Tag: twins

The Fetish Gun is Loose! (Part 9)

And we’re back! There will still probably be a few days this week without new updates, but hopefully it should be back to normal(ish) by next week. Bear with the upheaval–besides, it’s my birthday on Friday! You all have to cut me some slack, so there.

Rick gave a groan, and sat up in the booth where he’d been thrown by the gun, when it had gone shorted out. When he realized where he was, and who he was, he made a quick check of himself to see if anything about himself had changed when the gun had struck him–and to his surprise, he was still the same tall, thick leather clad biker bruiser he’d been after his tussle with Parker a few minutes ago, or at least, what he assumed had been a few minutes ago. He had no idea how long he’d been out, in all honesty.

The gun wasn’t where it had fallen, and he got up to look for it–but when he did, he heard a rather unsettling moan coming from under him, and his foot sank into something…squishy, and fleshy. He tumbled back down in alarm, and saw that both of his boots–were not quite boots any longer. They were still black, mostly, but the rim of the top of each of them were shaped like lips, and he could feel them sucking on his feet gently. The tongues of the boots were becoming more active and shrinking, becoming red instead of black, as fledgling limbs began to sprout on the sides and out the toe of the boot. The leather faded into flesh–though it remained quite leathery–he reached down and stroked one gently, and felt Anthony–he thought–shudder at his touch, and suck a bit harder, trying to stay on his foot even as his body was beginning to reform into a proper sort of form.

The foot of each boot began to grow, becoming a proper body–small at first, but becoming larger with each passing second. He could still feel his feet filling each man’s mouth, and down a bit of their throat, though it was becoming tighter and tighter. The men tried their best to keep his feet slammed in deep, but it proved hopeless as their human anatomy regained prominence. They each had to release the foot eventually, though their oversized tongues kept slathering Rick’s feet as hungrily as they had before.

As they grew larger, Rick noticed something else–that he couldn’t quite tell who was who. When he’d fired the gun at Anthony, by accident, he had been his father–wearing his soggy diaper, covered in shit from Parker’s eager fisting of Anthony’s hole, before he’d tried to grab the gun. But when he’d shot Parker, he’d been…normal, mostly. Now however, he was looking down at two versions of his dad–they looked…identical. Two massively fat old pigs, both of them eagerly sucking and feasting on his filthy feet.

As they both changed back, new memories were filling in his mind–and it wasn’t his father and a stranger sucking on his cock, but rather his uncle and father, twin brothers/, and both of them hungry for Rick’s filthy body more than anything else. They were mostly changed at this point, and Anthony noticed something else, that each of the brothers was actually a mirror image of the other–just like his boots of course.

After another few minutes, they were both back to their (new) old selves, their prior lives forgotten for the most part. Rick allowed the two of them to keep servicing his feet for a couple of minutes, lost in the pleasure of it until he recalled the gun, and kicked both of them off–they could take care of cleaning his feet later.

Rick surveyed they bar, and saw a couple of guys tussling over something by the dance floor. Sure enough, he caught sight of the gun between them, the pig turning the other man into a brutal looking rubber master, who proceeded to fuck the pig’s mouth right there on the floor–and the pig let the gun fall to the floor beside him, largely forgotten.

This was his chance–if he could get to the gun, it would be his again–and he could have some more fun with it before the night was through. Then again, the rubber redneck looked…pretty sexy. He might be amenable to joining forces, and families. There was always Davey too–and the odd, shifting bartender over there. He could find some way to get his hands on the gun again…probably.

*

So what should Rick’s plan be next?

  1. He tries to work out a deal with the rubber redneck, and sees what he might want to trade for the gun.
  2. He fights with him for the gun, causing some wild, unpredictable shots.
  3. He notices that the drinks poured by the bartender seem to be having strange effects, and wonders if that could help deal with the rubber redneck.
  4. He heads over to Davey instead, and sees if he wants to team up and get the gun back together.

The public poll is here!

The patron only poll is here!

Votes will be counted in two days!

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 3

Jerry Hudson was my final student of the summer, and I had quite the project in mind for him, a transformation I had never attempted before. He was a rugby player at a local college, and his coach was a good friend of mine–he had a special commission and challenge for me, he said. Jerry was a bit of a loudmouth and a braggart, and I could only take it for about ten minutes before finally pushing him to the ground and shoving my foot in his mouth. Much to his surprise, and then his terror, my foot slid in effortlessly to the ankle–he tried to fight me, but for some reason his hands and arms just flopped against my leg like fabric. With my foothold secured, I took a moment to cut away his clothes, and then reached down, grabbed his hips, and twisted his lower body around. Had he still had any bones at all, his spine would have broken–instead, he just laid there, and watched me put my other foot right in his ass.

Now came the real challenge. I concentrated on him, and started making him smaller, watching the twist grow tighter and tighter at his middle. I’d certain turned someone into a sock before–but I’d never tried making one person into a pair of socks. It was obvious from the way what remained of his face was contorting that it must have hurt something terrible, but finally, with a loud rip, he came apart at the middle, and formed into two thick, black, identical calf length socks on my feet. I surveyed the damage. My right foot, which had been shoved in Jerry’s mouth, was screaming–as usual. But the sock on my left foot was saying nothing–no mind at all, aside from a dim instinctual desire to fuck. That was no good–I couldn’t have one sock brainless, so I pressed my feet together, knit the fabric again, and concentrated, forcing Jerry’s consciousness to spread out across both socks, and then, once it was more or less centered and even, I ripped them apart. Even I screamed at that, listening to the pain the two of them felt as I did that, but it did work–Two Jerrys, one on each foot, thinking independently of one another.

Now the coach who had offered this challenge, we’d met quite a few years ago at a leather club one night. I could tell he was a man like me–musky, leathery, willing to inflict pain on other people for fun. I’d thought about wearing him, but how could I make him better? Instead, I started making things for him to wear–for a hefty price, of course. What he wanted was a pair of devoted boot slaves–and so I went to work. Luckily we had similar shoe sizes, so I could wear his boots, conditioning both Jerrys to relish and appreciate the smell of their future master’s feet. I shined the boots twice a day with the socks, getting them used to appreciating the taste of boot black, and the importance of serving boots and feet. Still, with the initial challenge over, I grew a bit bored–why not have a bit more fun with both of them? I knew what their coach liked, after all–and with two slaves, that gives you some room for, shall we say, specialization.

The right one became my newest cum rag, and once he grew more used to absorbing filth, I started branching him out–submerging him in jars of my piss, forcing him to drink all of it into himself. He also worked as my toilet paper, and grew to appreciate the taste of shit along with everything else. After a week, he was crusty and filthy, but he loved it, and was begging me for more filth to eat. Meanwhile, I put the left sock through other exercises–stretching him out, forcing him to fit over my entire fist and arm up past my elbow, decorating him with rings and studs and metal spikes. By the end, the two socks looked strikingly different–and I told my friend to come over, because we would have to finish the work with him present as well.

He was ecstatic, when he saw what I had done, and couldn’t wait to put them on. He did, and I started working the slaves together, telling them that this was the moment they’d been waiting for, that this was their master, their owner, and I started shifting them back. Soon, two young men were kneeling before him, worshiping his feet hungrily–obviously identical twins, and yet they couldn’t have been more different in their appetites. The one serving his right foot was a filthy mess, caked with cum, piss and shit–the other was cleaner, but his entire body was a riot of piercings, and desperate to feel his master’s fist buried in his asshole. The mental split had left both Jerrys much, much dumber–after all, when you only started with one brain, there wasn’t much hope for intellect, but each served his master well for many years to come. But that, alas, was the end of my summer. Still, I’ll have a whole new set of men to train next year, so who knows what might happen then?