A Ghost Story

Commissioned by Tnaka1414

I thought death would be the end of it.

I’m not religious or anything. Never really thought there was much to life, so never really expected much of an afterlife either. Maybe if I’d gone out differently. Peacefully, you know? Just lying in a bed, slipping away. Or who the hell knows, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered in the least, and I’d still be floating around like this then too. In any case, here I am, still stuck in my fucking restaurant (or what had been my restaurant until my murder), weeks later, just…drifting around, watching all of this fucking shit go down. First seeing my body carted out by the paramedics. Then seeing Jerry happily sitting there in the office after the fact, whistling away, thinking about all the money he’s going to try and make now that he doesn’t have to worry about me getting in the way of his grand business schemes. It was my fucking food, damnit! I didn’t want to fucking franchise shit, or market anything, or update the place, blow a lot of cash for frills that don’t fucking matter. I just wanted to cook good fucking food, was that so much to fucking ask? Money doesn’t fucking matter–after all, you definitely can’t take it with you. Now Jerry had sole ownership of the place, and he thought he could do whatever he wanted with it. Of course, he thought he’d be able to find my recipes somewhere–but little did he fucking know they’re all in my head. He had a bit of a fit when he couldn’t find anything–but that’s where the weasel came in.

By weasel, I mean Dennis, my sous chef–though Jerry promoted him to head chef after I passed. He was in on it too, I realized–my death that is. Big bearish fellow, on the chubby side. Not especially bright, but brighter than I’d thought. He was competent, and could follow direction well, and apparently he’d been watching me closer than I’d thought he had–because it wasn’t long before he was getting real fucking close to my food–close enough to satisfy Jerry, at least, and just a month after fucking killing me, they were about to reopen my fucking restaurant tomorrow, and fucking hell, I’m just so fucking angry. I think…I can influence things. I’ve knocked a few plates over, got in Jerry’s way once or twice as he was working and made him pause in confusion, but it’s exhausting. I…I want a body. Whenever I get close to Jerry, or to Dennis…there’s something inside me, some urge, telling me to…to get inside them, somehow, but when I try to press in through their skin, I can’t. I can pass through a wall, but not through a person–it makes no sense to me, but apparently, those are the rules. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I could be…doing something. I want to do something to them, but I don’t know what. There’s just so much rage, and…and all I can do is waft around like this, semi-transparent, glowing faintly, and wondering how long this is going to last–how much of this I’m going to have to watch.

Mostly I follow Dennis. Just looking at Jerry makes me so fucking enraged that I shake myself into a glowing mist, and it takes me hours to get myself back together. Dennis…even knowing he’s betraying me, I can’t help but kind of miss the fucker. I should say that there was another reason I kept him around despite his tendency to fuck up–the bear could suck mean cock. As a chef, mostly running my own business, it didn’t leave a lot of time for relationships, especially not when you’re gay. Dennis, well, he was homely, but he must have been practicing somewhere, because after flirting with him for a few weeks, he just got down in my office and sucked me off, no questions asked. I can tell you that mouth of his got him out of a few scrapes around here, when I got too pissed off at his incompetence. So yeah, I miss him–mostly his mouth. I’m a ghost and still fucking horny–how the fuck does that work exactly?

So I’m mulling my fate, and I follow Dennis into the bathroom, floating right through the stall door, watching him drop his pants and get ready to sit down…and something nudges me. I can’t get in through his skin, but…but maybe there’s another way inside. I know I don’t have much time to think about it–and if I think about it too much, it’ll disgust me, but I’m not…well, I’m not living anymore, it can’t kill me again. Before he can sit down on the toilet, I go around him, lunge forward, and shove my ghostly hand right into his asshole.

He yelps in surprise, tries to pull away from my hand, but I come with him. He reaches around to try and pull me out, but he can’t grip me–even if he can even feel something back there at all, beyond a weird force. But my hand inside him…fuck it feels good. It feels alive. Without even really thinking about it, I shove more of my arm in, and there’s no real resistance. Before I even realize what I’m doing, my head forces its way into his hole, and he groans in pain, I can…hear it reverberating inside his guts, actually. My torso follows, and then all of me is inside him, as he totters about in confusion, and I…I start worming my way through him, looking for…for something.

From the outside, it must have looked something like this. Dennis would have yelped, and pushed his way out of the stall, groaning. First, his ass would have expanded as my arm, and then the rest of me forced my way inside of him, and then as I pushed deeper, his gut would have started to grow. I can see him, watching his guts suddenly expand and inflate, his hands desperately trying to push his aching, stretched gut back down, but apparently, ghosts like me still have a certain kind of mass. I can feel him pushing on me in there, trying to force me back out the way I came from, and I do get forced somewhere–a tiny opening, my head pushed out of it awkwardly. I spin around and look up at Dennis, who is looking down at me in terror…like he can see me, at last. “Fuck…T-Trevor?” he mutters in disbelief, “What the fuck is…is goin’ on?”

I just stare up at his bearded face, both of his chins, I see how scared he is, and I wonder what I’m doing, for a second. But just for a second. I am still…so fucking angry at him, for what he and Jerry did to me. I realize what hole I just popped out of then–my head is literally sticking right out of Dennis’s crotch–he’s trying to push me out of his cock! I grumble, and pull my head back inside of him, and start forcing myself higher–I need to get higher, to his head, but he’s fighting me, still trying to squeeze me out. He almost manages once–he gives himself a big hug, and I slide out of his belly button up to my waist, my own gut rubbing against his for a moment. I think the image of it was so jarring that he stopped squeezing, letting me claw my way back inside him. I found my way to his neck, shoved my head through the narrow passage…and then, I wasn’t me anymore.

I was Dennis.

I was Dennis, and looking at my body in the mirror. Cute, stupid Dennis, but his body was still so bloated, and…and I realize why, after a moment. I didn’t take over Dennis’ body, I replaced him–and he’s still inside of it with me, just like I was inside of him, rumbling around, confused, trying to feel his way back into control, and I do the first thing I can think of–I grab hold of Dennis’ cock and start jacking off, and I…I picture him sliding down, sliding his way into his balls…and sure enough, I see it happen, watch the rest of Dennis’s body start to deflate, even as his balls swell larger and larger. No–my balls. I’m going to take this body, I want it, and he doesn’t deserve it. I deserve it. I start jacking faster, and I can see cum start to leak from the head–slightly transparent and glowing just like I had been since my death…and I had a thought. If I just cum him out, what’s to stop him from doing the same to me, crawling inside my guts and forcing me out? I have…to trap him somewhere, and quick.

I grip my cock, my balls uncomfortably heavy (funny how quickly I already feel like this body is mine–but then again, it will be soon enough) and look around the bathroom again, and I see the toilet sitting there…and fuck, the idea feels so fucking sick, and yet, what else would he fucking deserve? Not just for killing me, but for stealing my shit and helping Jerry with his fucking scheme? So I lumber over, balls swinging, get in the stall, loom over the toilet, and start working my cock, willing the fucker out of his own body, and cum starts flowing, dribbling all over the toilet. It’s…not normal looking cum by any means, glowing, almost iridescent, pooling in the bowl, sitting on the seat, and I take a moment to bend over and rub it in…and I can hear him, hear his panic and confusion at what’s happening, his disbelief, but I nudge him, tell him that he has a new place here–a proper sort of place for him, and I see the cum start to…soak into the toilet, and it too, starts to glow a bit. I go back to milking my cock, pumping him out over the porcelain, watching the rest of him absorb more readily into the object, and I could see it was starting to…shake a bit, as it picked up his consciousness, and he slowly realized where exactly he was–maybe. I lost track a bit as I came, huge gouts of cum spraying everywhere, all over the toilet, and the wall, and the floor, and all of it congealed and flowed into the toilet where I had put him. When I could stand again without relying on the stall for support, I could see the toilet was…glowing, and even…vibrating a bit, the pipes rattling as he tried to make sense of it all.

Still, my body needed to finish the business Dennis had come in here to do, so I sat down–and as soon as I was sitting on it, I could…feel him. He could feel me too, I’m sure, and he was trying to figure out how to get into my body again, but now that I knew my own trick, I wasn’t about to let that happen. Instead, I focused on calming him down as best I could, talking to him…but more than that even. I was…controlling him, maybe. Warping him, and his energy. Telling him that he wasn’t a person. He’d never been a person. All he’d ever been, was a toilet. He didn’t want to be a toilet, not at first. But like I said, Dennis had never been the brightest tool in the shed, and, well, getting your entire psyche shot out of your own cock, while someone you helped murder takes over your body, tends to do some damage to your self-image, and your mind. He was pretty damn broken, and he probably would have put himself back together eventually, but I got there first, and put him back together…differently. He wasn’t a person. That had been…his imagination. He was a toilet. He was supposed to be a toilet. He liked being a toilet more than anything, a men’s toilet, having big men sit on him, shit and piss in him, flush him…

I could feel him start to quiver under me in excitement, and I had to calm him down. Remind him that he had to be a good toilet, and stay very, very still, or men might get frightened of him, and then they wouldn’t use him anymore. It took a lot of effort, but he settled down, and I breathed a sigh of relief, and as a final test, did my business, feeling the surge of pleasure Dennis got when my shit and piss landed in his bowl. I wiped, got up, flushed, and he couldn’t stop a little shake as everything flushed through him–it looked like it was orgasming, honestly, and I grinned at the thing, knowing who was in there…and fuck, if I wasn’t hard as a damn rock…

I was hard! I had a cock! A real fucking cock I could touch! I was alive!

It hit me hard then, and I left the stall and looked at myself in the mirror in amazement. I was in Dennis’ body. It was my body now, and there was no way in hell that I was going to be giving it back up–not that Dennis would be wanting it back, not as happy as he was now. I felt my body, groped Dennis’s thick ball belly, his chubby moobs, his arms and ass…and as happy as I was to be back alive, I knew that something was off still. I was in control, and this body was alive, but I could tell that it wasn’t mine–not really. It worked well enough, but it’s like…being a spirit, you could see the cracks between soul and body where you hadn’t even noticed them before. I didn’t feel quite…right. I probably never will, but honestly? Given what I can do…I don’t really mind that much, because it turns out I can do so much more now.

I did it by accident first. I went to leave, after getting my clothes sorted out, and when I went to push on the door–my arm pushed through it instead, Dennis’ entire arm becoming incorporeal as it passed through. I yanked it back, and tried again–eventually, I figured out that I had to focus on actually touching the thing, if I wanted to interact with it. In a weird way, I was spirit first, and body second now–but realizing that…well, now I had all sorts of ideas.

You see, I still didn’t know what I was going to do, now that I had Dennis’s body. I couldn’t very well tell Jerry what had happened, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to pretend to be Dennis for the rest of my life. I needed to take care of Jerry somehow–not only because he deserved it, but because…well, because he’s a piece of shit, let’s be honest. He deserved everything that was coming to him, and given all of the new skills I had just learned, I figured payback was something that ought to be given sooner rather than later.

I left the bathroom, carefully, staying focused to make sure I was actually touching everything instead of just moving through it. As I made my way back to the kitchen, Jerry rounded a corner, surprising me. He looked as much like an asshole as always–tall and slender, long face. For someone working as a restaurant manager, he’d always hated food–I never should have hired him, let’s be honest. “There you are Dennis–I’ve been looking for you, pig.”

Jerry groped his crotch…and I realized what he was implying. I’d known that Jerry and Dennis had a thing on the side too, of course, just like I had. Dennis, after all, loved to eat, but mostly just loved to eat cock. I hadn’t really thought it through to the point that…well, as Dennis, Jerry was going to expect something from me now. “Oh, uh, sure thing, boss…” I mutter, and follow Jerry back into his office, where he drops his pants, sits down in his chair, his big cock jutting out from a mostly hairless crotch, and he leers at me.

“Well then, get the fuck over here pig, and suck it!”

I didn’t want to. I wanted to charge over there and fuck him up…but I didn’t know enough about my new body to really know what I could do. I needed to maintain my cover for a bit, and so, as much as it disgusted me…I went over, got down on my knees, and started sucking.

“Fuck, what’s up with you tonight?” Jerry asked, “Usually you go right for it.”

I didn’t know what to say…but as soon as his cock was in my mouth…I could feel him. Not just his body, but his spirit too…and there was that same whisper, and…and I started sucking. Not at his cock, but at the spirit inside his cock and balls, if that makes sense. It’s hard to explain. I suck, and I can…taste it, his spirit sliding down my throat, and my own cock starts to…tingle. Dennis isn’t exactly well endowed, but when I reach down, I feel my new cock start to swell a bit, getting harder and longer than I’d ever seen Dennis’s little three incher get before…and Jerry’s huge tool was suddenly a bit easier to manage in my mouth. I was sucking it away, I realized–and so, I started sucking harder.

Jerry gasped and moaned–whether in pleasure or discomfort, I never found out. He didn’t stop me, in any case, as I sucked and sucked and sucked, draining away as much of the spirit from his cock as I could, feeling Jerry’s cock shrinking more and more in my mouth. He was shuddering and shaking, almost convulsing. Finally, I felt something…culminate. A huge load of spirit flooded my mouth, throwing me away from him, almost forcefully. I watched as the rest of his cock withered away to nearly nothing, just a nub, his sack just a loose flap of skin–no trace of his balls to be seen.

Jerry sat there, panting and shaking, probably finding it difficult to process what had just happened to him while he was sitting there. Then again, if I’d expected a blow job, only to have the cock sucked out of me, I’d probably have reacted the same way.

“What…what the fuck did you do?” he said, reaching down and feeling his little clit there, “I…my fucking cock! What the fuck did you do to my cock!”

I let off a belch, and then laughed at him, and I saw how angry he was getting–angry, but also terrified. I undid the front of my pants, and let my new cock flop out–all ten inches of it, and just grinned at him. “Looks like I know right where it ended up, Jerry.”

He got his first inkling then, I think, that I wasn’t really Dennis. Dennis–and pretty much everyone else–always called him Jer. I was the only one who called him Jerry–partly because he hated it. He looked at me, grinning at him, and his face went a bit white, and he bolted for the door–I didn’t let him get there though. Dennis was a big fellow, after all–six foot two, a bit over 300 pounds. He’d played football, and even though I didn’t have the knowledge, his body did–if that makes sense. I had him tackled to the ground and pinned under my sizable bulk in a few moments, enjoying the sensation of his squirming around under me.

“What’s wrong, Jerry? Didn’t think you’d have to talk to me again, did you? You fucking son of a bitch, you fucking kill me, and think you can just wash your hands of me? Well fuck you, you piece of shit. I’m gonna fuck you up real fucking good, just you fucking wait.”

Gripping him like I was…I wasn’t just holding his body down, I had my hands on his spirit too, sitting inside that shell there, and…and fuck, it was just…I could do anything to it, I realized. He didn’t even know it was in there, I don’t think–most people don’t have a clue. I could kill him. I could rip that soul out of him, shove it somewhere–maybe even into a literal piece of shit and flush him right down Dennis–but no–he needed to suffer. I wanted to ruin him. Ruin his body, ruin his mind, ruin his life…

I started tearing at Jerry’s clothes, ripping them away with a strength that surprised us both. Again, I had the distinct sensation that something was…helping me. Pushing me along a certain sort of path I could barely make out. I remembered how, earlier, I had accidentally pushed my way out of Dennis’s belly button, and when Jerry rolled over, and I saw his…well, I plunged my dick right into his gut before I’d even really wondered if I could or not.

He gasped and groaned, but there was nothing he could do. I had him and his spirit impaled on my cock, and I started sliding in and out…and as I did…it almost felt like I was pissing. It wasn’t piss though, not really, but I as I fucked his gut, it started to grow–whatever I was putting inside him, it was inflating him rather dramatically–and fuck, seeing this slim fucker suddenly sprout this massive, hard, gut…fuck! I gave it a few slaps–it was heavy, but also…resonant. It was fat, certainly, but it didn’t feel quite like anything I had felt before. My cock was doing something else to him too…something hard to explain. I…I wanted to ruin him, and Jerry had always been so clean and neat, and…well, suddenly, he wasn’t. Hair sprouted all over his body, but especially all over his gut. His clean shaven face sported a thick, tangled beard. I could…smell him too. A thick, heady musk from all over him, as he started sweating. I pulled free, and he groped himself in horror, murmuring and groaning and grunting in confusion, barely able to roll over and get himself up on his hands and knees…and that’s when I saw my next target. Again, I don’t know what drew me there, but I saw his ear, and before I could really stop myself, I shoved my cock right inside his skull.

I couldn’t believe how easily it slid in. I also couldn’t quite believe it when I saw the head of my cock slide out the other ear, his entire head skewered on my cock…and he didn’t do anything. At all. Just stayed there, mouth agape and drooling, and I hauled my cock free, and watched him shake his head, eyes unfocused. “F-Fuck, what the fuck was…was that?” he said, a bit slow. With a leer, I gripped his head, shoved my cock back in, and gave Jerry the proper mindfuck he’d always needed, in my opinion.

Too smart for his own good. Too smart for anyone’s good really–I doubt that I was the first sucker that Jerry took for a mark. So I worked over his brains, really messed them up…and fuck, did it feel good! No sex like aural sex, if you know what I mean. Gets…real intimate, everything that you can feel. You see into them, every little bit of them, and they’re like putty. Make them forget whatever you want. Warp them around all of your little kinks and desires. And Jerry–well, Jerry was going to have a rather specific set of desires from now on, I can tell you that. He wants to make me happy–and he’s willing to do anything that I ask, if that’s what it takes. I came in his head–I don’t really know how it works, to be honest, but I came…and a bit of me seeped into him. I could…feel him, somehow. He was a part of me. I…owned him, body and soul. I was exhausted when I pulled my cock free from his ear, and his head only turned a little bit, mouth still hanging open, drooling, and when he saw my cock, he went right for it, slobbering all over it like he needed it more than anything, and fuck…I could feel it, on both sides somehow. It was fucking hot, I can tell you that, hot enough that I pushed him over, and gave him a real fuck in the ass–blowing even more fat into him in the process, but hey, he needed a a fat ass to counterbalance his massive gut, let’s be honest.

Jerry was much more compliant after that, and we sat in his office and had a bit of a discussion, about how things were going to work around this restaurant from now on. Jerry would, of course, sign all rights over to Dennis–me, naturally. He knew that what he’d been doing was wrong, and he felt oh so bad about it now that I’d fucked his head up, and he was so grateful when I offered him a job, so he’d be able to pay me back for all of the trouble he caused me.

The restaurant didn’t quite open back up on schedule. I had to take about a week to reverse all of the stupid, gimmicky changes that Jerry had planned for the “re-opening” and when the doors did open, everyone was welcomed into the same cozy space I’d always loved. Several regulars, in expressing their regret in my passing, told Dennis that the food was just as beautiful as when I’d been cooking it myself. I wanted to tell a few of them the truth…and maybe another day I will. Being a new person is…surprisingly nice, once you get the hang of it.

And so, here we are. Me, in the kitchen. Jerry in the back, washing dishes every night, which is the only job he can do without fucking up everything. Once the doors close, Jerry is more than happy to take a load from my cock, rubbing his own little clit–though he has no balls anymore to cum himself. The only time he gets off is when I fuck him–and he only gets that when he’s a very good boy. After that, he gets to work cleaning the bathrooms. He has a very special relationship with one particular toilet, you see–he’s the only one who can clean it. Dennis requires special care, after all, and Jerry is more than happy to give him a tongue bath, from top to bottom, every evening. Dennis has settled into his role rather well. He’s ebbing a bit, or maybe solidifying is a better word. After all, souls aren’t really meant to live inside inanimate objects like that–he shouldn’t really exist, and so, he’s changing somehow. I can sense it, but don’t really know what to make of it. I’m changing too, I’ve noticed. Something is…happening, but it’s a bit hard to explain. There’s still that whisper, you see–but following it’s nudges worked out well for me so far, so I…trust it, I suppose. I’m alive again, and that’s what counts–and I’m not going to let go of my second chance for anything–dead or alive.

Every Pig in His Place (2 of 2)

My personal life started to suffer. I couldn’t get any work done, normal clothes no longer felt normal. Friends who had known me for years couldn’t even recognize me, passing them in the street. I wasn’t even sure I knew who I was anymore. Membership in our little club swelled and diminished over the weeks, and I found myself in a new role–now I was the person looking for a place there, now I was the one looking to stay, and these new men joining us, thinking they could just fly forever. Now I was the one smiling at them, knowing how fucking wrong they were too, how wrong I’d been myself.

Every night now, I went straight to the bar. It was the only place I felt alive anymore, the only place where I felt like I belonged/ I’d stopped looking at myself in mirrors months ago, whenever possible…after the tattoos had started to appear, after I couldn’t even see anything human in my eyes any longer. I started dressing in rubber, preferably with a mask. I felt more comfortable that way, without a face, without a name. In the bar, I was just an object–I’d gone from a big dicked fucker to a servicer. Drinking cum and piss, everyone helping themselves to my holes whenever they wanted me. I got to know the man I’d seen that first night, watching me–that, was Rod. The owner, the ringmaster, the warden. He never used me, but he did watch me, and every night, he’d take the pleasure of 86-ing me onto the street, personally, telling me I couldn’t stay, that I still wasn’t ready!

And I would slink back out, sucking as much cock on the way out as I could, thrown back up into the air from the pond again, but I was losing momentum fast. So one night, I found Rod first, and I begged him. I begged him to find a place for me, to let me stay, that I couldn’t live out there anymore, that I didn’t belong out there–I belonged here now, and he knew it as well as I did. So he found a place for me alright–right here, where I’ve been for…well, a good long time.

I tried to deny it, I tried to take it back. I wasn’t supposed to be here, in the bathroom, I wasn’t a toilet…was I? He had to chain me down for a while, keep me in place, until I understood, until I felt it in my bones. Until the time he let me try to leave, and the thought of leaving…terrified me. I wasn’t worthy of leaving, this is where I belong–and it’s where you belong too. Yeah, you can struggle against those chains all you want, but they aren’t what’s really keeping you here–it’s you, pig. It’s who you are. Who we both are. Don’t worry, we’ll have lots of fun together. It’s been lonely, all by myself, and Rod promised me I’d have a friend soon…and now I do! I have you.

Spray

WARNING: FILTH AND SCAT AHEAD!

The bathhouse wasn’t a place you went often. Only when you got…particularly horny, and were craving something a bit more crazy. Not too crazy, mind you–you’d seen some of the things the men there got into, especially down in the basement. That wasn’t for you, you told yourself. You liked things clear, though you liked a little rough on occasion. But that night, something went askew, didn’t it?

You’d liked him, as soon as you’d seen him. A bit grungy, a bit of a rebel. That mohawk, that…dirty jock he was wearing. He was willing to throw you around, push you up against walls, willing to take it from you too. The two of you wrestling around on the concrete, a few other men watching the scene, curious if there was a chance of joining in. He got you on your knees, and you were expecting to suck cock–instead, he slipped his cock free of his jock, aimed, and sprayed you with a blast of piss. The force of it stunned you–like someone with their thumb over a garden hose. You were soaked in a second. You couldn’t escape the smell, the taste, the thrill of it. You’d never once imagined you might enjoy a scene like this, but as the men circled around you and hoed you down, you found your…mind shifting.

You swore to yourself it was a one time thing, as you walked home in street clothes, your skin still damp and reeking. You didn’t shower when you got home however–you laid down in the tub and jacked off to your stench, and then pissed all over yourself for good measure. After that, the bathhouse became a…regular activity for you, didn’t it? You just couldn’t quite find anywhere else that made you feel the same. You tried to keep away from watersports at first, but as soon as anyone caught a whiff of you, they knew what you really wanted. You felt so…ashamed, walking home, dripping with piss. Knowing that everyone who passed by could tell what you wanted, what you were. But while the shame never faded, you found yourself…enjoying it. You wanted people to know what you were, it made you harder than a gut full of secondhand beer.

You didn’t see him for almost a year. You never even realized you were looking for him, until you saw him again. The lump in your throat–was it fear, or thrill? It was too late to move to another room, he’d already seem you there, in the basement corner–what had come to be known as your “spot” when you were there. You sucked him off for a bit, drank his piss down too, but you could…sense something coming. He spun around, bent over, and before you could do much more than blink, he sprayed the contents of his ass all over your face and chest–and like the piss before…it was more than you could take, more than your mind could possibly handle, and remain whole.

Now here you are, in your corner. You almost never leave the building now–most men only see you as an it, a thing, a toilet, a trashcan, a repository for their shame. He’s over there, your creator. Some man is desperate to fuck his hole–a new top, apparently. Were you unlucky, to have been made into this thing? Could you have been fated to be something else? The man’s in balls deep now, and you’re licking your scummy lips. He’ll feed you, after this–he’ll want you to taste his new creation, right from his own ass. You wish you weren’t hard, you wish you weren’t cumming at the thought of the frothy, cummy shit you’d be feasting on soon, but that you is long gone now, and won’t ever be coming back, not after your taste of this life.

Apartment Hunting (Sketch)

A tribute to AgainstMyWill for what is still one of my favorite stories ever. WARNING: FILTH/SCAT

There really wasn’t anything worse than looking for apartments. If it wasn’t the crazy fucking people who lived in this city, or the strange apartments where some contractor must have finished, looked around, and said “someone could live in this,” it was the astronomical rent required for a fucking room. Rent too fucking high indeed, it was horrific. But if you wanted to be somebody, this is where you had to live, and so here Parker was, fresh out of college, looking for a room to rent.

He knocked on the next door, and waited for a few minutes. He could hear someone on the other side, but it took a few seconds for him to get there–the guy opened the door, which was stopped by the chain, and it was exactly the kind of person Parker loathed more than anything else. Lean and fit, though that natural kind of body, the kind of young guy who couldn’t keep an ounce of fat on him if he tried. Scruffy face, unshaven, and from the musk rolling off him, obviously unwashed. Not the sort of guy he wanted for a roommate. “Yeah, what do ya want?” The guy asked.

Parker could have just said he had the wrong apartment…but he was getting to the point where he was about ready to settle for anything. “Oh, hey…uh, I saw an ad on Craigslist about a room for rent?”

“Oh…us…” The guy said through the crack in the door, and then he obviously gave Parker a glance from head to toe. “Yeah, actually…you wouldn’t be half bad.”

The door shut, and then opened wide, giving Parker a better look at the apartment–and the place was a fucking sty. The floor was littered with trash, aside from small walkways through the muck, mostly leading to a grungy, well stained couch in front of a TV on the wall, which had some stupid reality show on. “Come on in man, let me show ya around.”

Parker really, really didn’t want to step in there, but his standards were…low at this point. It wasn’t, in fact, the worst place he’d seen that day–though it was the filthiest. He stepped inside, carefully staying on the trail between the trash, and let the guy close the door behind him. “I’m Aaron” he said, “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

Parker let the guy lead him, winding through the filth to a hallway, passing the kitchen as they went. He heard something in there, and he took a peek around the corner–there, in the middle of the floor was some, disgusting fat man on his hands and knees, wearing only a pair of well soiled briefs, his face shoved in a pizza box, eating some who knew how old pie in there, and he nearly vomited. “What…who the fuck is that?” He said, unable to look away.

“Aw hell, that’s just my pig,” Aaron said.

“He…he lives here?”

“Well yeah, he’s my pig. Where else would he live? Not with me?”

“That, I…No, fuck this, I’m leaving, this is disgusting,” Parker said, turned around and started back towards the front door.

“Stop right there, Mister,” Aaron said, and without even really understanding why, Parker froze in place. “Turn around–I haven’t even had a chance to show you your room yet. You do want to see your room, right?”

“What…why can’t I…” Parker said, but his feet, helpless, turned him around and he kept following Aaron deeper into the apartment, “How are you doing this?”

“You came into my apartment Parker!” Aaron said, “Or our apartment, really. You came in, and I get to play in your head. Getting all my fun strings in there, don’t worry about it–it feels good, actually, doing what I say. You like it. You like obeying me.”

They kept going, except now, every step brought him a strange tingle of pleasure, all of it going right to his cock. Halfway down the hallway, Aaron stopped in front of a door, and said, “Here we are Parker, you’re new room!” He opened the door and turned on the light, revealing inside a filthy bathroom, the floors stained with who knew what, and…and there was no toilet. It was obvious where the toilet was supposed to be, from the empty space, but it just wasn’t there. “What…what the fuck? I can’t live in a bathroom!”

“Well toilets don’t live anywhere else. And that’s what I placed the ad for–for a new toilet. The last one managed to run away, but we’re going to be extra careful with you, Parker–you won’t be going anywhere.”

“No–No, I’m not, this is fucking disgusting!” Parker said, and managed to push back against whatever control Aaron had over him, stepping back bit by bit.

“Yeah, see? That’s the problem I had before. That’s why I specified in the ad that I was looking for a toilet. And you came! That must mean you want to be a toilet, right Parker?”

“N-No!” But his memory said otherwise. The ad…how had he missed it? It had said toilet, why had he thought it was about a room? He…hadn’t thought it was for a room though, he’d specifically come because…because he wanted…wanted to be– “No!” He screamed, and pried himself backwards again, but not as far as he should have been able to go.

“I mean, I have high standards for toilets too, you know,” Aaron said, “I asked for references even, and your references…man, they’re something else? Serving as the football and rugby team’s personal toilet all through college? Those are some references, I gotta say. I know, serving as the toilet for just me and my pig won’t be as strenuous, so you’re welcome to work elsewhere–I know some clubs nearby who contract for toilets on the weekends. And I certainly don’t expect you to take the position without a sample. Wouldn’t want to spend your time eating shit you hate, right! Go on in, get on your knees, and you can taste all you want, Parker.”

Parker his eyes glazed over now, let loose a grunt, his nose flaring, lips curled in a sneer, hurried into the bathroom and got down, panting at the thought of a fresh load of shit. Hell, even if it was terrible, he’d probably take it–after all, finding a room is easy, but finding a place to live out your destiny has a toilet for filthy men? That was an opportunity he couldn’t bear the thought of passing up.

[The following is a letter found in the apartment of Mr. Reggie Cox on August 5th, 2014, written by him we presume shortly before his disappearance that day. With no sign of foul play or murder, Mr. Cox is presumed to be alive, although if his story is true, he may no longer be human. The Special Investigations Bureau team 9-543 is currently investigating his whereabouts–the locations indicated in the letter have been condemned and redacted from this file. Pending investigation and clearance, security clearance level two or above is required to access them.]

This will sound crazy, I know, but here’s the truth of it.

There are toilets that can talk.

I know that sounds like the words of a madman, or a schizophrenic, but I claim that I am perfectly sane…if, at the moment, no longer quite human. I am leaving this as a record of what has happened to me, since I first heard them whisper to me. I can hear the pipes calling to me now, it hurts so much, I’m so full–I have to go. But I will tell my story first, and hopefully others can use it to avoid the same fate as I have.

The first time I heard them was at [REDACTED]. I went in, and as I was pissing, I heard a voice in the room. It was very difficult to make out–I thought, perhaps, that it was coming from the vents, and I was eavesdropping on some conversation. Now, because this was a restaurant I frequented regularly for lunch, I thought nothing of it, but soon found, that each time I went to the restroom, the whisper was always there, and I quickly grew a bit curious as to what was being said.

I soon discovered it was not coming from the vents–it was loudest by the toilet, and the vent was on the other side of the room. Thinking it was perhaps coming through a pipe, I got down next to the toilet, and I discovered that the voice was somehow coming from the toilet itself! I was, naturally disturbed by this realization, and I fled quickly, abandoning my meal, and never returned their for lunch again.

Something happened in there, however. I quickly discovered the same whispers all over the city. Not every toilet spoke, perhaps one in every ten, urinals included. Now that I knew what it was, and where it was coming from, I found it very difficult to ignore, though I still found the whisper too quiet to really decipher many of the words, and yet, something was happening to me all the same. The dreams began around then. I would dream of men pissing on me, of drinking their piss. I would be trapped in complexes full of bathrooms, all of them speaking at me, demanding my attention. I would wake from these sweating and terrified, and yet incredibly horny at the same time. Occasionally I would wet the bed, and have to get up and change the sheets, unable to believe what I had done.

My curiosity was growing into an obsession. I began mapping where the toilets were that spoke, searching for some sort of pattern. I concocted government conspiracies, I questioned my sanity and went to therapists who were no help to me. Oh, it became so much easier when I finally stopped and listened!

I would only use toilets which were silent–their whispers terrified me, and yet, one day at [REDACTED], in the stall, I hastily chose a toilet without listening, and as I shat, the words…they became clearer to me. I don’t think my shitting had anything to do with the clarity–rather, it was like I was finally hearing them for the first time, or the first time I simply bothered to listen. And as soon as I could hear them, I couldn’t stop listening. It was close to half an hour later, when someone banged on the door to see if it was occupied, that I awoke from my trance, wiped and fled the bathroom.

By the time I returned home, the specific words the toilet had spoke had faded away. In fact, I don’t think they speak in words at all, more in…more in ideas, these images and tastes that linger in your mind. They speak as obsessions. That night, when I wet the bed, I no longer felt compelled to change the sheets. I mean, I did change them, but more out of habit, out of some sense of humanity, but it was only as I laid in that clean bed that I found I missed the stench of my piss. This disturbed me, and yet I couldn’t stop listening, from that moment onward, my ears were no longer shut to them.

I listened to urinals. I learned how wonderful piss smelled, I learned how wonderful it tasted. They urged me to lick them clean, to see for myself. I listened to toilets, how they loved the taste of shit, how good it felt to serve men, how worthless they were, how worthless I was, that I could hear them. They had so much to teach me. I learned, soon, how to go unnoticed. How to make myself invisible as a simple toilet. I remember one day, I visited one of my favorite toilets at [Redacted], a small private space where I could listen for hours uninterrupted. But that day, it told me to leave the door unlocked, and kneel in the filthy, piss sodden jock I had taken to wearing, and wait.

Men came and went, and never noticed me once. The toilet told me what a good job I was doing, acting just like a nasty, filthy urinal, and I could imagine myself as just a fixture in the room, stuck to the wall, and the more I imagined it, well, soon men were using me! They would stand at me, and they would piss right into my thirsty mouth, and I was so happy. I’m still happy, and after closing, I licked the toilet completely clean all night long, and left when the shop opened in the morning.

In return for what the toilets were teaching me, I thought what they wanted was for me to serve them. By now I had quit my job, and would seek out the filthiest, loudest ones, and I would clean them, and listen to the secrets they had to share with me. It was around then that I acquired an insatiable taste and hunger for men’s shit. When I wasn’t learning, I would often be found in a sling in the filthiest bathhouses I could find, begging men for their shit and piss–soon, it was all I wanted to eat, and not long after that, it was all I could eat.

All other food makes me retch now. I can’t keep it down, it just plugs up my throat until I can gag it up again. As soon as that happened, I realized that the toilets weren’t looking for someone to serve them. They were speaking to me because they could sense that I want to be a toilet too.

I didn’t know that right away. I didn’t know that’s what I really wanted. I clung to the idea that I wanted to be human, but I was so happy as a toilet in training, how could I deny what I was…what I am feeling? Still, I’ve held off until now. I thought, perhaps, I could find some middle ground, but the toilets have grown impatient with me. They…they took my cock away. I can’t piss any more, I’ve had a completely full bladder for weeks now. It huts so much. I can’t shit either, everything is just backed up inside my huge, swollen gut, aching for release.

I can hear my pipe calling to me, however. It’s reasonably close, I think it is at [REDACTED]. There’s some new construction happening around there, I think I will like it. Not that it matters what I like. I’m just a worthless toilet, slathered with shit, drenched with piss, a huge bloated gut full of waste. It will feel so good to let it out that pipe the first time, feel it flow through my insides. How long until I get my porcelain? Or maybe metal–I’d like to be a metal toilet, so much filthier.

I’ll be whispering, if you want to come and hear me. If you want to be a toilet like me. If you don’t, well, shut your ears. Still, I think you’ll hear us if you’re meant to, like I was. I have to go, my pipe is calling me. Goodbye.

“How about it boy? You wanna have some fun with a daddy tonight?”

The look on the young man’s face said enough that Nick didn’t even hear his cold letdown, just watched the young man walk off and disappear into the throng of the dance floor, and he didn’t even have the energy to scowl. He reached into the pocket of his cutoff jeans and found the small vial he’d purchased months ago, but which he hadn’t had the courage to use yet. A love potion. It probably wouldn’t even work, but it had sounded, from the shopkeeper’s description, that if you used it, there wasn’t any going back for either party.

Still, what was the point of having something like that and not using it? Then again, what right did he have to use it on someone? He had the same angry conversation in his mind every night at the club, and every night he went home alone, and every night he jacked off in his silent apartment, and every day after he’d swear he was going to use it, just get it over with, and he still hadn’t. Fuck, he needed to piss.

He headed back into the bar’s small bathroom–just a single toilet and sink–and took a piss. He pulled out the vial again and looked at the hazy pink in the dull light of the bathroom. Give it to another to drink, and both of you will love the other for the rest of your lives. He was lonely, but was it really worth it? Knowing it was all premised on deceit? Even if it was worth it, he obviously was too much of a chicken shit to use it. Before he could think about it too much, he poured the potion down the toilet and flushed it down with his piss.

The bathroom was occupied for the rest of the night–Nick barricaded himself in with the toilet, and refused to let anyone else use it. The bartender had to break the lock, and even then he had to call the police to pry Nick away from the toilet, kicking and screaming, trying to explain that he loved it, that he needed to be with it, and drag him off to the drunk tank for the night. A somewhat more sober, but very agitated, Nick returned the next day, and after buying the club a brand new toilet, he hauled their old filthy one away back to his apartment, where he stayed for days on the bathroom floor, talking to it, cleaning it with his tongue, feeding it lovingly, finally happy. No longer lonely with his new lover, a love that would never leave him, a love he would keep until he died.

Was this going to be enough? Would he finally be satisfied? Erik knew inside of himself that he wouldn’t, even as he trudged through the manure in the barn, the scent of the muck already making his dick rise up inside the stiff crotch of the overalls he’d taken from The Wall at The Center–the place which claimed that it could find work for everyone that came in, and in addition, promised that everyone would enjoy their new jobs. If they still didn’t feel quite right in their new positions, they could come back the next day, where they would be given a new occupation until they found the right one for everyone.

This was Erik’s fourth job he’d gotten from the Center so far. He’d worked in construction the first two days, finding himself enjoying the act of getting dusty and dirty, muddy and grimy and musky, every day finding someone around to fuck with in the mud. On the third day, which he spent emptying porta-potties, he’d fucked a nasty laborer inside one, stinking of shit, and cleaned out his filthy hole before fucking the shit out of him literally. And now, the overalls he’d picked from The Wall had landed him cleaning out the manure on a farm, and when he caught eyes with his fellow shit shoveler, they ended up rolling around in the muck, fucking and pissing and cumming over and over again.

He learned then, that The Center wasn’t really meant to provide people with jobs–it was designed to condition people for the jobs no one in their right mind would request. The next morning, he found himself pulled to the shit covered rubber overalls and gloves, he pulled them on and went to the gay bathhouse where he worked as a full service toilet. Still, by the end of the night, his now dull mind couldn’t imagine having any other job, and he knew he was lucky to be paid to do something he truly loved doing.

The construction workers didn’t know where the toilet in the rotted out building had come from. It wasn’t hooked up to any plumbing, it didn’t flush, and yet it always stayed reasonably clean–and for some reason, they all felt compelled to use it when they were on the job. However, the toilet isn’t really a toilet–it’s you.

You aren’t really a toilet, but that’s how you’ve the witch cursed you to be seen, all those years ago, back in college. You remained in your frat house for a while, but since then you’ve spent years being moved from place to place, servicing filthier and filthier men. By now, you’ve stopped trying to get them to hear you or see you for what you are. You wouldn’t want them to–your skin caked with filth–your body obese and bloated with thousands of pounds of shit and piss. They approach, you open, they do their business, they wipe their crack with your long, filthy beard, and then they leave. It’s the only life you remember now, and the only life you know you’ll ever want.

Source: pigtoulouse