Orwell’s Demon (Part 8)

-Before-

Orwell could feel it building again. He’d managed to hold the demon off for a month or so, longer than his gap between Stewart and that trucker, but it was growing…impatient. Orwell, on the other hand, had been adjusting to his new life, and his new physiology. He let off a belch, something he had to do much, much more often as the filth in his guts slowly rotted away, the acrid gas triggering the first hunger pang–but he didn’t want to face that yet. He hated eating, because he had to leave the house, and when he left the house, he had to…risk the demon getting hold of someone else. He’d put in for an extended leave with the school–he couldn’t bear the thought of ruining another student, like he had with Stewart. He…couldn’t risk it. Instead, he sat around his house, fucking himself with some dildos he purchased online, and slipping out each night to stuff himself with shit before retreating back home to sleep. Still–it was working. The demon hadn’t managed to ensnare anyone else, at least until he stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, and caught a whiff of something else instead.

It was smoke–but not from a barbeque or anything. It was sweet, and sharp, and as soon as he smelled it, he wanted to know what it was. He had to peek through the fence, where he saw his neighbor, Aaron Piper, smoking a short cigar out back behind his house. Mr. Piper was a nice, if boring fellow–middle aged, a nice wife, a teenaged daughter. Aaron was on the phone, and Orwell could eavesdrop–he was planning a poker night with a few buddies from work that evening, because his wife was out of town with his daughter.

That sounds like fun–maybe we should crash it?

Hearing that voice in his head, Orwell fled back inside, and did his best to put the entire incident out of his mind. Later, the hunger was growing worse, and he was getting ready to go out and eat, when his phone rang. Orwell had no idea who it could be at this hour, but he answered it, and the voice on the other side sent a chill through him.

“I sent the boys home early, Orwell. Told them I wasn’t feelin’ too good. Really, I just wanna play with the neighborhood piggy. Get your ass over here, pronto.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. It was Aaron–but not just Aaron. It was the demon. Orwell knew he should run, he knew he should, but instead, his legs walked him out the front door of his house, down the driveway, over to Aaron’s house, where he walked up, opened the front door, and stepped inside, expecting the worst.

What he found was a house so thick with smoke, he assumed something must have caught on fire. In fact, it was just Aaron, sitting in his armchair, with a massive cigar in his mouth, almost as big as a forearm. He was naked otherwise, covered in hair, grinning at Orwell in the doorway. “There ya are. Get on over here, piggy. I’m…tired of cigars. I wanna know what it’s like to smoke a pig.”

He had to run, he couldn’t let this happen, not again, not to someone this close to him! The smoke, however, was clouding his mind, drawing him closer to where Aaron was sitting, his clothes falling away, revealing his fat body, stinking of shit, covered in a riot of tattoos. As he came closer, Aaron picked up a butane cigar lighter from the table beside him, wrapped his other hand around Orwell’s back, and pulled him close, between his legs. Orwell felt something…rough against his cock, looked down, and saw that between Aaron’s legs wasn’t a cock–but another cigar, even more massive than the one he’d set aside in the ashtray beside him. “Don’t worry pig, you’ll get to smoke him too, I promise–but first, let’s light you up.”

He watched, frozen, as Aaron took the lighter and brought the bright blue flame to his left nipple, the pain searing through him, his cock pumping out cum as he shuddered. He opened his mouth to scream, but Aaron leaned over, locked lips with him, and inhaled. Orwell felt the heat on his nipple intensify, his mouth flooded with smoke, and when Aaron pulled away, a thick cloud of dark, sooty smoke between them, he looked down and saw that his left nipple had become a cinder, red with heat–just like a cigar. Aaron repeated the process with his right nipple, and locked lips with him again, more smoke pouring out of him, Aaron sucking it down, the heat unbearable on his chest, and yet, so…erotic.

“Yeah, that’s a hot smoke pig–now get down there, and let’s smoke your neighbor down, eh?”

Aaron shoved Orwell to his knees, and he took the end of his cigar cock in his mouth, while Aaron lit his own nipples as he had Orwell’s, ordering him to draw hard on the cigarcock, pull the smoke into him, and he did as he was ordered, head swimming with smoke, guts churning, certain that if everything in his guts had still been hooked up correctly, he would throw up from it. Aaron let Orwell smoke his cock for a few minutes, enjoying the hot smoke from Orwell’s body on his own cigar, and then shoved Orwell over and fucked him, the leaf rough on his hole, but thrilling all the same, smoke billowing from both of their bodies until with a loud moan, Aaron came, in huge gouts of smoke, filling Orwell’s hole with it, his body crumpling and turning to ash in the middle of his living room floor, leaving Orwell alone, naked, and with two still smouldering tits.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 3)

“I told you before, I left early that day,” Orwell said, “Ray was still at his desk when I last saw him.”

The detective nodded. “Yes, you did say that. But I went back and asked for a few more interviews, Orwell. I have two students who say they saw both of you, together, heading for the gyms–apparently holding hands.”

Orwell felt his face turn red, but he didn’t say anything.

Oh dear, always a few loose ends. Well, you always have one more, Orwell. Just think about. Think about him, we could have such fun with him, don’t you think?

He shook his head, and Hurlbane coked his head slightly. Orwell seemed…a bit off today. Granted, the teacher had always seemed a bit strange–stranger every time he’d encountered him, but today, in particular…there was something almost wrong about him, but he didn’t know what. A thought occurred to him, then, and he realized what he’d noticed, but hadn’t been able to put a finger on–he was weak. He was weak, and tired, and he wanted so desperately to give up–all he needed was a push, and a little voice in Hurlbane’s head was assuring him that he was just the sort of person who could give Orwell the push he so desperately needed.

“Still wanting to smoke, Orwell? Think a cigar might help you remember? I know I always think better with one,” Hurlbane said, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sizable cigar. Had…had that been in there? He wasn’t a smoker, was he? But he needed to do this–he could feel it. This was going to help Orwell break, it was going to drive him nuts. Of course…he really shouldn’t be smoking in the station, or in one of these rooms–they weren’t very well ventilated. He looked over to the mirror, but couldn’t see any hint of…displeasure, and then at the door. They’d stop him if he went too far, right?

“Don’t…I know he’s telling you that you should, but don’t. Don’t smoke it, don’t listen to it, just run.”

Orwell was looking at him now, trying to project confidence, but what could a puny, chubby, sad little faggot like that hope to accomplish? He wasn’t in charge here–no. Hurlbane knew who was calling the shots here. He locked eyes with Orwell, took out his butane lighter, bit off the cap, and lit up, seeing the desire–the need–flood across Orwell’s face as he drew the smoke in. It hurt his lungs a bit, and it seemed…hot. Too hot, but he could handle it.

“There’s no one here but us, Orwell. Who are you talking about?”

“It’s…please, just leave.”

“I don’t think so Orwell, I think we still have more to discuss. Now, we were discussing Ray, weren’t we? Mr. Diamond? Like I said, two students I’ve interviewed in the last month put the two of you together after school, the day he disappeared. What were the two of you doing–especially holding hands?”

“I… I don’t remember that at all.”

“Convenient.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t know anything more than what I told you the first time.”

Hurlbane sat down across from him at the table, took a long drag off the cigar, and blew the smoke into Orwell’s face. He flinched, shuddered, and his head dropped towards his chest for a moment, his breathing deep..

“Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?”

Orwell’s head snapped back up, he looked to the exit–should he run for it? No–if he ran…they’d lock him up in here, with him. He was already locked up in here with him. What could he do? Should…should he tell him? There was no way he’d believe him, and if he did tell him, his demon would just…just take him over anyway. No–the only way he could maybe save the detective was with silence.

“Come on Orwell, I know you want to tell me something. I’ve been doing this a very long time, and it’s all over your face. It’s heavy, isn’t it? The guilt?”

It was heavy, but it wasn’t his fault.

Now Orwell, we know the truth, don’t we? We know what a worm you are, what a pathetic little pig you turn into when you’re alone with a real man, when you’re alone with me. Why don’t you take your shirt and pants off for him? Show the nice officer what you really are, under those dirty rags of yours?

Orwell tugged down on the cuff of his shirt, sweating a bit.

If you show him, I might let him go. We can find someone nice in prison, don’t you think? Because that’s where you’re going, Orwell. That’s the only path I see, other than…you know…

“We can come back to Mr. Diamond, I suppose,” Hurlbane said, sitting back in the chair, cigar clamped in his jaw, chuffing smoke. “Let’s talk about Stewart. After all, we already know you were the last one to see him–you admitted that to us. He came to your class for detention, and then left–but his car was found in the parking lot–it hadn’t moved. So somehow, from leaving the classroom with you–and no one can confirm he even left the classroom, mind you–to his car, he simply vanished. How about that? Do you have any more you’d like to tell me about that?”

Orwell sat, silent.

Go on Orwell, take off that shirt. Show the officer what Stewart did to you. Show him what you deserve.

“S-Shut up…”

We know what you deserve, don’t we Orwell? You deserve to be punished.

Daddy’s Little Man (Part 1)

This story is a rather old one, and a rather infamous one, which caused a bit of a ruckus over on the old NCMC when I first posted it there. It got removed (for fair reason) and I never bothered to post it anywhere else, though I thought I had posted it here at some point! In any case, it involves a lot of diapers, and rather severe mental age regression, which is the reason it got removed to begin with. If that’s not your thing…well, don’t read it.

It started simply enough–James was out shopping at a department store looking for some new clothes before the start of his university classes the next week, and wasn’t finding much he liked. He had just about resigned himself to finding nothing there and heading for the next shop, when he smelled something that made him panic a bit–smoke. He looked around, wondering whether something had been set on fire and if he should try to warn people, but he didn’t see anything like that, and when he caught another whiff of the smoke, he realized that it didn’t quite smell like smoke…well, that wasn’t the best way to put it. It didn’t smell like, “something is on fire” smoke. It was sweeter, and he could recognize it from some of the seedier pubs he’d crawled past with some of his friends after finals. Someone was smoking a pipe or a cigar in here–but this was a department store, right?

He took another look around, and sure enough, he could see the haze thickened up around the suit department. Curious to see who would be so brazenly breaking the law about smoking indoors, he headed in that direction, and from a bit of a distance, spotted the culprit–an older gentleman in the middle of getting measured for a suit. He was a sizable gentleman, well, sizable was a nice way of putting it. He was fat, and quite fat at that, and rather old, probably in his sixties or so, with a horseshoe of white hair and a full but neatly trimmed full beard. The shop assistant had just finished measuring him, and was helping the man back into his anachronistic suit, all perfectly starched and pressed, and after a couple of minutes, James realized that he’d simply been staring at the man blatantly the entire time like a fool. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but his mind was feeling as hazy as the room around him. He needed to find someone to get the man to quit smoking.

He saw another attendant working the suit department, and James strode over to him. “Hey,” he said, “aren’t you going to do something about that?”

It took a few seconds for the attendant to realize someone had spoken to him–his eyes were distant and a bit glazed over, but finally he blinked a few times and noticed James standing next to him. “Oh…I’m sorry sir, is there something I can help you with?”

James rolled his eyes, “Yes, you could get the guy to quit smoking for one. Don’t you people know it’s against the law?”

“Oh…” the attendant said, “Well, that’s Mr. Rawlins. He always smokes when he comes in here.”

“And you just let him?”

The assistant just stared at him for a few moments, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Yes…we always let Mr. Rawlins do…anything he wants…” he said, his voice trailing off, and then his eyes glazed back over and he forgot James was there entirely, going back to sorting his suits.

“What in the world is going on here?” James said to himself. Everyone in the store was acting strange, and he suddenly wondered if he shouldn’t have even gotten involved. It would have been smarter to have just left, and taken his business elsewhere. He turned around, ready to leave, but saw that the way was blocked by Mr. Rawlins’ himself, fully dressed and smoking his pipe.

He was big. Bigger than James had first thought. Certainly he was fat–but he was also tall, and the way he loomed over James somehow made him feel like a little kid looking up at the principal. He stammered for a second, looking for words, but his voice failed him, and he just lapsed into silence.

“Hello there, young man. I don’t remember seeing you here before. Do you work here?”

“Oh…uh, no sir…I’m just a customer. I uh…should you uh…be smoking in here sir? I thought…well, I just…isn’t that against the law?”

Mr. Rawlins let out a booming laugh which was somehow infectious, and it seemed to James that his earlier concern was somehow childish. Of course Mr. Rawlins could smoke in here–Mr. Rawlins could do anything he wants.

“Tell me, little man, what were you shopping for today?”

“Oh…uh…just some for some new clothes for school.”

“Did you find anything you like?”

“Not…Not really…” James said.

“Yes, well, I imagine it would be difficult finding clothes to fit a husky boy like yourself.”

Husky? Who even used that word anymore? Besides, James was anything but husky–he was as thin as a rail.

“Well, come on, my little man, and let’s see if we can’t find something that might fit that frame of yours so you’ll look good when you start school next week.” Mr. Rawlins held out his hand for James, and without really knowing why, he took the gentleman’s hand and let him lead him towards the fitting station. “Howard,” he said, addressing the man who had measured him earlier, “I’d like to fit my little man here for a school uniform. We’re having a hard time finding something in his size.”

Howard, that same glassy look in his eye, smiled. “Well of course Mr. Rawlins, anything for you, sir.”

“Good man. Alright young man. Get up there and Howard will get you all measured for your uniform.”

Something wasn’t right, and yet, he was here for school clothes right? It was just lucky for him that Mr. Rawlins and Howard were here to help him find something in his size. He got up on the stool and looked at himself in the mirror, but it seemed like his reflection was perfectly normal–his usual, slender frame. But then why had Mr. Rawlins called him husky earlier?

Howard got his fabric tape and came over to James. “Alright young man, how about we get some measurements? Lift up your arms for me.”

James did as he asked, and Howard pulled the tape around his chest, noted the measurement, and then did the same around his waist. “Alright, looks like a…48” inch chest, and a 50” waist. Goodness, you are a big boy, aren’t you? Mr. Rawlins does love his little men big, doesn’t he?”

James did some mental math in his head when he heard the numbers, but his head was moving so slow. After all, he’d just barely started multiplication in school, but still…48 and 50 seemed like rather big numbers. Hadn’t he had a 28 inch waist last time he’d measured himself? But in the mirror, there was no way he could have a waist that small–he’d been eating too well and for too long for that. Indeed, he could see that his chest was thick with fat, with two big moobs hanging down, pushing out his t-shirt, his apron of a belly dropping a couple of inches below the bottom. He felt suddenly embarrassed to be wearing something so ill fitting in front of Mr. Rawlins, but the old man was staring at him with such lecherous eyes, he didn’t think he cared.

September Bonus Story Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey all! I’m going to interrupt “In the Doghouse” for a day to mention that this month’s Patreon Bonus story is ready to be downloaded, for anyone giving $5 or more a month to my page. The title of the story is “Kegger: Initiation”, and focuses on a top jock attending a party at a fraternity on campus, only to discover that the frat president seems to have an awful lot of control over the brothers in the house. There’s a whole lot of stuff in here: musk, muscle, weight gain, mind drain, slob, smoke, feet, piss, etc. so if that interests you, head on over! There’s a sequel coming next month as well, for October. Here’s a sneak peek of the story for those curious!

*Two Beers Down*

“Hey bro, what’s up? Havin’ a good time?”

Gregory had actually been slipping towards the door to the frat house, and planning on ditching the party. He hadn’t quite known what to expect, he supposed, from a college party, especially one at a frat house, but movies and TV had led him to believe it would involve a lot more…girls. The whole place was a sausage s, and all of the guys here seemed more interested in getting drunk than anything else. “Hey, uh…yeah, It’s ok I guess.”

Brad smirked, and leaned against the wall, blocking Gregory’s path. “Hey, so you’re the hot shot Freshman, right? The bro who’s supposed to take us all the way to the Rose Bowl or something. Some of the other bros were talking you up–I thought ya’d be bigger ‘r somethin’.”

“Well, when you’re a receiver, being quick is more important than being big,” Gregory said, looking at the guy blocking his way out. He sure didn’t have what it takes by any means, not with a bug gut like that. He doubted that Brad did much of anything physical, besides flipping channels on the remote, and getting up for more beer. “Gotta keep my figure, you know?”

“Hey, well, a few beers can’t hurt anyone, right?” Brad said, and clinked his red solo cup to Gregory’s–his own sent up a little splash of brown foam, but Gregory’s was clear. “Fuck man, is that fucking water in there? No one drinks fucking water at a Delta Iota Kappa Kegger!”

“Sorry, two’s my limit. I should get going too–I have some early classes tomorrow.”

“Two? Fuck bro, don’t be a fucking loser,” Brad said, “You gotta hang around a little while longer.”

“No, I fucking don’t alright?” Gregory said, “I came here tonight thinking I’d get some pussy, but all you fucks want to do is sit around like a bunch of idiots and get wasted. It’s boring. I’m gonna call a bitch and get laid.”

Brad had his arm high against the wall in front of Gregory, his hairy armpit exposed by the tanktop he was wearing. Gregory pushed forward, planning on sliding between Brad and the wall, but when he got close to Brad’s pit, the foulest odor hit him, and he froze, his face inches from the hairy mass…and he just kept…breathing. He knew he needed to keep moving, but his mind felt like it was shutting down, and struggling to reboot, and all he could really think about was how horrible Brad’s pits smelled…and how he kind of liked the stench.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, maybe a minute, when Brad tapped him on the shoulder. “Here bro! Here’s another beer for ya. I saw you needed a refill.”

Gregory looked around, a bit confused. Brad wasn’t where he’d been a moment before–had he just been standing and staring off into space like an idiot? How long could it have taken Brad to leave, and come back with a beer? He didn’t even want another beer, right? Hadn’t he been planning on leaving? “Uh…thanks, bro,” Gregory said, and took the beer from Brad, who just smiled.

“No problem bro! As president of this frat, I make sure everyone is taken care of at all times,” he gave Gregory’s stomach a pat, and leaned in close–close enough that Gregory caught another hint of his musk, and felt his cock stiffen in the front of his jeans. “Now relax and enjoy yourself! Have a good time, and get to know some of the guys. You’ll find out that we all have more in common than ya might think, bro.”

*Five Beers Down*

Gregory’s head was spinning, and he felt like he was losing control–but he didn’t lose control, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be feeling this drunk after five beers. He’d been lying earlier, when he’d told Brad that his limit was always two–back in high school he’d gotten plenty wasted on several occasions, but he…he needed some air, maybe. The air was too stale, and all of the guys were starting to get a bit rowdy, and sweaty, and every time Gregory got close to one of them and caught a whiff…

Well, it wasn’t like with Brad–that…that had been something else. Something really strange. No, the problem now, whenever he caught a whiff of another guy’s musky pits, was that it gave him a raging hard on, and there were no bitches in sight. He didn’t want anyone here thinking he was a faggot, but he also couldn’t deny how horny he was. He needed to get out, but Brad was watching the door–and watching him. The president had intercepted him again when he got too close, and insisted on getting him yet another beer, but maybe out the back somehow.

He made his way to the kitchen, claiming he needed a refill, and then slipped out the back door of the house and out onto the porch. The crisp fall air was a relief, and he felt his head clear up a bit immediately. It was definitely time to get out of here–there was something…off about this frat, and Gregory had no desire to hang around and find out what it was. Then, he caught a whiff of something on the wind, and someone spoke off to his side. “Hey bro, come out here for a smoke too?” He looked over, and sitting in a patio chair off to the side was one of the frat brothers, shirtless in the cool air, smoking a cigar. “Nice to have the company–I usually get stuck out here alone when I need a stogie.”

“No, I don’t smoke,” Gregory said, “I…uh…I just wanted some fresh air.”

“Fair enough. It can get a bit crazy in there. My name’s Josh by the way.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty wild…” Gregory looked around the yard, but he didn’t see a gate he could run for, and he didn’t want to leave with the guy just sitting here. He couldn’t just say nothing though, right? “Wish the party had some chicks–I’m horned up as hell, bro, but got nowhere to stick it.” His face turned red, unable to believe he’d just said that out loud. He must be drunker than he thought.

“Eh, who wants to deal with cunts anyway? They just ruin a good party. Us bro’s can always just jack it, right man? Come on, have a seat–this stogie’s got me ready to burst too.”

Gregory stared at him for a second, wondering if he’d just heard him right. Did this guy want to jack off with him? Was he some sort of faggot? He wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead, he walked over, and sat down in the chair next to him on the patio, downwind, catching a mix of Josh’s cigar smoke and musk that made it even harder to think about what he was about to do, and how wrong it seemed.

“Hell yeah bro,” Josh said, and pushed down his shorts and jockstrap, letting his hard seven inch cock come free. He gave it a couple of slow strokes, and then looked over at Gregory, who couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Come on bro, let’s see it!”

September Bonus Story Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

A Dog’s Tale (Part 5)

It was at this point that Fido paused in his story, looked down at my lap, and licked his chops–I mean, his lips, or whatever. I followed his eyes, and was disturbed to see that his rather detailed description of his first time in gear had, for some reason I couldn’t quite explain at this moment, given me a massive erection in the front of my pants. But that…I knew I shouldn’t be turned on by this. Fido had, as the story progressed, gone from a mere curiosity to someone much creepier. Why in the hell was I even still listening to him? I needed to get home, I had work in the morning, but more than anything, I didn’t want to have to listen to the fucker’s strange ravings anymore. And yet, even as I tried to stand up and head for the doors of the train, my body stayed right beside him. He reached out with one hand, stuck in the paw of the suit, and groped my crotch, whining a bit.

“Don’t worry master, I’ll help you out soon, once we get home. Then I’ll be your pup. I’ll be a really good pup, I promise. I can’t wait to be…me again.”

“No–No, fuck you, I don’t know what your fucking shit is, but I’m fucking done with you.”

It took all the will I could muster, but I did, at last, lurch up to standing and squeeze through the people on the train towards the door as we approached the next stop. I didn’t care if Fido was following me or not–I’d get away from him somehow, or at least find some security guard or police officer to get him to stop fucking harassing me. I got out on the platform–one I couldn’t remember ever seeing in my life–where in the world was I even?

“Master! This isn’t our stop!” Fido shouted, but I just headed for the stairway out–I needed some fucking air, I needed to get away from this crazy fuck. As I hurried off, I passed a map of the subway system, and realized I had somehow gotten on the complete wrong train, heading in the opposite direction from my apartment. Instead, I was heading towards the rundown section of town, mostly occupied by small apartments where the lower class workers and laborers tended to live. I should turn around and head for the trains, but that would mean passing Fido…and all I knew was that I needed to get this fuck away from me, but he caught up to me soon enough.

“Sir, I don’t understand, why did you get off?”

“Please, just fucking leave me alone!”

“But I haven’t finished my story yet–I haven’t even gotten to the good parts!”

I turned on him, and screamed in his face, “I don’ wanna hear anymore a yer fuckin’ story, ya fuckin’ mutt!”

Something was wrong again–my voice…that wasn’t how I was supposed to sound, was it? I felt dizzy and a bit lightheaded, and as I turned around, I saw people staring at me–at me, like I was the crazy fuck, and not the fucker beside me in the fucking costume.

“Why’s he yelling at his doggy, mom?” said a little girl passing by, but her mother just shushed her, gave me a wary look, and pulled her along.

“I’m ain’t fuckin’ crazy…he’s the crazy fuck,” I muttered, but Fido just tapped at my hand with his.

“Let me finish the story sir, and everything will make sense, I promise.”

“No, I don’t fucking want to listen to anymore of this crap,” I said, quieter so only Fido could hear, and kept walking, until I passed an advertisement on the subway wall behind plastic–letting me see a translucent reflection of myself, and what I thought I saw–it couldn’t be right. My body…I could remember it not looking quite right before, but now I seemed even more off–my gut even more pronounced, and I seemed to have lost another couple of inches of height…but now, there were new differences. My usually clean shaven face was covered with a thick beard, one that looked like I’d been growing it for years, and my head was completely shaven. Almost worse, my perfectly tailored suit was gone, and replaced by a pair of grungy, hi-viz coveralls, the kind worn by guys in construction. I didn’t even fucking look like me anymore, I looked–and sounded, I realized–like some lower class, uneducated grunt. Then Fido caught up with me, and in the mirror…in the mirror, I didn’t see the man in the suit, no, what I saw was…was a dog. Was my dog, the big fucking mutt, almost to my waist–I turned and looked at him, and he was still standing there in the costume…but what the fuck was wrong with me?

“What the fuckin’ hell is this? What the fuck’s happenin’ tah me? I ain’t supposed tah look like this, ‘n why’s everyone think yer a real fuckin’ dog?”

“Because I am a dog, master–that’s what I’m trying to tell you! See, I thought it was a curse, but Master Joel–he helped me see what I needed to be, and after that first night in Pigtown everything made so much more sense, you see.”

“I don’t wanna listen anymore, I don’t wanna hear any more crazy shit from yer fuckin’ mouth.”

“Come on Master, you’re just cranky because you haven’t smoked your pipe in a while. Let’s go sit down outside, you can smoke a while, and I’ll keep telling you my story–how’s that sound?”

I tried to resist, but he just grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out of the station, parked me on a bench, and as he kept speaking, he helped me light a pipe that had somehow appeared in the breast pocket of my new coveralls. I listened, and felt my cock start to harden again, but once I had a nice buzz going from my pipe, I settled down, and groped my cock as my dog described his first night in Pigtown.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 3)

*Meanwhile, elsewhere*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smoke Spirit (Part 10)

He could feel Howie groping his fat tits while his son, Stew, sucked the last few drops of piss from the head of his cock, and then started sucking on the fat head. He could feel Pete stroking his cock while he watched his own father fist his cousin’s tight hole. He could feel Stew’s ass clench tight around his own fist. They were all one. They were all one with the spirit in the smoke surrounding them, and with a cry, all four of them came, sealed away in their new fate–four slaves to the spirit of the smoke which had infested Doug that night, and the thick haze in the house finally began to disperse, allowing them all to see Stew, their final member, in between them all.

He was fatter than the rest of them–even Howie–large enough that his gut hit the ground where he was on his knees, mouth still wrapped around his dad’s cock, sucking hard, making sure he sucked down every drop of cum to go with the piss swilling around in his gut. Their history had shifted as well–now, the prostitute Howie and Doug had fucked had brought twins, and the two of them had raised the boys in their…respective fashions. Where Pete was turning into a handsome muscle cub, taking after Doug, Pete had learned to indulge his greed and gluttony, just like his father. Howie leaned back, moaning, a thick cloud of smoke escaping his mouth as he did, and Doug could feel how close his brother was. He walked over, straddled his nephew’s back and started tugging on his brother’s tits, knowing just how to push him over the edge, feeling how happy the spirit was inside them all, now that it had a family again, a family like it had had before.

Of course, it hadn’t been a family quite like this one–Bandgar had gotten into a fight with a rough biker gang one night, and as he’d always been able to do, he turned them into a single spirit of smoke, and absorbed them into his body, where he’d begun warping and twisting them into something else. Bandgar liked to think of the spirits he made as gifts, and this spirit was a gift he’d decided to give to Douglas after that concert. Doug couldn’t be more thankful–he was alive again! He’d forgotten what it had been like, to be alive, and made of flesh, and how good it felt to cum in one of his boys’ nasty fucking holes. He–no, they needed to thank him.

“Keep playing you dirty fucks,” Doug said, “I gotta check a message.” He went upstairs and found his phone–or Douglas’ phone, rather. He wasn’t…quite the spirit, but he wasn’t quite Doug either. He was someone new–someone better. Something better, actually, because he couldn’t forget that he wasn’t alone here. Sure enough, Bandgar had sent him a message–a link to the band’s touring schedule, and that night they were playing in a big city one state over–close enough that they could make it if they ride all day. Of course, to do that, they’d need bikes. His family had to ride hogs, right?

He went back downstairs, and felt the rest of his family falling into yet another smoky orgy, but with a few smacks upside the head, he set they straight. They had to get on the road, and they had to get going soon. The smoke in the house had thinned somewhat, but hadn’t dissipated–it had been waiting, it seemed for the thought to form that they needed to leave, and it starts to swirl around each of them. It wasn’t like before, where they’d been swallowed up–this time it stuck to them and became clothing–and like their identical tattoos, all four of them were dressed in the same basic outfit–ragged jeans and leather chaps, boots, leather vests with no shirts. The two boys had on collars, of course, showing their place in the hierarchy below their fathers. They headed for the door, and the rest of the smoke followed them, flowing out into the late afternoon sun and forming a cloud on the driveway. It faded away after a minute or so, revealing four old Harley’s–the men all headed for them, instinctively knowing which of them was theirs, and with a cry from Doug, they all drove off, abandoning their house, and their lives, without a second thought.

It had been a decent gig, and tear-down was going smoothly–smoothly enough that Ned felt he could justify taking a break for a cigar outside, while the rest of the crew got shit wrapped up. He wondered how that kid from the night before was getting on–from the sound of his message that morning, the spirit he’d been working on had been…vigorous. Still, those were the best kind, in the end. The kid might not have deserved it, but fuck, Ned had been horny, and having the four of them hanging around in his head had been getting a bit tiresome. It was time to start a new project, but to do that, you gotta get rid of the old shit first.

He stepped out into the alley, cigar out, when he saw them–four hulking men standing beside four Harley’s, smoking cigars and watching the door. “There you are, ya fucker!” one of them shouted, and ran for him. Ned braced himself–depending on how things had settled he was either about to get punched, or…well, something a bit more pleasant, hopefully.

It was a kiss–a nice smoky one, though it didn’t last long enough for Ned’s liking. “Heh, guess the day went well for you. Got the family back together?”

“Sure fucking did! All four of us. I–We…fuck man, what ya fuckin’ did tah us–we’re so fuckin’ happy to be out again man. We owe ya a nice long night before we hit the road again, what do ya say? You wanna fuck around with four dirty fuckin’ biker bears?”

It sounded like a real good time to Ned–he was getting good at this. He lit his cigar, and hauled open the door, “Hey boys! I gotta take off. I’ll see ya in the morning before we leave!” A few guys complained at the boss ditching work, but Ned didn’t give a shit–he was following Doug over to his family for introductions, and then climbed on with him and rode off for a night of sex with his creations, before sending them off again in the morning. Still, he had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he met up with the four of them–after all, the highways could be a surprisingly small place, when you’ve been on them as long as Ned had. He reached around and groped Doug’s hard cock, admiring the size, and knew he was in for quite the ride himself later that night.

Smoke Spirit (Part 9)

It wasn’t long before Steven got home from class. He was shy and a bit of a loner, keeping to himself in the house. Wiry and short, with medium length hair cut into bangs, he managed to hide from attention more often than not–while he honestly didn’t care much about Douglas’ smoking, he sided with the other two just to avoid conflict as much as possible. And so, when Steven entered the house and saw the thick haze of smoke, his only thought was whether he could get away fast enough to avoid dealing with whatever must be going on inside, but instead, he found the sweet smelling smoke drawing him in, and he shut the door behind him, almost in a daze. The smoke was so thick, he could barely even see, and he started coughing immediately. In his head, he knew he should turn right back around, leave, and call 911, but instead he found himself stumbling into the haze, still coughing, trying to keep the smoke out of him as best he could, pulling up the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth.

“In here, Steve!” A voice called, and it wasn’t a voice he recognized at all. Who in the world could that even be? He…he didn’t know why, but he needed to find out. He needed to…to join them? No, why had he thought that? He froze in the middle of the living room, holding his breath, trying to focus, telling himself he had to leave, that it…it was dangerous in here. The voice called out again, “Steve! Git yer ass in here, Howie’s about tah blow his bladder all over the floor, ya pig. Unless ya wanna lick it all up–I know…I know ya wanna do that sometimes…” the voice started chuckling then, and then groaned. He realized, too late, that his legs had started moving him closer to the doorway into the kitchen, and it was…hard to see, for some reason, like something was wrong with his eyes. But inside, he saw the most disturbing sight of his life–three men, all of them covered with tattoos–the same tattoos, in fact, in the midst of of a sweaty, smoky sex session. He could smell it on the air, the musk, and…and it was making his…his piggy cock so fucking hard.

No–why the fuck was he in here? Something was obviously very wrong, but…but didn’t he need to help out Howie? He always helped out Howie, and Pete, and Doug, of course. He was frozen in place, between his good sense and this strange compulsion, when Doug walked over to him, reeking of smoke, eyes bloodshot and smirking at him. “Don’t think too hard pig–we all know ya ain’t good at thinkin’. Hell, yer fucking dumber ‘n yer dad, ain’t that right Howie? This boy a yers popped out with even fewer fuckin’ brain cells than you did.”

“Yeah boy, git yer dumb ass over here ‘n help out yer Pa with this big ol’ load a piss I been savin’ fer ya. Ya know I ain’t gonna use a toilet when mah nasty boy is thirsty, right?”

No. No, he wasn’t doing this. None of this could be real. Everything seemed so…fuzzy all of a sudden. He tried to step back, but his Uncle Doug tugged him back, and shoved his cigar in Steve’s mouth, and the smoke made his head go light, his stomach turning itself into knots. Did he want to throw up? No…No, he…he was thirsty, wasn’t he?

“Come on, you dumb fucker, git down there ‘n drink.”

Everything seemed even more hazy than before, like something was clouding up his eyes, but one thing he could se was his fat, lazy pa, sittin’ in a chair by the table, cock hanging out, and fuck, that thirst of his was only getting worse. He stumbled forward, his body feeling…too light all of sudden, like he might blow away if he wasn’t careful, but he was down in front of his dad, mouth around his thick cock head, and as soon as his dad started pissing, all his other cares just…slipped away. Why in the hell had he been trying to worry about all of that other shit before? He was no good with thinking stuff–hell, none of them were, aside from Uncle Doug, who called the shots. The smoke was getting thicker around him, and when Pete stepped up and started pissing all over his filthy cousin, he could feel the stream running down his head and his back, but all he could see was Pete’s cock–the rest of him was lost in the thick smoke surrounding them.

On the outside, Doug could see the clouds condensing around the scrawny kid who’d come into the house–he could…kind of remember him from before, like he could kind of remember all of them, but none of that really mattered. No, what mattered to him now, was family. His family. His dirty, nasty, piggy biker family, and fuck, he was so fucking horny, he could just fuck his boy’s ass again, or hell, maybe he’d take a turn with Stew’s hole–that boy’s ass was so fuckin’ loose, but then again, when you got fists shoved up there as often as he did, that’s what tended to happen. Yeah, that’s…that’s what he should do, give his nephew a good fisting–break him in right.

He barely noticed the spirit pulling him over towards the other three, all of them already disappearing into the thick clouds of smoke surrounding Steve, where he was kneeling on the ground, moaning and gulping piss. Doug got down, fished around in the haze until he found Stew’s ass–not quite wide enough yet, but he’d be himself soon enough–and started probing it with his fingers, feeling the boy shove back onto his hand, hungry to have his filthy hole filled up. The spirit was in front of him, his smoky cock right in Doug’s face, and he…swallowed it to the hilt. It wasn’t solid…but it was there. It was energy, it was force, it was…him, in a sense he could barely describe. The thing started pumping smoke into Doug’s guts, and he could feel the heat of it infusing every bit of him, burning away the last remnants of Douglas from every corner of his mind, the spirit slowly losing form, shoving its way down Doug’s gullet until it disappeared entirely, and then, Doug’s eyes–like the rest of his family–clouded over, becoming a swirling mass of smoke even thicker than the others…and he realized that he could feel them.

Smoke Spirit (Part 8)

Doug tried to fight and push back, holding onto his own memories, but every time he tried to bring forth something to counter the spirit’s assault, it seemed to catch fire, and before he could even think of it, it was gone. There was just him, his dirty minded brother and equally perverse son…and…and someone else, too, but they’d find him eventually too. And then the whole family would be back together, like nothing had happened at all. The searing burns were more frequent now, and he could feel his boy flinch a bit as well, on occasion, meaning he was probably suffering the same sensation. He realized, at last, what he was feeling–it was his tattoos, of course! He and Howie had gotten matching tattoos when they were teenagers, and had just…kept on going. It wasn’t hard to see that they were related, given how similarly decorated they were, and as soon as they could convince someone, they’d started tattooing their boy the same as they were, when he was a teenager. He was getting close now, as was his son, and Howie, and the three of them came within seconds of one another, the smoke finally beginning to dissipate, and Doug could step back and haul his cock free of Pete’s sweet hole, and look at the damage the spirit had done to them all this time.

Then again, maybe damage wasn’t quite the right word, because when the smoke began to lift away from Howie’s body, where he was in the chair, all Doug could do was let out a gruff moan, climb over his son between them, and start groping his brother’s flabby body. His…his twin brother’s flabby body. Yeah, he was only ten minutes older, sure, but he was still the big brother–although Howie had him beat in the weight department. He’d settled in at around 275 pounds at this point, and he carried it well–his thick gut sticking out in front of him, two meaty tits with massive nipples resting on top. His ass was plenty wide, and jiggled a bit more than his gut ever would–Doug could…remember how it reverberates when he’s pounding his brother’s fat hole over…over the back of their bikes–fuck! What the fuck is he thinking? What the fuck is he doing?

“Fuck, I gots the hottest fuckin’ big brother in the whole fuckin’ world,” Howie said, looking up at Doug, his eyes the same solid grey as Pete’s below him. “Hottest fuckin’ nephew too! That’s fer suckin’ down Unc’s cum, Petey.”

“Welcome, Uncle Howie! You know I love the taste a yer fuckin’ cum. Dad’s too!”

“Yeah…yeah, yer a little fuckin’ slut. Take after yer Unc like that, boy,” Doug said, but even though the words felt…right, and that new twang sounded so natural and easy, part of him was fighting for dear life against this. But then, Howie took a deep breath of cigar smoke, grabbed Doug by the collar and locked lips with him, and fuck, the sharp taste of tobacco on his brother’s lips had him hard all over again, and ready for another round. But he…they…they had to wait, because…because wasn’t someone else still missing? He had his bro, his son, but wasn’t there someone else? Yeah, there was, but his brain was being dumb–hell, he was pretty fucking dumb, but not as dumb as Howie and Pete, that’s for sure. Someone had to be the brains in this family after all. He took a breath off his own cigar, got Pete’s mouth around his cock so he could clean it off like a good boy, and kept kissing his brother. He could…tell, everything was going to sort itself out. All he needed to do was wait. Or…Or should he be fighting this? Resisting? Isn’t…that what he should be doing?

He felt a hotter pair of hands on him, and beside him he saw the spirit. It was so solid now, and he was certain that if he reached out he wouldn’t be able to push his hand through it. It looked…so much like him, somehow. It came closer, it’s smoky belly pressed against Doug’s side, and he sighed in pleasure–from the heat, the smell of the spirit, wishing…wishing he could smell like that, even.

“It says you’ve done real good, bro. It’s real happy with ya. One more, ‘n ya’ll be one a us too,” Howie said, looking up at Doug.

“Yeah Pa, I can’t wait until yer wit’ us. Yer gonna love it. It says yer gonna love it, ‘n I love it, so it’s gotta be true, right?” Pete had crawled out from under Doug and was standing beside him, opposite the spirit, and looking at the three of them, he couldn’t believe how…similar they all looked to one another. The differences were there, sure, but no one would ever not guess they were family. That…that they were…one. Together. “One more Pa, we can wait. He’ll be home soon.”

Steven, of course. What time was it, even? He couldn’t see a clock, he couldn’t tear his attention away from his family long enough to care. He was getting hard again–they all were–he leaned down and kissed his twin again, feeding the hog some smoke, listening to his snort a bit in excitement, while his boy licked at his musky pit, blowing smoke over his skin. He could…feel them somehow. Hear them in his head, if he focused hard, but it was too hard. “Soon,” came another voice, his own voice, actually, “Very soon.”

Smoke Spirit (Part 7)

He shoved his lit cigar in Howard’s mouth, who kept trying to spit it out. Douglas ended up shoving it in, nearly down his throat, while Pete plugged Howard’s nose, forcing him to inhale the smoke, watching as Howard’s eyes clouded up–again, not as quickly as Pete’s had, but he could tell that there wouldn’t be much fight left in him soon, and the two of them released his arms.

“Y-Yeah, don’ know what I was thinkin’!” Howard said, “Me…fuckin’…runnin’.”

The smoke was pouring out of him now, like it had out of Pete in the bedroom–first from his mouth, but then it seemed to be pouring out of his very pores. The spirit touched Howard’s running clothes, and they turned black, dissolving into ash and crumbling away, as the smoke began to envelop him. “Son…help your uncle out, would ya? Suck his cock, while I have a…another go at your hole.”

“Aww…fuck yeah, ain’t nothin’ like mah hot nephew’s mouth round mah thick cock, tah clear my drunk ass head out!” Howard said through the cloud of smoke, which had swallowed his entire head. His voice had shifted again, lower, and picked up an accent so thick Douglas thought it only existed in movies and stupid TV shows for hicks. Still, even if it was heavy, it was also…familiar to his ears. Comforting even. The cloud of smoke began to descend lower, covering his chest and flat stomach, and when it reached Pete’s head, it began swallowing up his son as well. He wanted to run, he wanted to do something to save them. He managed to take a step back, and then another, watching the smoke absorb the bottom half of Howard’s body, as well as Pete’s head and neck, planted in his crotch, sucking his cock.

“Come on Pa, thought ya’s was gonna give mah cubby hole another rough plowin’!”

It was Pete’s voice this time, drifting from the cloud of smoke–he wasn’t going to let this happen to him, he wasn’t going to give into this any more. The spirit beside Howard on the chair walked over to him, once it realized he wasn’t simply going to give in, and started stroking Douglas’s cock, pulling him forward into a kiss, the things mouth hot and dry–like eating an ashtray, and yet he was so turned on, he couldn’t help but moan.

“Please…don’ do this tah us,” Douglas said, his own voice picking up the same accent as his two roommates, “We ain’t done nothing tah deserve this, it ain’t right. I’m sorry ya lost yer family, but I ain’t gonna do this.”

But even as he protested, the spirit was stroking harder on his cock, pulling him forward, step by reluctant step, until the spirit had it lined up with Pete’s ass, and unable to resist–just…wanting to know if his son’s hole felt as good as he remembered it–he slid inside with a low groan. The spirit straddled Pete’s body, weightlessly, it’s form joining the thick cloud of smoke covering the front half of his body and still spreading further, inching closer to where Douglas was now fucking his boy’s tight, wet hole. He had to stop, but he couldn’t. The spirit kept kissing him, pushing into him, breathing into him, and Douglas…felt little bits of his soul heating up, drying and blowing away with each smoky exhale. The smoke was beginning to coat him as well–he could feel his son’s hole, but he couldn’t see him anymore, and the only evidence he had that Howie–no, not Howie, Howard–existed was the occasional moan and smack of his boy’s mouth around his uncle’s cock. Douglas gave in, too tired to fight, too hungry for smoke, and the smoke enveloped him again–but this time, the sensation was different.

Before, the heat had been inside him body, as his muscles had grown–and there was still some of that heat, mostly concentrated in his gut and chest. He also felt heat on his skin however, sometimes searingly hot, enough to make him wince and flinch as he fucked his son’s hole. The tenuous connection he’d felt form between his son and him deepened, and he found himself forming the same link with Howard–no, with Howie, of course. With…with his brother. Memories came to him, more than he could really begin to process, from his time spent growing up with Howie, the two of them jumping one another’s bones every chance they could as soon as they’d figured out what their cocks were even for. In the trailer park, in the woods, back behind the school when they should have been in class–they’d been, quite literally, as close as two brother’s could be. As the older one, Doug had always been the one to call the shots, and Howie had been his always willing accomplice.

They’d fucked the bitch together, one night at a truckstop–one of the very few times they’d even bothered with pussy, and they’d been surprised with the appearance of Pete about a year later–a three month old infant left in their care–and they’d done as well as they could with Pete. They still weren’t totally sure who the father really was, but for ease, Doug had accepted the official title, while Howie had been the ever-present uncle. Pete had, thankfully, turned out to be as much of a pervert as his daddies, sucking their cocks, getting fucked–anything was good for Pete, as long as a cock was inside him.