand and the shackles binding his hands behind his back. Benjamin glowered at the rest of the crowd, and even spotted a few faces he’d recognized–that he’d trusted. He couldn’t believe how many faggots were surrounding him, and his son. His fucking, faggot son, naked, filthy, pierced…purple. What the fuck had these faggots done to him? Is this why’d he’d been acting so strange these last few months? Well they weren’t going to get him, he was more man than any of these fuckers.

Musky just stared at the man who had caused him so much misery these years, and smiled. He could…smell himself now. And just like Danny Boy, just like Bruno, he had a few tricks up his sleeve too. “Well hey dad,” Musky said, walked over and took the leash from Bruno, yanking his father over and pushing him down into a chair, “Fancy running into you at the Roadhouse. And here, you used to tell me that only faggots came around here.”

“Boy, I don’t know what they did to you, but you have to–”

Musky placed a finger at his father’s lips, “Oh dad, you still don’t get it, do you? This is where I’ve been hanging out, all those nights I told you I was chasing girls. See, I’ve been chasing boys instead. But you know? I’d rather we not talk right now. In fact, what I’d rather see you do is lick.”

Muky sat down in his father’s lap to one side and threw up one arm, shoving his purple bush into his dad’s face. The stench was horrific, but then why wasn’t he pulling away? Why was he leaning in, why was he sniffing deeper, why was he licking at the filthy hairs, tasting his son’s sweat?

“What do you think dad? How do I taste? Seems like you like it,” Musky wrapped the leash in his hand over and over, pulling his dad in tight, but he wasn’t fighting it–he was relishing it. Why was he relishing it? Sure, he’d never been one to shy away from a bit of pit stink, but this was different. This was rank, and yet he couldn’t pull himself back, and when Musky stood up, he was panting, tongue out, sweat or saliva dribbling from his chin, he didn’t know which. “You want the other one, dad? You like my fuckin’ stink?”

“I…” his throat was so dry, “Please don’t, don’t make me like them, don’t…”

“Look at your cock, dad–it’s so hard…” Musky said, wrapping one hand around the shaft, “I didn’t know you got turned on by my stink, like a fuckin’ pig. Are you a fuckin’ stink pig, dad? Is that what you like more than anything in the world?” Musky reached around and dug around in his ass with two fingers, then walked around behind his dad, hooked them into his nose and pulled it back. His father’s eyes rolled back in, and he shuddered, precum seeping from the head of his cock and dribbling back down the shaft. He was snorting the stink in, but he needed more, he fucking needed so much more. His son pulled his fingers out and got down on his hands and knees in front of his dad. “Well come on piggy, get down here and have a taste of my filthy hole.”

Benjamin fell out of his chair and onto his knees with a grunt. He couldn’t support himself with his bound hands, so he had to get close, cock bobbing and swinging cum onto the floor, before he could push his face in between his son’s cheeks and into his ass crack. Something was wrong with him. He shouldn’t want this, he shouldn’t be doing this, but he didn’t want to stop. Musky screwed up his face and let the first fart rip, and the load that had been building flew from the head of his father’s cock, as he spasmed, his nose taking in deep snorts of his son’s gas, but it wasn’t enough. Musky farted again, and Benjamin felt his old self dissolving away, replaced by a desire for filth, for nasty asses and filthy pits, and his son’s especially. Musky reached under himself and starts stroking his pierced cock, getting close, and then he turned around and shot his load all over his father’s face, before getting down and sharing it with him, licking it up, the room cheering around them, and then the men pulled them apart, wanting a piece of them both for themselves.

Benjamin was a staple of the roadhouse from then on, and that first night he’d picked up a few nasty habits, no longer showering, shaving or wiping his ass after a shit. He struck up a friendship, and then a relationship, with Dirty Doug, and usually he could be found with his face plastered in some trucker or biker’s nasty pit, stopping only to take a swig off his beer. But when he could afford it, he’d buy a night with his son and take him home, lick every inch of Musky’s body clean, and his mind would dissolve a bit more, turn even dumber and filthier and nastier, but he couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t want to stop himself. Musky had his own home now though, and things were different, and even hard, at times. But he never once regretted his choice, and he did everything he could to make sure the Roadhouse, and Ed, had a successful, happy future ahead of them.

***

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“Yeah, you’re gonna be a good piggy from now on, aren’t you–not that you have a choice. Can’t look away, can you?”

Bruce again tried to twist his head down and away, but Ivan’s gaze kept him locked. He sank lower towards the bathroom floor, dropping onto his knees, face level with Ivan’s bulging crotch, and he felt the piss he’d been storing up all day at his desk release into the front of his pants, the fabric wet and sopping almost immediately, a puddle growing out from his knees. He whimpered, but couldn’t speak.

“What, you don’t like pissing yourself? Well too fucking bad. From now on, you piss when I want you to–and if I want you to piss yourself tomorrow in front of the entire board, during that big presentation of yours, well…I don’t think that promotion you’re angling for is going to end up working out. They’ll probably have to pick me instead. Now open your mouth, I got something for you to taste.”

That was when Fred walked in–their boss. Ex-military, Fred kept his head shaved, a full beard, and his body muscular, the suits he wore tailored a bit too tight. A notorious homophobe–if Ivan hadn’t been out, the promotion would have definitely been his, but Fred liked straight, married Bruce better. Ivan had his old family trick to tip things his direction, but he hadn’t quite anticipated Fred joining them so soon.

“W–What the fuck is going on here!” Fred shouted, staring right at Ivan, as those cold blue eyes, it was that faggots doing, he knew he was no god, he should have…should have tried harder to get…get him fired. Should have…

Fred stumbled into the wall, suddenly exhausted. Blinking fast, his eyes never left Ivan’s. “What…you doin’ to me…” he muttered, and then he collapsed to the tile floor, face first in the puddle of Bruce’s piss, and Ivan chuckled, reconnecting with Bruce’s eyes.

“Guess we’ll have to speed up the plan a bit. Good thing most everyone is gone for the day. Come on, help me carry him down stairs–you can suck me off later.”

***

Fred woke up slowly–another fuckin’ faggot dream. He wasn’t a fucking faggot, he was a man, a real man. Real men didn’t have faggot dreams, what the fuck was wrong with him? Ivan again, too–but this was was strange. Bruce had been there too, in the bathroom…everything else was fuzzy. Whatever. He wasn’t a faggot, no fucking way.

He pried open his eyes–this wasn’t his apartment. His mind told his body to get up quick and figure out where he was, but all he could manage  was to writhe a bit beneath the sheets. The scummy sheets. He couldn’t feel them–for some reason he was still dressed in the blue suit pinstripe suit he’d had on in that dream–but he could hear them. They sounded crispy, and he nearly retched. He might have even vomited, if he hadn’t felt so tired.

He was tired. He was never tired. With great effort, he rolled over and saw a small window high on one side of the room–a basement, he was in a basement. The sun was up–what time was it? Shouldn’t he be at work? That big presentation was today, he had to be there for Bruce, right? Work suddenly seemed like too much work. He lolled about instead, settling in deeper. Between the sheets, the musky quilt and his suit, he was sweating heavily, but didn’t mind the heat. His cock was too hot though, he let it out of his fly and started jacking off, and then rolled over and began grinding his erection against the mattress. He came after a few minutes, but kept thrusting, the cum coating the front of his suit, and then he collapsed again.

What in the world was he even doing? He had to get out of here. Instead, he laid in bed for the rest of the day. The duration between his overwhelming periods of horniness decreased–by the time the basement door opened and Ivan and Bruce tromped down the stairs, Fred was unable to stop, just endlessly thrusting against the mattress, the front of his suit saturated with cum.

“Well, it looks like someone has made himself at home already, eh Bruce? See, I told you.” Ivan said.

Fred managed to regain control long enough to roll over, but his hand immediately wrapped itself around his tender, chaffed cock and kept stroking, “This is just…just another dream. Just another faggoty dream…”

“Oh Fred, I assure you that this is entirely real. Everyone at the meeting was very surprised by your letter of resignation by the way, and with Bruce fired for pissing himself and then jacking off in front of the board, I suppose you two will have to live here, with me, for the time being.”

“You…you fucker…”

“Don’t worry about rent or anything like that, I know the two of you are going to be pretty well occupied. Why, Fred, I doubt you’ll ever be getting up from that bed ever again–so it’s a good thing Bruce here is going to be taking good care of you, right Bruce?”

Bruce hadn’t spoken–he was just staring at Ivan, drool leaking from his open mouth. He nodded, and then spoke, slowly with a bit of a slur, “Yes…sir. I’m gonna f…fatten up Fred, n….and piss all o’er him, ‘n fuck his holes, like you said.”

“That’s right,” Ivan said, now it looks like Fred is pretty uncomfortable in that suit–why don’t you get him dressed in those clothes me bought off that bum on the way home?”

Fred tried to fight Bruce off, but he was so tired, and all he really wanted to do was jack off, as he dressed him in the filthy pants and shirt, dyed filthy by months on the street, and as disgusted as he was with himself for thinking so, they were much, much more comfortable, and much, much hotter. Yeah, they stank, they reeked, and when Bruce pissed on him in the bed with he jacked off and came again, he smelled even better, and when Ivan ordered a stack of pizzas, and watched Bruce force them all down his throat, that was hotter still. And two years later, the now five hundred pound Fred, still confined to his bed, thought he had never been hotter in his whole life.

~~~

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It was just one of those chat services–one of those fads that was a flash in the pan a few years ago–but Derek had always found them a bit fascinating. Sure, most of the time it was just dudes jacking off, but if you just kept at it, sometimes you stumbled on someone interesting. He’d made a number of good friends this way, all over the world–it was a good way of getting out of this small college town he lived in. Aside from the college, it was just a blue collar place full of grubby workers employed at the various factories outside of town, and he couldn’t wait to graduate and get the hell out for good.

It had been a mistake to stay here for the summer, because once the college cleared out, he was all alone, and so his internet contacts had proved more important than usual. But he’d found an apartment he’d liked, and without a subletter, his choice was to either find something in the fall when class started, or stick it out. At least his job bar-backing at a local pup paid the bills, but it was his night off and with nothing to do, he was jumping through various cock jackers online, until the “Next” button suddenly stopped functioning.

He was trapped looking at some nasty fucker, shaved head, wearing some grubby coveralls, groping his cock and smoking a cigar, nose billowing out smoke. Without seeing him type anything on the keyboard behind him, a cryptic message appeared in the chat box, followed by two more.

>> Do’t fthen hems fr y

>> Y’reon kn it,prmis

>> Ben pigste bs

And then, the screen went blank, and the feed moved onto the next cock, but Derek was so weirded out he closed the window and just tried his best to forget about what he’d seen, and go to bed. Out his bedroom window, however, he thought he saw someone across the street, just outside the street lamp light, but when he got a better look, all he saw was a dissipating haze of smoke.

***

For the next few days, Derek was certain he was being followed. He hadn’t gone on the chat site since, but every time he walked to and from work, especially coming home in the early hours of the night, he would walk as fast as he could, sometimes breaking into a jog, just to avoid his imagination.

The bar he worked at disregarded the state’s no smoking policy–and so it was a common hang out for various roughnecks, many of whom smoked cigars there. They had all largely ignored him, but now he kept noticing them staring at him, often unabashedly. Some even looked at him…like they wanted to fuck him. He’d had a suspicion that the bar catered to the small gay population of the town, but that was the first time he’d felt uncomfortable. Even the bartender–a smoker himself–was treating him different, but when Derek confronted him, he gave a series of excuses and hurried off to do something else.

Before long, he was certain that someone was tailing him everywhere he went. In the bar, he would see glimpses of a man in the shadows, smoking a cigar, face invisible through the haze, but by the time Derek had noticed, the space was suddenly empty. The man appeared in alleys as he walked home, follow him down the streets during the day. He called the police, but not only did they refuse to do anything about it, as soon as he’d told them what was happening, they simply ignored him when he called about the man. He became paranoid, quit his job, and locked himself in his apartment, and his attention turned to conspiracy.

In the chatlog of the site, he’d managed to retrieve the three strange messages the figure had sent him at the beginning of all of this insanity, and he began running them through every translation filter he could find. He asked paranormal experts, he posted on forums big and small, but no one could help him, get any traction of what was happening to him. And then, after a week of isolation, he smelled the smoke coming from his bedroom closet.

The man stepped out before Derek could bar him inside. He said nothing, grabbed Derek by the face and exhaled a huge amount of smoke directly into his lungs. Derek stumbled back, but his body suddenly was numb, and wouldn’t work properly. Paralyzed, he tumbled to the ground on his back, frozen, struggling for breath.

The man came over, holding his cigar in one hand, and he slipped it between Derek’s lips. Suddenly, he could breathe again, but it was the smoke he needed, not air. He needed the smoke in him, craved it, lived on it. His body was still frozen, but the man got down on his knees by his head, and they shared a long series of smoky kisses, passing it back and forth between them for hours, Derek’s terror slowly replaced by lust, and then even hints of love.

The man stayed with him for several weeks, and neither of them left the apartment. They had work to do, work to do with smoke, work to do on Derek. Pig work. Learning how to suck cock and take dick up his ass. Learning how good piss tasted. Learning to be a slob, ruining his body, giving him a heavy gut and aging him into his fifties, where he should be, who he wanted to be. There was a hole in Derek’s life when the man left, almost like he’d never even been there. The college’s new semester started up, but Derek was now a machinist at a factory outside of town, hanging out at the bar, sucking dick in the dim corners of the back rooms, occasionally certain he’d seen his master, the man he loved, the man the whole town loved, in the darkness, but all he ever found was wisps of sweet smoke he’d drink in hungrily.

He still loved his chat sites, but now he was just another masturbating pervert. He loved seeing people disgusted at him, at his body, at his thick, ugly cigars. He loved chatting with other filthy fuckers, bringing them to orgasm, talking about their favorite hook ups. He built a whole new circle of friends, sex addicts like him, until one day his computer froze, and a man appeared on the screen like a dim, fuzzy memory. He started typing:

>> Don’t fight, when he comes for you

>> You’re gonna fuckin love it, promise

>> Being a pigs the best

Commission: Twenty Years Delayed

CAUTION: This is a nasty one.

“His name is Blake Kingston, bitch! He has to be here, you’re just not looking hard enough, ya dumb cunt!” Freddie said, leaning across the folding table and glaring at the middle aged woman seated in front of a pile of name tags. Above the table at the entrance of the high school gym was a banner that read “Treston High School Class of 1994 Reunion.” He leaned closer; she squirmed away from him as gracefully as she could, but couldn’t avoid the cloud of breath which seemed to be some horrid combination of toilet and ashtray.

“Sir, please don’t yell at me, I still have his nametag here. If he’s arrived already, he hasn’t picked it up. Now…if I can get your name, I can get your registration taken care of…and…and you can’t smoke in here.”

Freddie clenched his teeth down harder on his cigar. “You gonna take it from me?”

She made no further mention of it. He gave her his name when she asked again, and she startled, looked up at him. Freddie Williams? Sweet little shy chubby Freddie? She’d seen him at the last reunion, and he’d been so…normal. Still, she could recognize his eyes, through the plume of smoke, and wondered what in the hell had happened to turn him into…this thing. This leather clad, foul smelling, crude, hairy beast of a biker. Happy that she could feel pity instead of anger, she handed him his name tag with a smile, and waved him into the gym. Suspicious, Freddie took it and clipped it to his ratty leather vest, and lumbered into the gym he barely recognized. The school had been through a remodel in the last few years, and he felt almost no connection to the place anymore. He was only here to see Blake anyway–he’d promised he’d be here. Still, maybe Freddie had just arrived first. He hung around by the door, checking out everyone who came in. But the attendees stopped arriving at around seven, and angry that he’d been stood up, he scarfed down as much as he could from the buffet before someone told him to stop, and then started cruising his middle aged classmates.

Many of them, now almost in their forties, had started to fill out. More than a few had grown in beards. Unfortunately, most had wives and girlfriends in tow. Still, that didn’t mean much, right? Hell, he’d thought he was straight too, before he’d met Blake–both times, in fact. He’d taught him how to please a cock back in high school, and shown him again at the last reunion ten years later. He set his eyes on a few men who didn’t seem entirely disgusted by him. By this point, Freddie was good and drunk–the two drink limit didn’t apply when you had a flask of cheap whisky in your vest. He struck up conversations with a few guys, and eventually followed one of them to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, what drunken Freddie had taken to be sexual arousal was simply an attempt at being polite. In fact, the man had excused himself to the bathroom in an attempt to avoid further conversation. When Freddie clomped into the bathroom, came up to the man at the urinal and grabbed his cock from behind, he was less than pleased.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Come on man, I know yer fuckin’ horny. I got stood up tonight, at least give me a load a cum for the ride home, I’m fuckin’ thirsty.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Freddie leaned in closer, “I’ll be as disgusting as ya want. Drink yer piss, hell I even eat shit. Go on, take a shit, I’ll eat it out a the bowl while ya fuck my nasty asshole.”

“You’re fucking insane!” the man said, tried to get away, but Freddie pinned him up against the outside wall of the stall with his massively fat, four hundred pound body.

“Fuck you man, fuck you ‘n your fuckin’ attitude. I came in here for some fuckin’ cum, ‘n I’m not leavin’ without you fuckin’ one of my holes. So pick one, and feed this pig.”

The man tried to hit Freddie, but his fist just sank into Freddie’s fat body. When Freddie countered with a slap of his leather gloved hand, the man stood there, shocked, giving Freddie the opportunity to drop the man’s slacks, get down on his knees, and start sucking on his soft cock. Much to the man’s embarrassment, it didn’t stay soft for long, and he let off a moan. As disgusting as Freddie was, he knew what to do with his mouth. Figuring it would be better to just let the brute have his way, the man tried to cum as quickly as possible, shot a load down Freddie’s throat, and then zipped up and fled as quick as he could. Freddie savored the taste for a moment, gave a great big belch, and headed back to the gym. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a complete waste after all.

He scanned the crowd–still no sign of Blake. Where the fuck was he? Freddie heaved a sigh, and noticed someone across the floor staring at him, someone he hadn’t noticed earlier. He was too old to be a member of his class–short, with a round gut, bushy white beard and wire rimmed glasses, he had to be at least sixty, if not seventy. And something about him seemed…oddly familiar. Still, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be interested in a guy like him, so he steered clear, but as he hunted for another cock to suck, he realized the older man was never too far away, and being more than a little creepy. Still, what could a fat old man do to a pig like him? Freddie managed to scare another ex-jock classmate into a trip to the bathroom, and licking his lips, followed after a minute later. The older man waited a couple more, and then set off down the hall after them both.

Freddie was in the middle of trying to rip open the man’s pants when the older man stepped into the room, and said, “Nasty Slut Pig, trance out.”

Immediately, Freddie’s eyes glazed over, his limbs limp. The man stepped away, not at all sure what was happening, and ran out of the room as fast as he could.

The older man stepped up to Freddie and spoke to him for a couple of minutes. When Freddie shook himself awake, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he found himself compelled to leave the reunion with the older gentleman, and follow him on his hog back to the man’s house. None of this worried him in the least–and that worried him most of all.

***

“I know you don’t remember who I am,” the older man said as he handed Freddie a glass of bourbon, “Maybe in time, I can help you put some of those memories back together, but that will have to wait until I have you under better control. I’m happy the trigger worked for me as well as it works for Blake–hypnosis can be so…fickle at times.”

Freddie just stared at the bourbon, and knocked it back in a few chugs. He needed a drink badly. Why in the hell was he even here, and what did Blake have to do with this old man? “I don’t understand. Why am I here?”

“Because this is where you should have been, twenty years ago. You never showed up, and I never pursued you, because I was just happy you never reported me! Imagine my surprise when the issue was that you’d simply had that nasty concussion. Now, why don’t you go ahead and strip for me? I’ve only seen pictures, but Blake has been working so hard on you all these years now–I’d love to see the changes for myself.”

Before Freddie could process the request, his hands were already pulling off his clothes. Trying to catch up to himself, he found that he couldn’t quite control his body. A moment later, he was naked, his clothes strewn about, and the older man came up and started inspecting him. “Goodness, you are a fat pig, aren’t you? How much do you weigh now?”

“Uh…435, last I checked.”

“And your tattoos–absolutely filthy, I love them. Blake chose them well.”

Freddie stepped away from the man, “Alright, who the fuck are you, and how do you know Blake? This shit is gettin’ creepy.”

“Oh Freddie, the three of us have quite a bit of history together–it’s a shame you can’t remember the first part. I was your psychology teacher, Mr. Weylan. You and Blake were…well, you were an experiment–and a very successful one at that.”

The name rang a bell, but it wasn’t tied to any memories–his head started hurting, like it always did when he tried to think of the time before he got that concussion in that car accident just before graduation. He’d been lucky that all he’d suffered was some amnesia. But none of this made any sense at all. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“That’s quite alright–you’re just a dumb pig anyway, no reason for you to trouble yourself. But Blake, well, Blake has been a very naughty slave, trying to keep you a secret from me, and he really must be punished for it. Luckily you’re here now, and you can help me out. Why don’t you come downstairs and into the dungeon with me, and we can see how Blake is coming along.”

Fighting himself the whole way, Blake calmly followed Mr. Weylan down into the basement, where he saw Blake strapped into a chair against the wall, some strange helmet covering his face, pads on his nipples and his cock. Cum was splattered all over the floor in front of him. He was even larger than Freddie remembered–at the ten year reunion a decade earlier, Blake had strutted into the gym, muscle bound, wearing nothing but leather, reeking of sweat and cum. He remembered talking to Blake a lot, but couldn’t much of the conversation. In fact, he’d done a lot of listening, now that he thought about it.

Mr. Weylan walked up to a computer next to the chair, and examined it. “It looks like somewhere between ninety and ninety-five percent trained–certainly enough for a test drive, eh Freddie?”

Before Freddie could ask for an explanation, Mr. Weylan had shut down the program and pulled the helmet from Blake’s head. His friend looked around, trying to process the thoughts streaming through his mind, nostrils flaring, and he dove from the chair to his hands and knees, licking up all of his cum from the cement floor.

“Oh yes, very good Blake, but don’t you see who’s here? It’s Freddie–why don’t you show him some of what you’ve been learning.”

The eyes that turned to Freddie were nearly feral with lust. Blake sprung up and charged at him, sending them both crashing to the ground, Blake burying his tongue and nose in every nasty flap and fold of the pig’s fat body. Freddie tried to push him off and get away, but Blake was on top and much stronger. Seeing him struggle, Mr. Weylan called out, “Nasty Slut Pig, freeze,” and all of Freddie’s muscles tensed in place, allowing Blake to focus on licking his friend’s filthy body clean.

“Goodness, he is an eager little filth slave, eh Freddie?” Mr Weylan said, standing over them both, “I know Blake intended for you to be his bottom. Can you imagine, the two of you running off together? I think this will be much more interesting. Still, I bet Blake is hungry and very thirsty–he’s been down here for almost two days straight! Go on, and piss yourself Freddie.”

The strong scent of his piss streaming from his cock, flowing out from his gunt, attracted Blake down to his crotch, where he lapped up as much as he could.

“Good, now go ahead and shit too–pump out all that nasty crap for Blake to eat, pig.”

Freddie felt his ass loosen beyond his control, his shit flowing out onto the ground beneath him, smearing across his ass. Blake forcefully rolled him over and dove headlong into his brown crack, eating as much as he could, Freddie still frozen in place. He could see Mr. Weylan looming over him, his cock out, jacking off.

“Oh yes, this is going to be a lot of fun, I think. I have so many techniques now! Blake has done a fine job with what he had access to, those subliminals and those skype chats of yours. But now we can continue what we started all those years ago! Why, before long, you’re going to be the nastiest fucker ever–pissing and shitting yourself uncontrollably, dominating Blake here, forcing him to fatten up like you. Maybe we’ll even castrate him together–how does that sound? Make him a real hog. It’s what he fucking deserves, for what he tried to do, the fucker–fuck!”

Mr. Weyland’s cock shot out a load of cum which landed across the back of Freddie’s shaven head. He was terrified, but without any control over himself, all he could do was shake with fear.

“Goodness, I got a bit carried away there, I think. Blake, hold off for a moment, let Freddie here stand up.”

Blake reluctantly crawled off Freddie, and he stood up. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Go sit in the chair, Freddie. I’ve got to get your program loaded up.”

Freddie went and sat down in the chair where Blake had been–the seat had an open bottom, and he could smell Blake’s piss and shit in the bucket under the hole. He was terrified, and yet more turned on than he could even fathom. Mr. Weylan worked at the computer for a moment, Blake dragging out the bucket and scarfing down the contents while their old teacher came over and tightened the straps on Freddie’s limbs.

“Don’t worry, when you wake up in a few days, everything will make much more sense, I promise.” He set the helmet over Freddie’s head, and said something he couldn’t quite make out. Then, the visor exploded in a shock of color, Freddie’s mouth went slack, and his training, twenty years delayed, resumed.

Commission: Making a Happy Pig

Commissioned by Anonymous

**Friday**

“Pipe or Cigar?”

Axel had one in each hand. Both of them were far larger than Rusty had been expecting for his first time. The cigar was at least a 60 gauge, and the pipe bowl looked large enough to hold a baby’s fist with wiggle room. “Those…those are both really big.”

“Smallest I got. Even if I had smaller, you wouldn’t be using them. Now choose, or I choose for you.”

Rusty looked from one to the other, and after a moment, took the pipe from Axel’s hand.

“Good boy, now let me show you how to get it lit. They’re a bit complicated, but it’ll feel perfectly natural for you soon enough.” Axel sat Rusty down on the couch, and they spent a few minutes talking about how to light a pipe. After a few false starts, Rusty finally managed to get it lit, though it almost went out after his first fit of coughing.

“Shit’s strong.”

“You’ll get used to it. Take less in, and don’t breathe too deep. I’ll be back.”

Axel went into the kitchen, and emerged after a few minutes with a case of cheap beer under one arm, which he set down on the table. He ripped open the cardboard and took a can out, popped the tab, and handed it to Rusty.

“Chug it.”

Rusty looked at the can. “Seriously?”

“Chug it, or leave. You asked for this, don’t forget.”

Rusty held the pipe in one hand, and chugged the beer slowly, Axel urging him on, getting a bit hard as he watched some run from the corner’s of Rusty’s lips down his chin and neck. Rusty wanted to be a pig, but he was only really husky at the moment. Axel, his friend, had offered to help him go all the way. Now, however, Rusty was starting to have second thoughts. After chugging five more beers, however, all he was really feeling was a heavy buzz. Once Axel stripped off his shirt, letting Rusty run his hands over his friend’s big, furry gut, he felt less nervous and more horny. The smoke had him giddy as well–he finished the first bowl and then packed a second on his own with Axel watching, puffing on a massive cigar. Naked together on the couch, they swapped smoke and finished the entire case of beer, before Axel helped Rusty stumble into the bedroom. He was too drunk to remember much of what happened. Axel made him keep smoking, as he fucked him doggy style on the bed, and then, when he’d finished, he sat Rusty up and started rubbing his cock. He was so drunk, it took Axel a while to get Rusty off, but he didn’t mind, he spent several minutes telling him how hot he looked with that pipe in his mouth, reeking of beer. Rusty finally let out a loud moan and shot his load, but as he did, he was struck by an odd sensation, like his head was caught in a vice for a moment, his vision squashed and then expansive, but then everything came clear again. He was too drunk, is all–he needed to sleep it off. Axel took the pipe from his slack mouth and tapped the ash out into the ashtray on the side table, and then helped Rusty under the covers for the night.

**Saturday**

Rusty had never felt so hungover in his entire life. Still unsure of where he was, he rolled over, away from the morning light (or afternoon? He wasn’t sure at all) in the window towards the night stand. There was a beer can there–thankfully is was half full. Even warm and flat, it felt good when it hit his gut. Eyes shut, he rolled up on the edge of the bed, and got his pipe going by feel. It felt so familiar to him, which was strange. After all, he’d only learned how to smoke one the night before, but it ended up perfectly tamped with a flame and draw far more even than he’d managed the night before–at least he was starting to feel human again. He gave his gut a rub, feeling his cock jump at the sensation, and realized there was much more mass there than there should be.

He looked down, and saw that a bulbous beer gut had sprouted out from his midsection. It was tight and full, and the rest of him seemed to have filled out somewhat, but this wasn’t right. What in the hell had Axel done to him? He got up unsteadily. He might be sober but he felt drunk still. There was another can on the dresser with some beer in it; he guzzled that down too and let off a deep belch, before wandering down the hall towards the sounds of a busy kitchen.

Judging by the spread, it was brunch time. On the table were heaping mounds of eggs, pancakes, thick slabs of ham, a pile of bacon, but also fried chicken and steak, massive biscuits, and a thick white gravy for everything. There was only one chair, with a bucket beside it filled with ice and cans of beer.

“About time you got up,” Axel said from the stove. He was cooking naked, and Rusty just stared at his fat friend for a moment, admiring him. “Get eating–we don’t have all day to fill you up.”

“Wait though.” Rusty said, “Something…something’s different. Different than yesterday. I…my gut is bigger, and…I know how to smoke a pipe now.”

“I showed you how to smoke yesterday.”

“I know–that’s my point. I shouldn’t…know how to do it, from one day, right?”

Axel didn’t answer. He walked over to Rusty, grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the table, sat him down, popped open a beer and handed it to him. “Drink it.”

Rusty didn’t feel very comfortable drinking before noon, but found himself guzzling it back anyway. Axel opened a second, and then a third–he drank those down too. He was feeling better now, actually. He’d just needed his morning beers is all.

“Now, tuck in like a good pig,” Axel said, and started piling food on Rusty’s plate. He was famished–had they even eaten anything yesterday? It was all a blur of smoke and beer and fucking. He cleaned the first plate and filled up a second without needing to be told. Axel finished cooking the last of the meal, brought over a few sweet desserts, and then started toying with Rusty as he ate, telling him how good it feels to stuff himself, how much he liked being a fat pig, plying him with more and more beer. Whenever Rusty tried to stop, saying he was too full, Axel would encourage him to smoke and play with his gut and tits and trade smoke with him. After a few minutes later, Rusty would have find room for more. Rusty’s head was reeling. He was too drunk, he’d had too much to smoke. He couldn’t keep a handle on what was happening. Axel brought forward the cake he’d made, threw the silverware in the sink; Rusty dug in with his hands while Axel reached under his taut gut and started jacking his cock, urging him onward. Halfway through, he gave a spasm–shooting his load across the seat and onto the floor under the table. The world crunched together and apart again, but when his vision cleared, he was hungry again. With a final burst, he devoured the rest of the cake and only then sat back in the chair, smoking his pipe, drinking a victory beer, Axel rubbing and kneading his huge gut and man boobs which he had suddenly grown.

Rusty stared down at himself for several minutes, trying to piece what he was seeing together with his drunk mind, while Axel got a towel and wiped food off his huge body. He couldn’t be that big. It was impossible. He was too drunk, he was hallucinating, he was imagining it. But as he explored the soft flab with his own hands, he became increasingly convinced. It was real. It hadn’t been there when he’d sat down, but it was there now. Axel was telling him how hot he looked, how sexy his huge body was, but Rusty was disgusted with himself. He’d wanted to be bigger. He’d told Axel he’d wanted to be bigger, but this was too much, this was out of control. He stumbled up and pushed Axel away.

“No…no, I don’t know what’s going on, but this is fucked up, what are you doin’ to me?” he was slurring his words. His car was outside, but he couldn’t drive like this. Still, he had to get out, he had to get away. He stumbled towards the hallway, but Axel blocked him, and pushed him up against the wall, gut to gut, holding him there.

“Calm down man, it’s all fine. It really is.”

“This? This isn’t fine, this is crazy.”

“I know it’s fast, but you love it, I know you do. Just fuckin’ relax man, you’re too uptight.”

Rusty was mumbling panicked nonsense. Axel started rubbing his huge body, and he let out a sigh, feeling his cock start hardening again. After a minute, he was grinding back against Axel, unable to stop himself.

“See? I know you want this. You’re just too smart for your own good. You need to think less. Let me worry about things–all you need to think about is getting bigger, getting drunker, and doing everything I tell you to do.”

Rusty tried to protest, but couldn’t make his words say what he was thinking. Axel had his hand around his cock, and was milking him again, whispering things to him, telling him he was a good pig, but he’d be so much happier if he was dumb. Dumb and obedient and carefree. Too close, he was cumming again, the world spinning around him, his head in a vice. When he finally stopped spasming, his head felt so much thicker. He let off a loud belch, and laughed at himself. He looked at Axel, a bit confused.

‘What…what was I doin’ again? I forgot.”

“You were gonna blow me, you fat pig.”

That didn’t seem quite right, but Rusty got down on his knees, feeling his huge gut resting on the tile floor, and took Axel’s cock to the hilt, sucking on him for a few minutes until he came, and he drank down all the cum like a good pig. Yeah, he was a good pig, a happy pig.

Axel helped him up and pulled him into the living room, and sat him down on the couch. The sensation of all of his flab spilling out around him was both somehow very new, but also so familiar, like he’d been this way forever, but had simply forgotten.

“Now, I have a few scenes from my favorite videos I’d like us to watch, pig,” Axel said, and put in the DVD. “I think they’re going to clear some things up for you.”

The first porno scene started, every scene revolved around this fat pig being used by a variety of bears. He was tattooed everywhere, and Axel told Rusty how hot he’d be if he was a slut like that chub. If he too had tattoos all over his body, even had them in places where he’d never be able to hide them in public–graphic, sexual, humiliating tattoos that would show everyone that he was a complete pig at a single glance. The next scene had another fat bear, but this one had a body completely covered with fur, with a beard that reached down to the top of his massive apron. He was decked out in leather gear, and several bears took turns plowing his ass and mouth while the pig laid back in a sling. The third clip had a filthy looking fat chub sitting in a bathtub, while a long series of men pissed and came on him, the man rubbing it into his hairy body, revelling in the men’s filth. More clips came, and Rusty couldn’t tear his eyes away. When Axel wasn’t narrating them, he was taking trips to the kitchen, bringing Rusty more beer and snacks, filling his pipe, feeding him smoke from his own cigars, and making certain that Rusty came at least once during every single clip that came on the TV.

Hours passed, and by the end of the video, which had looped several times, Rusty was so drunk that he couldn’t stand up, and he was too heavy for Axel to lift. He’d passed out during the final clip, and was snoring heavily. Axel examined his work, and satisfied with the progress, went to bed–certain that he’d be up before the pig on Sunday morning, when they could seal the deal together.

**Sunday**

Rusty woke up slowly, his head pounding. Fuck, he needed a beer, and he needed one now. He fumbled around next to him, feeling a pile of cans there, but none had anything in them. A smoke then. His pipe he could reach, and he filled it as quick as he could, taking a deep breath of harsh smoke, feeling it push the headache back a bit. He sat there for a few minutes, trying to figure out where he was and what was going on, but his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. All he really wanted was food, a fuck, and a beer. Then he finally managed to open his eyes, look down at his hairy, stinking, tattooed body, and let out a scream.

Axel stuck his head in from the kitchen, and saw Rusty was trying to claw his way out of his own body. He grabbed a beer, pushed it into the pig’s hand, and he drank it all back in a single gulp without even thinking about it. With the edge of terror blunted, he heaved himself up, pushing Axel away when he tried to help, and stumbled into the bathroom, flipping on the light so he could get a better look at himself.

He was huge. He must be topping 400 pounds, and every inch of his body, from the neck down, was covered in ink, all of it having something to do with sex. His head was shaved, but he’d grown in a beard which, if it wasn’t a filthy tangled mass clustered around his three chins, probably could have reached his belly button–or it could have, if his belly button wasn’t somewhere around his groin. He was taking in so much smoke he was getting light headed. Axel came in and told him to calm down–his presence was reassuring, and Rusty managed to keep a hold of himself, but barely.

“What…what have you done to me?”

“This is what you wanted, and you know it.”

“I…I didn’t…I mean…”

Axel turned Rusty’s head to the side, and gave him a long, smoky kiss.

“This is what you wanted, try not to worry about whether or not you should want it, and just enjoy yourself.”

Axel reached around and started probing Rusty’s ass with a couple of fingers, listening to him moan. He leaned over the counter and spread his fat, inked legs wide, letting Axel slide his dick into him. It fit perfectly inside him, and Rusty’s cock started leaking immediately.

“You’re mine, you know,” Axel said as he fucked the pig.

“Y–Yeah…yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

“You like being my slave–it’s all a fat, nasty pig like you could have ever wanted.”

“Fuck–fuck yeah, fuck me…fuck me, sir.”

“That’s right pig, I’m your sir.”

“Yes sir, oh fuck, yes sir!”

He was cumming. He was cumming, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a wide leather collar had appeared around his neck, and his worries had all disappeared with it. He was Axel’s pig–his master would take care of him. He didn’t have to worry about a thing. His master shot a load up his ass, and made him lick up the cum he’d shot across the front of the counter. While he was down there, his master fed him the morning piss he’d saved up as well, and then they went into the kitchen for breakfast. As he stuffed his face, a realization dawned to Rusty–he was happy. Truly happy, perhaps for the first time in his life. Axel saw the happiness on his pig’s bearded face, and smiled too.

Commission: Portrait of a Happy Family

Commissioned by Scot158

Harvey gave a grumble, rolled over, and checked the clock. Ten in the morning–at least it was Saturday and he could sleep in. His friend Jack was going to come over around noon–apparently he had something he was desperate to show him on his computer or something, but fuck, why did he have such a headache this morning?

A cigar, he needed a cigar, of course. But he didn’t smoke cigars, what in the world was he thinking of that for? He sat up on the edge of the bed, pawed open the humidor on his bedside table with a hand that seemed far too large, fished out a cigar, fumbled with his zippo and got it lit, taking his first deep lungful of smoke for the weekend ahead. His head cleared quickly, and his earlier confusion about the cigar seemed misplaced. Hell, his dad had given him his first cigar when he’d grown his first pubic hair at the age of seven–he’d been an avid smoker for a decade now. He got up, wedged himself through the doorway of his room that seemed much too narrow (or was he too wide?) and headed for the bathroom for his morning piss. He couldn’t see his soft cock past his big, extremely hairy gut, but that changed when he got hard–all ten inches, fuck.

He started stroking himself over the toilet, reached up and started tugging on the thick ring piercing one of his nipples. His dad had given him a new ring each birthday, and last year had even let him get his first tattoo along with a heavy gauge PA. Oh man, his dad was so proud of him as he’d stroked his son’s pierced cock for the first time in the shop, leaned in and kissed him, their beards tangling, his dad feeding him his tobacco black spit as the artist watched them, stroking his own cock that Harvey would suck later on…

Harvey grunted and shot his load across the entire toilet. wondering what in the hell he’d just remembered. That hadn’t happened, had it? And yet, everything told him it was real, and why…why shouldn’t it be? He was probably just hungry. He flushed the toilet and headed downstairs, naked, to go eat some cereal. He poured himself one heaping bowl, devoured it, and with milk still in his beard, got up and made himself a second, and then a third, finishing off an entire box. Still hungry, he pawed through the kitchen, cracked half a dozen eggs in a bowl and started whipping them together for an omelette, when he heard the first thump on the stairs.

“What the hell was that?” was his first thought, but by the time the second thump hit, he remembered it was just his dad tromping down the stairs. But that couldn’t be his dad, could it? Those footsteps sounded like they belonged to a monster. He turned to the doorway by the stairs, waiting to see if his memories could be lying, but they weren’t. His father hit the first floor, ducked his way under the seven foot doorway, naked, but so covered with hair Harvey could only see the skin of his thirteen inch cock swinging between his legs. “Mornin’ son,” he said, scratching his balls.

“M–Mornin’ Pa…” Harvey said. Why was he breathing so shallow? His dad dribbled some black tobacco spit from his mouth, and he watched it run down into his black beard. Had he just licked his lips? Why had he done that?

“Saw what you did over the toilet, boy.”

Oh shit, had he forgotten to clean that up?

“I had to lick it up for you, not that I mind…” He tromped closer. Harvey could feel the floor shake with each step of his dad’s huge, wide feet. “Tasted good, but it got me all horny for my boy this morning…”

His dad came close, and suddenly Harvey could smell him. He was rank, as rank as he was. They smelled the same, fuck, they smelled so hot together. His dad leaned in, taking the cigar from his son’s mouth and kissed him, pushing tobacco spit into his son’s thirsty mouth, twisting each other’s nipples, their cocks growing stiff, jutting up between their bellies. With a growl, his dad spun Harvey around, bent him over the counter, lubed his cock up with some spit, and drove it into his son’s ass.

“Oh fuck, Pa…”

“Yeah, that’s my boy’s hot asshole, fuck…”

His dad’s huge hands wrapped around his hips, gripping him tightly, and he started driving all thirteen inches deep inside him. Harvey reached out and retrieved his cigar and kept smoking, reaching under, his cock hard again already, and started stroking. The doorbell rang.

“Oh fuck, that’s Jack…I gotta get that,” Harvey said, but his dad held him in place.

“I’m almost fuckin’ finished boy, hold on, and tighten down on your Pa’s fuckstick, aww fuck yeah, here it fuckin’ comes…”

His dad drove his cock in as deep as he could. Harvey could feel his dad pumping cum deep into his hole. The doorbell rang again, but his dad held him in place until the last few spasms finished, and then pulled out. “Alright, go get the door, son.”

Slightly embarrassed, but without really knowing why he felt that way (after all, his dad fucked him all the time–why would he be embarrassed about that?) he went to the front door, only realizing when it was open and he was staring at Jack in the doorway that he was still completely naked, his cock still hard and jutting out across the empty space between them. Jack’s jaw dropped when he saw it…but he’d seen it before, hadn’t he? Harvey and his dad were always naked in the house–Jack knew that. “Hey man, sorry it took me a sec to get the door, I was, uh…busy.”

“It actually worked, I can’t believe it!” Jack said, and pushed his way past Harvey, grabbed his hand, and dragged him to the stairs, and up to Harvey’s room, he pulled out his laptop and opened it up, revealing a strange screen which looked like some cross between a character generator and a 3D modelling program, and started explaining what it was. Harvey listened, but couldn’t believe it. A computer program that could alter reality? That wasn’t possible…was it? He had felt kind of strange all morning, but now that he thought about it, he was feeling less strange now than before. When he mentioned this to Jack, his friend showed him a timer counting down in the bottom corner, which had about half an hour left.

“It’s still processing the reality change. Hell, I can’t even remember what you looked like before anymore. When the timer finishes, this reality will be completely real to everyone, even you and me.”

“What?” Harvey said, “Well change me back!”

Jack furrowed his brow, “but this is what you wanted–you told me you’d had this fantasy forever.”

Harvey stared at him. Would Jack be lying to him? Hell, Jack could have just made all of that up. For all he knew, Jack might not have even been his friend before this morning, but that was paranoid, right? “Still…still, you should have asked me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, is all.”

Harvey looked at himself in the mirror on the wall. How could he have looked entirely different just the day before? It couldn’t be possible. Still…Jack seemed convinced. He was a bit angry though. It felt like he’d been a bit violated. He looked over at Jack, and wondered how he’d like it, to suddenly end up in some big bear body, smoking cigars all day long, covered…covered with fur…Harvey realized his cock was getting hard, and that gave him an idea…

“Give me the computer,” Harvey said.

“What?”

“You changed me. It’s only fair that I get to change you back.”

“Hey, come on, that’s not–”

Harvey stepped up, and blew a thick cloud of smoke in Jack’s face, the head of his cock drooling precum on Jack’s pant leg. “I could always just take it from you, you know. I’m much, much bigger than you.”

“Look man, I’m sorry I didn’t ask–”

Harvey could sense Jack’s nervousness, and he could also see the tent growing in his friend’s pants. He liked how Harvey looked now, but Jack could still use some improvement. He eventually relented to the pressure, and let his friend look over the program, Harvey sat at the desk, the screen away from Jack so he couldn’t see what he was doing, and worked quickly. When he was satisfied, he gave everything a second look, and then hit submit. The change was instantaneous. One moment, Jack was on sitting on the edge of the bed, twiddling his thumbs, the next, Harvey’s obese big brother Jack was sitting there naked, body covered with fur, an unruly beard reaching down to his deep belly button, a cheek suddenly bulging out with a huge wad of chewing tobacco. Jack let out a belch as he sat there, and gave his huge gut a scratch. “You done yet, bro?”

He didn’t even realize anything had changed! Harvey looked down at the timer, and saw it had two hours to count down. Apparently, the program found this change a bit easier to process than changing him and his father had been. Well, their father now. He grinned. “Almost done…I gotta piss though.”

“Aww, I can take care of that bro,” Jack said, rubbing his gut, “Fuckin’ thirsty myself.”

Harvey got up from the chair, and realized he could smell the stench wafting off his slovenly brother. He never showered, and he stank of piss and sweat. He smelled…he smelled damn sexy actually. Harvey shook his head–he wasn’t supposed to think that, was he? He walked over, pointed his cock up at his big brother’s bearded mouth, and started pissing, arcing the piss up, soaking Jack’s face before pointing the stream into his mouth and watching him swallow it down. Fuck, he was so fucking sexy, he hoped he could be as nasty as his big brother some day.

Harvey shook his head again. He didn’t want to be like Jack! Jack was a slob–he was supposed to be…to be…He couldn’t remember. He finished pissing, and Jack licked his lips. “Thanks bro, your piss is fantastic.”

Harvey grinned, happy that his big brother was happy, stepped closer and gave Jack a hug, and started sucking the piss from his brother’s beard, and unable to stop himself, he started licking his big brother’s body clean. That was one of his favorite jobs, actually, keeping his brother and father clean. Who needs to shower when Harvey is so horny for their sweat and stink that he’ll lick them both clean every day?

Something was wrong with this. The program was changing him too, not just Jack, but it was happening too fast for him to do anything about it, and…and he didn’t really want to do anything about it. He kept licking, and when he finished Jack’s chest and gut, his brother laid down on the bed belly down, and let Harvey spread his fat ass and start licking out his nasty crack, drilling his tongue into his brother’s hole. Fuck, the taste of Jack’s ass got him so horny–he had to stop mid-cleaning to crawl forward, line his cock up with Jack’s hole and work it in for a fuck.

Jack gave a loud groan of pleasure as Harvey fucked him on their bed. Jack raised up, in the middle of the fuck, and looked at Harvey over his shoulder. “W–wait a minute…you already changed me, you fucker!”

“Oh shut up, and enjoy it,” Harvey said, and drove his dick as deep as it could go, “You love being a slob, just go with it.”

“Fuck, I fuckin’ reek.”

“You reek so fuckin’ good bro, don’t even worry about it–I’ll keep you clean.”

“You’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Heh, not as nasty as you are.”

Jack let off another belch and a groan, pushing back to meet his little brother’s thrusts. Harvey finally shot his load, and then got down and started sucking the cum from his brother’s ass, before he licked the rest of it clean. When he finished, Jack rolled back over, and his own twelve inch cock was thrusting up against his belly. “Well, start sucking bro, don’t just stare at it.”

Harvey had long since lost his gag reflex, and he could take both his brother’s and his father’s cocks to the hilt. Jack didn’t last long, and he came a with a series of shudders that made his flabby body shake wildly. He laid there, enjoying the afterglow, while his little brother got down and started licking his feet clean. They were so big! Definitely as big as their dad’s. Harvey got another cigar lit and toyed with the heat on Jack’s feet–the two hour timer passed, and neither of them noticed a thing, until Jack’s stomach gave a growl. “Fuck, I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Harvey said, and dodged his brother’s kick, laughing.

“Fuck you, I’m gonna go eat something. You coming?”

“I’ll come downstairs–I need to see if dad needs anything cleaned.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ slut, Harvey.”

Harvey stuck his tongue out at his big brother, “I learned from the best.”

Jack went down and assembled a platter of food for himself, while Harvey went to where his father was sitting on the couch, and started licking him clean too. Jack thought about watching his father and brother fuck, but then he remembered the computer upstairs, and with a grin, he crept upstairs, snacking all the way.

He came back downstairs an hour later, no longer naked. Instead, he had on a wide strap leather harness and some heavy biker boots, and a collar with a tag that read “Alpha” on it. Curious to see what his dad and brother might be up to, he found the living room empty. That made sense though–dad preferred to work in the dungeon, the sprawling basement beneath the house where the family spent most of their quality time.

Downstairs, his father–and his master–was standing behind Harvey, who was tied down on a wooden horse. His little brother was now quite a bit more muscled–his dad kept him on a strict diet and exercise regimen, to keep his slave son in peak physical shape for constant abuse. He was also covered head to toe in tattoos, his face and body riddled with piercings. Master was decked out in rubber today, and he had one gloved fist buried elbow deep in his youngest son’s ass. There was a puddle of cum underneath the horse–obviously the pressure on Harvey’ prostate had made him cum at least twice already.

“Do you need any help, sir?” Jack asked, and his dad looked over at him and smiled.

“Sure Jack–put a glove on. Daddy’s horny for this slave’s mouth, but I want to keep stretching his hole. Take over for me, would you?”

Jack was only too happy to pull on a rubber glove, lube it up, and slide it into his little brother’s wide open asshole. His dad stripped off his own gloves, and went around, pulling the gag from Harvey’s mouth and replacing it with his own huge cock. Harvey realized something else had changed, but he couldn’t quite pin down what it was, and by the time the family was through with their afternoon play session, the timer had expired, and none of them could remember anything ever being different at all. Of course, those were far from the last changes for the happy family of bears, but those will have to wait for another time.