The Haunting of Jason Camwell

So, this is the story that was too much for Patreon to handle, so no surprise to anyone, it’s pretty extreme. Content warnings include: extreme humiliation, incest, dubious consent, rape, scat, and castration. Consider yourself warned if you read any further!

Part 1 – Ghostly Gaslighting

Jason Camwell woke up with a start, the crunch of metal and the sound of the explosion fresh in his mind from the dream–the same dream he’d had for a couple nights now, ever since the weekend. It had been an accident. It was the Thursday of Spring Break, and he’d left the week long party the wrestling team had thrown for themselves at a cabin up in the woods. Jason had been drinking too much, but he’d gotten a real horny text from Amanda, his ex who was back on campus and clearly horny. He figured he’d spend a couple days fucking her before having to go back to school on Monday. He’d left the cabin, been driving down the mountain, when he’d gotten stuck behind a biker who was going rather slow down the steep and winding road, with a sizable ravine to their left. Jason had gotten impatient, gone to pass him on the right, only to misjudge a rather sharp turn that was coming up. It happened incredibly fast. He knocked up against the bike, the fellow had lost control, slammed into the barrier on the corner, and both he and the bike had flipped over into the darkness. As Jason kept driving, horrified but not willing to stop and check, he heard that crunch, and that explosion, but no one had seen him.

That was two days ago now, and so far, Jason had heard nothing about any of it. He’d hooked up at Amanda’s place like nothing was wrong, but that hadn’t been much of a distraction, so he’d come back to the house he shared with one other guy, named Harold, to chill out and decompress before classes resumed. He of course hadn’t bothered filing a report or admitting what he’d seen. Jason had a future after all. He was a senior in college getting ready to graduate, and while he wasn’t exactly the best player on the team, his father was quite wealthy and worked at the school as the dean of athletics. Before that though, he’d worked with several major league football teams, and had used his connections to secure his son a cushy position as a team’s psychologist. He’d be a millionaire in a few years, and wouldn’t have to risk a bunch of brain damage to get there. That biker was probably just some stupid fucking mountain hick, probably drunk himself. If he’d just gotten out of the way sooner, or slowed down before the turn, none of it would have happened like that. Really, it had been the biker’s fault, he’d told himself, but that didn’t make the guilt go away entirely. He sat up in bed, and for a split second, he was certain he saw someone in the room with him–an older fellow, rather grizzled with a long beard, wearing biker leathers and heavily muscled, his eyes just these two hollow pits of anger–but when he turned on the light, he was gone. Just his head playing tricks on him, he was sure, but that didn’t make getting back to sleep that night any easier. He did manage eventually, but he was exhausted when he woke up Monday morning, and he couldn’t seem to shake the sensation that he was being watched.

He went out into the main room of the house, where Harold was already up and drinking his morning coffee at the table, reading the news on his tablet. Harold was, as far as Jason was concerned, a beta, and a faggot, though he knew he couldn’t use those sorts of words around the college–too much cancel culture these days. They were both psychology majors, but beyond that, they didn’t share much in the way of similarities. While Jason was focused on sports psychology, Harold was pursuing a degree in neuroscience, and so he was constantly swamped with insanely difficult classes, spending almost all of his time in his room studying. Jason didn’t see why he even bothered–he’d just end up stuck in some boring, poorly paid academic position, saddled with student debt for the rest of his life. Some guys just didn’t understand how to live, he supposed. He was sure that Harold felt similarly about him in his own way. They weren’t living together out of mutual respect, after all. Jason’s rich parents provided him a stipend for living expenses, which included rent, but he had more cash to party if he didn’t have to pay the whole thing himself. He didn’t want his house to become the party house though–that’s what the frat houses on campus were for, after all. So he opted to rent a room to Harold, a boring, but quiet square, rather than one of his hard partying buddies. 

Jason put together his protein shake, when Harold let out a low whistle over his morning cup of coffee. “That’s brutal,” Harold said.

“What?” Jason asked.

“Accident up on one of the mountain highways. Some biker jumped the rail and fell five hundred feet into some ravine. They’re just now hauling up the wreckage.”

Jason’s heart caught in his throat, but he didn’t dare ask Harold for details, worried he might give himself away. He pulled up his own phone, found the article and read through it himself, but heaved a sigh of relief at the end. As far as he could tell, the highway patrol were considering it to be a simple matter of the biker losing control and shooting off the road–there was no evidence of anyone else being involved. His own car had a decent scratch on it, but he drove a cheap beater car out here anyway–his nice car was back home safe with his parents. He was going to be fine, it looked like, and that was enough to make him feel better. He finished his protein shake, got dressed for the gym, with his clothes for class tucked in his gym bag, and left the apartment. As he shut the door, he once again saw that strange figure from before though, that biker standing in the living room, behind Harold, was still sitting at the table, standing and staring right at Jason as he left, nothing but malice in his eyes. Jason refused to acknowledge it, though he considered opening the door again to look, but it had to be an illusion. He knew all about the behaviors of the guilty mind, enough to know how to control himself in this situation at the very least. He wasn’t about to have his final stretch of school ruined by a mistake like this. No one would miss that redneck piece of shit. He didn’t have a future, not like Jason did. 

So Jason went about his day, starting out at the gym, working on his chest and shoulders, relaxing in the sauna for a few minutes, and then changing and making his way to class. This semester’s load was light, with just a capstone class and his thesis credit. Even his thesis was almost done–he’d wrapped up the research in the fall using the wrestling and football teams, phoning in some analysis on the effect exercise had on mood–there were tons of other studies like it out there, but he didn’t care about originality. He just wanted to get the degree and get on with his career. By the time he was finished with class, it was time for lunch. He met up with some of his jock friends, listened to how the rest of the party had gone up in the cabin, and Jason expected to feel a measure of guilt again, but now that he was ready for it, he could compartmentalize it, and drive it away well enough. He faked a story well enough, going down the mountain without incident, hooking up with Amanda but breaking it off because she was getting too “serious” again, and then chilling out at home for the rest of the weekend. It was so banal he could almost believe it. He needed to believe it, really. It was the only story that made sense, after all. One of his friends mentioned driving back and seeing all of the emergency vehicles around the accident, but Jason pretended it was the first he’d heard of it. They all agreed that it was probably just some loser redneck that the world was better off without anyway. No real loss, no real reason to even think about it ever again. That was the healthy thing to do, the right thing to do, too.

He needed to get some work done on the final draft of his thesis, so he could be ready to discuss it with his advisor at the end of the week, ahead of his presentation that was scheduled for early May. After that, it would be smooth sailing until graduation, and he wouldn’t even have to think about this place again, at least until he needed to come back for a feature in the alumni magazine. All in all, everything had turned around nicely, and he felt almost back to his usual, cocky self by the time he got home. He was even thinking about calling up Amanda and asking for another go–sexually at least–when he opened the front door to the house, and was confronted by a scene he did not expect at all.

The front door to the house opened right up onto the living room, with the kitchen straight back, and a stairwell leading up to the bedrooms to the left. But there on the couch was Harold, naked, legs spread, with another guy between his legs, Harold’s whole cock down the man’s throat. The two of them had lived together for most of a year, and not once, had Jason witnessed anything sexual from Harold that entire time. He’d never brought a guy home, never mentioned going to see a boyfriend or even going out to hookup with someone. Jason had wondered, at times, if the guy even masturbated at all. He’d always assumed that fags were sex obsessed little freaks, and while he was relieved Harold didnt’ fit that mold, it also weirded him out that he could somehow be so singlemindedly obsessed with his studies. Had he just been having guys over while Jason was out of the house this whole time?

“Hey Jason,” Harold said, putting one hand on the back of the cocksucker’s head, motioning for him to keep sucking, while he spoke, “How was the morning? You’re back a bit earlier than you usually are on Mondays–everything alright?”

“Yeah, uh…could you uh, take this up to your room or something?” Jason said, trying to keep himself from saying something particularly foul, just for the sake of decorum. Really though, he was disgusted. He sat on that couch! He’d had sex with Amanda on that couch! And this faggot had been, what having random guys come over and have sex right there this whole time. One thing was for sure, they were going to be having a long discussion about it once this fucker was gone.

“What do you mean? You never mind when I have a guy over usually.” Harold said, “Come on, sit down–oh wait, before you do, get me a beer, would you?”

That, it turned out, was the last straw. Having sex in front of him, in the common areas of the house was one thing, but this little faggot telling him to bring him a fucking beer–that was enough. “No–either take it to your fucking room, or he needs to get the fuck out of here. I don’t want to watch any of that faggot shit!”

The guy sucking Harold’s cock pulled up, turned around, and Jason’s jaw dropped. This wasn’t just anyone sucking Harold off–it was Ricky, another member of the wrestlingl team, who Jason knew was straight as could be. “What the fuck Jason, don’t use that fucking word, that’s fucking shitty!”

“Ricky, what–” Jason said, “You have a fucking girlfriend! What the fuck are you doing sucking this fucker’s cock!”

“Calm the fuck down Jason,” Ricky said, “Emily and I are open, and we’re both bisexual. Sometimes you just get a hankering for cock, you know? It’s not a big deal, I don’t know why you’re being so dramatic.”

“He’s always like this,” Harold said, as Ricky went back to sucking Harold’s cock, “This is why I never wanted him to find out, you know. He’s always asking about it, always wants tips on his ‘technique’ from me, since he’s a little insecure about his own abilities, if you know what I mean. I’ve always told him that the best way to learn is to watch, but he always freaks out like this when I suggest it.”

“Ugh, I know, he does that with all of us too,” Ricky said, taking a moment to stroke Harold’s cock with his hand, “Always wants to compare how we fuck on the team, trying to get the weirdest details out of us. He’s seen us all naked, but he seems to think about how we all fuck a lot more than a normal guy would, you know?”

“I’m right fucking here, and I do not fucking ask about that shit Ricky!” Jason shouted.

“No need to get so fucking defensive man, fuck, this is why no one likes you, you know, you can never just chill out and have a good time.”

“I…I can be chill, I just…don’t want a couple of…gay guys having sex in front of me, that’s not strange.”

Harold rolled his eyes, and Ricky muffled his somewhat derisive laugh by going back to sucking on Harold’s cock. “Whatever you say man,” Harold said.

Jason fumed on the way to the kitchen, grabbed three beers out of the fridge, and brought them back to the living room. Fuck those two. He could be chill. It wasn’t a big deal, it was just sex. So what if he asked some questions on occasion, he was just curious! He thought that was a normal guy thing. “Here,” he said, and handed Harold a beer, and opened one up for himself, drinking half of it down to get a headstart on his buzz. “I don’t fucking care if you guys fuck in front of me,” Jason said, “You just surprised me is all.”

“Sure, sure,” Harold said, the mockery and doubt well apparent in his voice, popped the top on his own beer, and took a sip, “Whatever you say, Jason.”

Jason reached for the remote and turned on the TV, starting up whatever he could find on Netflix as a distraction, but found himself looking over at Harold anyway. There was something off about him, something that seemed different from this morning, but it was difficult to pin down what it was exactly. “When did you start growing your beard out?” Jason asked.

“What are you talking about, I’ve had a beard all year long,” Harold said, “are you doing alright, Jason?”

“Yeah, yeah, I…don’t know, just thought it was thinner before, or you had shaved it off.”

“Nope, always had it.”

Jason swore he was lying, that Jason had been clean shaven that morning. He’d seen him step out of the bathroom too, with just a bath towel around his waist, and knew he hadn’t had that much body hair, and that tattoo on his arm was new too. He opened his mouth to ask about those, but hesitated, thinking he’d just seem a bit crazy to keep asking about it. But what other explanation was there? None of it made much sense at all, but how could he possibly explain his housemate growing a beard, body hair, and getting a tattoo in a matter of hours, while still managing to plan a hookup with a wrestler that Jason still swore had been totally straight.

“That’s enough of that,” Harold said after another few minutes, “I wanna fuck that hole of yours.”

“Hell yeah, get in me big boy,” Ricky said, stood up and bent over the side of the couch. It was the first good look that Jason had gotten of Harold’s cock, and Ricky wasn’t wrong–it wasn’t quite as large as Jason’s own, but it was a good sized dick. “I’ll just leave you to it,” Jason said, “I need to get some work done in my room.”

“Come on Jason, stick around!” Harold said, “I thought you wanted to pick up some good pointers. You just told me that Amanda had been asking you about anal, and you chickened out. Why don’t you watch how the guys do it?”

“I didn’t tell you that! That’s–I’m not interested, alright?”

“He’s fucking embarrased,” Ricky said, shaking his head. “Dude, it’s 2021, guys fuck, alright? Stop making it a big deal!”

“It’s not a big deal!”

“Then sit down and watch, learn a thing or two,” Harold said.

Jason didn’t really want to, but he was a bit curious, in all honesty. Harold lubed up his cock, ran it up and down Ricky’s crack, and the big wrestler shuddered and let out a little moan each time Harold’s cock caught on his hole for a moment, before sliding up his crack again. “Fuck Harold, just get inside me, I need it,” Ricky moaned.

Harold gave a little smirk, lined the head of his cock up, and pushed it inside, Ricky giving a little moan, Harold feeding his ass an inch at a time until he was completely inside him, before pulling back out and building up to a steady rhythm. Jason was mesmerized by it, he’d never seen a woman show as much pleasure when he was fucking them as Ricky was showing from Harold’s cock. Was he…not as good as he’d thought? He shook his head, not quite willing to challenge his own self-confidence just yet–the two fags were clearly showing off for him. His thoughts began to wander though, as he watched Harold pound Ricky’s ass harder and harder, the wrestler’s moans growing louder and louder. He seemed to really be enjoying it, but it couldn’t feel that good. Or maybe it would feel good, getting…fucked like that, having some guy just bend you over and use you like–

“Fuck, the straight boy popped a fucking boner!” Ricky said, pointing over at Jason’s pants, which sure enough, were sporting a big tent.

Both of them just laughed uproariously at it, and horrified, Jason stood up, and retreated up the stairs to his room, but not before he heard Ricky said, “Fuck just wait until I tell the team about this, they’re all gonna bust a fucking gut. What a fucking pervert.”

Alone in his room, Jason couldn’t figure out what had gotten into him, but he also couldn’t quite stop thinking about it,wondering if it would feel good, wondering…he shook his head, tried to will his cock flaccid again, but it refused to go down. He shook his head, looked up, and there, again, in his room was the vision–the biker staring at him, just for a moment, a mischievous and cruel look in his eye, and then the shadow was gone again–and Jason looked down, saw his cock in his hand–no, not his cock.

A dildo. He was holding a dildo, and his pants were down around his ankles. He stepped out of them, went the chair by his computer, squirted some lube onto the rubber shaft, unable to believe he was really going to do this. But he’d done this before, of course. Fuck, watching Harold fuck Ricky, or whoever else he had over on any given afternoon, always got him thinking about how much he needed to get fucked. But not…but someone. No, he was too embarrassed for that. It was just experimentation. It wasn’t his fault it felt so good, that he could only seem to get hard to fuck a girl when she would reach around, slide a finger in his hole nice and deep…

He sat down on the dildo, stifling his own moan, still listening to Ricky below, feeling horny and confused, and reflected in the computer monitor, behind him, was that same vision, but again, just for a moment. “Just my imagination, just my fucking imagination…” he muttered, sliding down onto his own dildo, listening to Ricky down below as he got louder, Harold too, and when he heard the two of them finish, he did too, shooting a massive load of cum all over the carpet under his desk. Feeling better, he sat back, the dildo still buried deep inside him, and got to work revising his thesis.

Downstairs, Harold and Ricky settled back down on the couch for a little cuddle and kiss session–but Harold couldn’t stop smiling. When Ricky asked why, he said, “Just thinking about a joke I heard earlier, nothing big–I’ll tell you later.” 

“Sure thing stud,” Ricky said, “but I have to get to class.”

“Yeah, me too–might as well leave the pervert to his own devices for a while,” Harold said.

“Fuck, I thought he was so cool when I first met him, but he’s just such a weirdo. He clearly wants to get fucked, but doesn’t have the guts to just say it.”

“You should see his dildo collection.”

“No fucking way.”

“God’s honest truth, fucker has like ten of them up there. Claims he’s straight, but fuck if he doesn’t ride one of those every night. Heard Amanda broke up with him because she got sick of always having to be the one with the dick.”

“I don’t know how you live with him, Harold,” Ricky said, giving him a kiss, “I’d go crazy.”

Harold laughed again, and the two of them left the house together, while Jason kept rocking back and forth on his dildo, still wondering what on Earth had gotten into Harold today. He seemed like a different person, almost. Oh well, it wasn’t a big deal, he supposed. He took a break to check his social pages, and saw a message from Evan, another wrestler, asking him if he was still coming to the team poker game tomorrow evening.

“Won’t miss it for anything,” he texted back, and then got back to work. 


Chapter 2 – Stripping Away His Dignity

Jason’s teammate Evan was a bit of a gambler, perhaps even an addict, but he was lucky enough to generally stay lucky and flush with cash, or maybe he was just draining his wealthy parents without telling anyone. He usually went to the casinos on the weekends, but that didn’t always scratch the itch he felt, and so he liked to arrange a weekly poker night for the wrestling team and his other friends on Tuesday evenings. It was rarely the same group each week, but Jason had become more or less a regular ever since breaking up with Amanda, when he’d needed something else to fill what had been their regular date night. Evan’s place was just a few blocks over, which he split with a few other students at the college, none of whom shared Evan’s interest in gambling. Jason went around the side of the garage, where a door was propped open, the smell of weed and cigars already thicker than usual. He stepped inside, and saw he was the last one to arrive, judging by the lone empty chair. There was Evan and Will, another player on the wrestling team. Then Ricky, who Jason couldn’t quite manage to make eye contact with after the day before. There was one last person at the table, sitting away from him, that he didn’t recognize right away. The fellow was wearing a leather jacket with short cropped hair and a decent beard, smoking a cigar. When Jason came around to the chair beside him, he realized it was Harold.

He had done his best to avoid his housemate since the incident on Monday evening, and had been more or less successful. The two of them had shared the kitchen for a moment that morning without speaking to one another, before Harold had gone to the science building to work on a laboratory project, and Jason had gone off to the gym, and then class. That afternoon, Harold hadn’t been home at all, which gave Jason a chance to ride one of his dildos in private and jack off, so he could blow off a bit of steam before the poker game that evening. But now, here he was of all places. He hadn’t even known that Evan and Harold knew each other, but as Jason took a seat, the two of them were discussing something technical–Evan’s major was in computer science. Ricky was listening, though not really adding much, and Will, another tech guy, was chiming in on occasion. Jason just listened for a moment, and looked Harold up and down, figuring he must have gone for a haircut that afternoon, and a wardrobe change, and…well, he just seemed different again, in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

The hair was easy to explain, as was the leather jacket. At least those things could change over the course of a day. The jacket did look rather old and well worn–he’d probably picked it up from a vintage shop–and Harold had never cut his hair this short before–which didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about it, Jason supposed. But what about the beard? He’d seemed scruffy on Monday afternoon, but the beard he was sporting now was much more than should have been possible to grow in a day. Was it fake? That didn’t make sense. Before he could think of a good way to ask about it, Evan picked up the deck and dealt the first hand, and the game had begun. 

They played five card draw, and through the first few rounds, Evan, Harold, and Will kept up their rather technical discussion. Jason tried to track it for a while, but just found it deeply confusing and uninteresting. He tried a few times to shift the topic to sports, or summer plans, and Harold would tolerate the new topic for a moment, before moving right back into the same discussion as before. Mostly it made Jason feel stupid–and he hated feeling stupid. Finally, he said, “Can we save the school shit for school? You’re all putting me to sleep.”

The other four just stared at him–and the stares were not particularly kind. He couldn’t think of any time that Evan or Will had looked at him with such disdain. Ricky he could, of course. It was the same look of disgust he’d seen on his face the night before, and Harold just looked cool and cocky–which made Jason seethe even more. “Jason, just because you can’t keep up doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t enjoying the conversation,” Evan said, “Maybe if you listened a little closer, you’d understand it. None of this is that difficult.”

“I thought we were here to play poker,” Jason said.

Will said, “I mean, it’s just five card draw, we can play and talk at the same time–or at least some of us can. If you’re struggling, why don’t you just focus on the game, Jason? You don’t seem to be doing very well tonight.”

It was true–of the first six hands or so, he’d only won once, while Harold was proving to be quite adept. 

“Well, why don’t we make the game more interesting at least,” Harold said, “Why not play strip poker? Losers gotta give one of the guys still in the game a blowjob.”

“What? What kind of faggot shit is that?” Jason said. 

“Hey, don’t use that kind of language here man, that’s not cool,” Ricky said, “Besides, I know at least three of us here get up to some kinds of faggot shit, you know…”

Jason paused, and looked from Harold to Ricky. Had Harold said something to him about his dildos? That wasn’t gay–some straight guys just liked having their ass played with, there was nothing wrong with that. 

Harold added, “Jason’s just a little embarrassed guys. There’s another reason he doesn’t want you all to see him with his clothes off, is all.”

Everyone looked over at Harold, and then over at Jason, whose cheeks burned. “I have no idea what he’s even talking about.”

Harold just laughed. Ricky smirked, looking like he had a few ideas, but still, Jason had no clue what any of them were even talking about. Harold took another drag off his cigar, and pushed out a clean smoke ring into the air. “Only way you all will find out is if we play.”

“Alright, let’s vote on it then,” Evan said, “All in favor, raise your hands.”

Everyone raised theirs except for Jason, who just sat there with his arms crossed. “Fuck you all, I’m not playing some faggy shit like this. I’m out of here,” he said, stood up, but when he turned to the door, he saw someone standing there, the same vision or figment that had been appearing to him for the last few days, and his head started to swim. He sat down, and Evan dealt out a hand, like no one had even heard Jason’s objection. The rules were relatively simple. If you folded, you had to pay five bucks into the pot, which the eventual winner would collect. If you stayed in the hand to the end of the hand and lost, you had to lose a piece of clothing. Furthermore, the winner also could force someone who folded to take something off, so even if you folded for the entire game, you were still going to end up naked eventually. It became rather clear that the other four players were all more than happy to conspire with Harold to see Jason naked. It didn’t matter who won a hand–if Jason folded, they would always force him to pull something off. Thankfully the evening had been a bit chilly walking over, and so he had on a few layers plus a hat, while the rest of them were dressed a bit more lightly. He started staying in every round, figuring he’d lose something regardless, and managed to hang in pretty well–but no matter how well he tried to bluff, Harold always seemed to know if he had a hand that could beat Jason’s. It was almost like someone was looking over Jason’s shoulder, feeding him information. 

Ricky, who hadn’t been wearing that much to begin with, lost first. With a little shrug, he got down under the table, and a moment later, Jason felt someone spread his legs apart, and he jumped out of his chair. “What the fuck are you doing!” he said.

“Those are the rules, gotta give someone a blowjob,” Ricky said, smirking up at him, “What, can’t get it up right now without some…assistance?”

Jason’s face went beet red, but he didn’t want to feed the suspicions. So then Harold knew about his little pegging obsession, he supposed, and must have told Ricky about it. Is that the secret that Harold was talking about? It wasn’t like he’d shown up with a dildo in his ass or anything like that. “Go suck off someone else, I’m not into dudes.”

Ricky shrugged, moved over between Harold’s legs, and started sucking him off instead, which Harold made a big show of enjoying. Jason tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, but when he looked over at Evan and Will, his two friends had their hands at their crotches, groping themselves and watching the scene. “What the hell, are you two getting off on this?”

“It’s just a blowjob, Jason, calm the fuck down,” Will said.

“When did you become such a wet blanket anyway,” Evan added, “I thought you’d be cooler with this.”

“It’s fuckin’ weird, you know, for a bunch of straight guys to start blowing each other during a poker game.”

“I’m not straight,” Evan said, and looked over at Will, who also shook his head. “Ricky, Will and I are all bi–I thought you knew that. Harold’s gay of course. I think the only ‘straight’ one here is you, Jason.”

Jason knew that was a lie, but before he could challenge it, Harold moaned, and filled Ricky’s mouth with a load of cum. Ricky, still naked, sat back up in his chair licking his lips, and the game continued. Jason was down to one sock and his briefs, Evan and Will had four articles left, and Harold lost the next round, peeling off his shirt, revealing a much hairier chest than he’d had the day before. Again, Jason thought about asking how he’d gone from smooth to hairy in less than twenty-four hours, but didn’t. He figured he’d just get a bunch of eyerolls anyway, and Harold would just say he’d never paid very good attention before. In any case, Jason was on a bit of a streak, and managed to whittle Harold down to just his underwear and socks, and Will down to nothing. Without much ado, he got down under the table, and again, Jason felt two hands on his thighs, a face going for his crotch, and he leapt up from the table, while the rest of the guys laughed harder than the first time. “It’s not fucking funny!” Jason said, “You’re all fucking weird assholes tonight, what the fuck’s gotten into you?”

“Into us? I thought you were cool enough to enjoy a blowjob from a bro, but you’re such a fucking cringe loser you can’t even handle that,” Will said.

The rest of the guys laughed more, and Will moved on, sucking Evan off instead and the game resumed. Jason’s luck finally ran out–Harold took the next hand, Jason had to give up his sock, and then took the next hand as well, ordering Jason to take off his briefs. He was going to refuse, throw his clothes back on and storm out, but before he could, he again saw the figure standing behind Harold, one hand on his housemate’s shoulder, and the next thing Jason knew, his briefs were down around his knees, and the rest of the guys were all cackling madly.

“What the fuck–is that a fucking chastity cage?”

“No fucking way, no wonder he didn’t want any of us to give him a blowjob.”

“God, what a fucking weirdo.”

Jason looked down, and sure enough, he had one remaining piece of gear on, under his briefs. There, around his cock, was a metal cage with a little padlock keeping it on, keeping him from getting erect. He reached down and tried to pull it off in embarrassment, but it refused to budge. “I…I don’t fucking know how that got there,” he said.

“Don’t play dumb, Jason,” Harold said then turned to the other three guys, “I locked up his cock because I kept finding all of these cumstains around the house. Dude gets so fucking horny all the time, he’s just been fucking himself on his dildos all day long, everywhere. He just shoots and lets the cum dry where it lands. So I hid all of his dildos until he agreed that I could lock up his cock. Besides, we all know that he really gets off on having his ass worked over anyway.”

“That’s not–I don’t fucking do that!”

“It’s true, you should have seen him yesterday,” Ricky said. “He was so fucking jealous that Harold was fucking me, that he got all uptight, even though he was standing there with a plug in like always. He just stormed off upstairs and we could hear him moaning all evening long, and when I went upstairs, there was a load of cum drying on the steps, where he must have been watching us from above, the fucking pervert.”

Evan and Will just laughed harder, and Jason choked back the urge to cry, or scream, or choke Harold until he was dead. He turned away from them all instead, trying to get control of himself, and they laughed harder when they saw the buttplug he had in his hole as well, which he hadn’t even noticed putting in earlier. 

“Holy shit, that thing is thick! All this talk about how straight he is, and he’s got his cock locked up and fat fucking plugs in his ass. What a lying fucking pig,” Evan said.

“Come on, Pervert, you lost, it’s time to pay up,” Will said. “Since the two guys still in have gotten sucked off, that means it’s my turn.”

“I’m not fucking sucking any of you fucks off, you’re all fucking assholes,” Jason said.

“We’re fucking assholes?” Will said, “You’re the one standing there with your cock locked up and a huge fucking plug in your ass, trying to act all high and mighty. What the fuck is even wrong with you?”

“If you aren’t going to fucking play by the rules, then get the fuck out of here,” Evan said, “I only fucking invited you because Harold said it would be funny anyway, but we’ve all had our fucking laugh, so get going already, you’re fucking pathetic.”

Jason went to gather up his clothes, only for Harold to reach out and grab hold of his wrist. “Now, now, I don’t think that’s very fair. The pervert lost fair and square, so he needs to pay the price, and if he’s not going to pay it with his mouth, then I have another idea.” Harold stood up, and with more strength than Jason expected, he bent him over the table, and shoved Jason’s face into the pile of clothes in the center, while he grabbed hold of the plug in Jason’s ass and hauled it out of him. “You’re always talking about how much you miss having Amanda peg your hole, and I’m fucking sick of it. I think it’s time you had a taste of the real thing, don’t you think so guys?”

Jason tried to object, as the other three all laughed and cheered. He looked back, saw that Harold had already pushed his pants down, and there was his housemate’s cock–even larger than it had been the day before, larger than Jason’s was now, if he could have even gotten erect in the cage he wore now. He struggled and cursed, only for Will and Ricky to grab hold of his wrists, while Harold lined up the head of his cock with Jason’s hole, and slid right in.

“No! Fucking stop!” Jason said, only for Evan to grab hold of Ricky’s jockstrap, still fresh from working out in the gym that afternoon, and shoved it in his mouth. “Shut the fuck up, you fuckin’ pig, we all know you want this.”

“Fuck, look at how much the pervert’s cock is dribbling out, gonna be a fucking puddle on the floor by the time we’re finished here.”

“Maybe we should make him lick it up, that’ll show him to stop making messes everywhere he goes.”

Jason kept struggling, but it was no use–Harold was getting close, and shot his second load of the night deep into Jason’s hole, pulled out, and Evan slid right in without missing a beat. Harold, still horny and still hard, walked around, pulled Ricky’s ass up, and started fucking him, Ricky moaning in delight, eager for another round with Harold’s cock. At some point, Jason stopped struggling, and just let it happen, hoping that it would all be over soon. Evan came inside him after a few minutes, and then he and Will switched. Will came in Jason’s sloppy hole around the time Harold shot for the third time, filling up Ricky with a load at both ends that evening, and then Ricky, horny after getting another fuck, took the final turn with Jason’s hole. It was loose by then, and Ricky complained about it, wishing it was tighter, but he came as well, and then Harold shoved the plug back into Jason’s ass. “See I told you bringing the perv along wouldn’t be all bad,” Harold said.

“It was fun I guess, watching him squirm a bit, but I don’t think I need the loser in my house anymore,” Evan said, “Time for the pig to take his walk of shame!” 

Laughing, the four guys hauled Jason upright, and shoved him out of the door on the side of the garage, naked aside from his plugged home and caged cock. Mercifully, Harold opened the door and tossed Jason’s keys, wallet and phone out to him, which he scrambled to pick up. He pounded on the door, begging them to let him back in, or at least to give him his clothes, but they all just ignored him. Jason didn’t have a choice, other than to sprint home as quickly as he could, ducking for cover behind bushes when he needed to, and thankfully, managed to get home without incident. Humiliated, sweaty, ass aching, he sat down on the couch and cried, horrified at what Harold had done to him, what all of his friends had done to him. What had even gotten into all of them? They weren’t behaving like themselves at all. Sure, they could all be bullies on occasion, but not to each other, and even then, they weren’t usually that mean spirited, even towards guys they hated, like Harold. 

Then again, the guys didn’t seem to hate Harold anymore. If anyone around that table had been hated, it seemed to be Jason, now. They’d raped him, all of them had just gangbanged him, and then shoved him out naked into the street. The more he thought about it though, the less angry he was, and the hornier he found himself getting, the cage became tighter and tighter. He went upstairs just wanting to take a cold shower and put all of it behind him, but before he did, he realized that he really had just been raped, and if he cleaned himself now, he’d get rid of all the evidence. As disgusted as he was, he had all of their cum swilling around in his ass right now, he could get them all thrown in prison for what they’d just done to him.

He went to his room, threw on some sweatpants, and went back downstairs. He wasn’t going to let them get away with that, he couldn’t. He didn’t know what was going on, he didn’t know what had gotten into Harold, but he did know that he’d just been raped, and for that, there had to be consequences. As he went to the front door, though, the vision again appeared before him, eyes searing, and froze him in his tracks.

It couldn’t be, could it?

Ghosts didn’t fucking exist.

But why did he keep seeing this thing everywhere? Was it just a manifestation of his own guilt, or was something haunting him, or cursing him? He thought about how Harold had seemed to know what everyone was holding during the poker game, how things had kept changing, bit by bit over the last couple of days, with no one believing him. The guilt welled up, but he shoved it back down. No–it wasn’t anything like that, there was no ghosts, just one dead redneck and a group of asshole rapists that he was going to send to prison. He stepped through the vision, who offered no resistance, got dressed in some clothes, and dialed 911. This insanity was going to stop, right now, and whatever games Harold was playing with him, he was going to get to the bottom of it, tonight.


Chapter 3 – Bearing False Witness

Jason sat on the couch by the window, looking out and waiting for help to arrive. He’d made the 911 call, and the dispatcher had told him a patrol car would be dispatched to his residence to talk to him about what had happened to him. He had thrown on some clothes upstairs, and was fidgeting, now wondering what would happen if Harold got home before the cops arrived.

There was something going on, something having to do with Harold. He didn’t know how he knew it, or what exactly it was that he could sense, but it was off. There was the fact that every time he’d seen him over the last few days, he’d looked just a little bit off–the hair, the clothes, the demeanor. Then, there was the way everyone else acted around him. Jason had always had a natural charisma, a way with people. He’d never had a hard time making friends, never had to struggle to fit in. He just always knew how to get people to like him. But now, whenever Harold was around, it was just the opposite. Everyone liked Harold now, and Jason was cast aside, and treated like nobody. Or worse than nobody, as a pervert, as a buzzkill, as a loser. That’s what hurt the most, actually. Not the rape itself, but the fact that it had been his friends, or guys he’d thought were his friends. They’d turned on him at the mere suggestion from Harold, raped him and been gleeful about it, then gone on to have sex with each other too. Hypnosis, some weird neuroscience mind control, it didn’t matter what it was. This was all Harold’s fault, and Jason would expose him one way or another. Jason didn’t know how powerful Harold’s control was though–could he control a police officer, or anyone else he wanted? The cruiser pulled up in front of the house, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t tell them about it–he would sound crazy, but he had the evidence of the rape right in his ass. Harold’s control didn’t seem as complete over him, and that might be the one thing that would stop whatever plot was going on.

The officer’s came up to the door, and Jason opened it up for them as they approached. “Are you Jason Billings?” One of them asked.

Jason nodded.

“I’m Officer Mattis, and this is Officer Pike.” Mattis looked to be a bit older, probably in his mid 40’s and looked to be eating a few too many doughnuts around the precinct. Pike was younger, and more in shape than his partner, with a cleaner haircut and some tattoos on his arms. “Dispatch said you had a rape to report?”

“Yeah–I was raped tonight.”

The two officers looked at Jason, then at each other, and he could tell what they were thinking. Jason was a sizable guy after all–he didn’t look like the sort who could be forced into sex against his will. Mattis shrugged, “Alright, we need to interview you to file the report. Are the assailants here now?”

“No…it happened at a party tonight. One of them is my housemate though, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Well, if he comes home, we’ll figure it out then.”

The two officers stepped into the living room and took a seat on the couch, while Jason sat in an armchair across from them. Mattis pulled out an audio recorder and set it on the table in front of them, while Pike took out a little notebook and a pen to take notes. They started simply, asking Jason some basic information, and asking him to name the assailants. He did, and once they’d taken that information down, they asked him what had happened. Jason recounted the story of the poker game, or at least, most of it. He told them about how his friends had been acting a bit strange, especially Harold, who had suggested that they switch the game to strip poker. Jason had felt pressured to play along, though he hadn’t wanted to. Mattis interrupted him then, and asked him why, if he’d felt uncomfortable, he didn’t just leave then and there. Jason was caught off guard by the idea, and scrambled for an explanation, saying that he didn’t have a problem getting naked, but what had happened after that was way beyond a simple game.

He continued the story, massaging the truth here and there. He didn’t tell them about the blowjob part of the game right away, saying that Harold had added that in only after Ricky had lost. Ricky had tried to suck him off, and Jason had said no, so he’d sucked off someone else in the circle instead. He saw Pike cock an eyebrow up and exchange a glance with Mattis–that was enough for Jason to pause in his story, wondering what they were thinking. He felt the need to justify it somehow, explain how strange it had been, but now that he was saying it out loud, he couldn’t help but see why they were incredulous. It was a strange story, even he could admit that, but it was the truth. So he skipped ahead a bit to the more important part. He told the two cops that he’d lost, his friends had tried to make him suck them off, and when he’d refused, they’d held him down on the table and each fucked his ass in turn. That seemed to catch the officers’ attention, though it was clear that the two of them were still a bit skeptical. Jason had neglected to mention the cock cage and the buttplug that had appeared on him when he’d removed his underwear, and it was then that he realized he had made a terrible mistake–he was still wearing them both. He hadn’t even thought about removing the buttplug–if anything, he had rationalized it as useful for holding in the ‘evidence’ from the scene earlier. As for the cage, what would these two officers think if they told him to take his clothes off to inspect him or something like that? Sure, just because he was wearing it, didn’t mean that he hadn’t been raped, but it also didn’t really help his credibility. He kept his composure as best he could, and finished his story, how he’d streaked home, called the police, and brought it back to the present.

“Have you showered since you got home, before we arrived?” Pike asked him.

“I almost did, but realized it might be, well, evidence.”

“Yeah, look, you’re story is suspect, but honestly, if we can get a solid rape kit from you down at the hospital, then the story doesn’t matter so much. I believe you, it’s just, well, hard to imagine your friends treating you like that.”

“I…yeah, I don’t know how to explain that part. Harold was the one who suggested everything. I think he put them up to it.”

“And Harold’s your housemate?” Mattis asked, “Do you have somewhere else you can stay in town, where he wouldn’t know where you are?”

“I…kind of thought you would arrest him. Why should I have to leave my home?”

The cops looked at each other, and then back at him, “Look, we will arrest him, but some guys get out on bail. I’d still suggest you spend the night somewhere else, just in case. First though, you need to go to the hospital. Go to emergency, tell them you need to have a rape kit done, alright? It’s not a pleasant experience, but it might be necessary. Now, where’s Harold at?”

Jason gave the cops Will’s address, and as he was about to head to the hospital, and the cops were on their way to find Harold, there was the sound of the front door unlocking, and when it swung open, there was Harold–mostly. Again, he’d seemed to change a bit, in a few subtle ways, but Jason could see it. His hair was a bit longer, his beard as well. He had a couple of piercings in his ears that he hadn’t had earlier in the evening, and one of his arms was now decorated with a tribal tattoo sleeve. He looked from Jason to the two cops in the living room, and started to laugh.

“Are you Harold Shepard?” Officer Mattis asked.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“We’d like you to come down to the station with us and answer a few questions.”

“Am I under arrest?” Harold asked.

Pike took the handcuffs off his belt, and walked up to him. “Well, you are now bud,” he said, and Jason watched as Harold just let the cop put the handcuffs on him–and as soon as he was restrained, he let out a sigh of relief.

“We don’t need to go to the station,” Harold said, “I assure you, this is all a big misunderstanding.”

“Please, just…take him away, I don’t want to see him,” Jason said, working up some tears–more earnest than faked, but he figured it would help. 

Again, Harold just laughed. “God fucking damn it, what did the fucking pervert tell you two? Did he tell you we raped him? You can’t rape the willing, I can tell you that much. Look, uncuff me for a second. I got evidence too, you know. I recorded the whole fucking thing.”

“He’s fucking lying, he didn’t record anything!” Jason said. 

“Where’s the recording, on your phone?” Pike asked.

“Yeah, whatever, I’ll unlock it, and you can watch it,” Harold said, “I have nothing to hide, not like that cockhungry pig over there.”

The cop held the phone up to Harold’s face, which unlocked it without issue, even with his substantial changes over the last couple of days. He showed Pike where to find the video, and Jason was fuming a bit, and trying to remember what exactly had happened. He’d fought, hadn’t he? They’d all needed to hold him down to get their cocks inside him, after all. Maybe he’d edited the video already, but Jason wasn’t sure when he would have had the time, or why he would have had the foresight to do it. 

“Hit that button too, and turn on the TV–that way we can all watch it at the same time, and no one will have any doubt that the slut over there wanted all of us to fuck him.”

Jason froze. If he knocked the phone out of the cops hand, that would look like he was worried about what the video would show, but if he didn’t, and if the video did show what Harold said it did, then–but of course the video wouldn’t show that. He was right, he knew what had happened. It had to be a bluff, it had to.

Officer Mattis turned on the TV, and after a few moments, a video started playing, and Jason wanted to throw up. There he was, bent over the poker table, but no one was holding him down. He was gripping it, pushing back as Ricky fucked him, and he was begging for more, oh fuck, but that hadn’t happened, it hadn’t–he’d swear it in a court of law if he had to, it had to be fake.

“Jesus,” Pike muttered.

Jason couldn’t take it, he turned away, the room spinning, feeling like he was going to throw up, and there, behind him, was the vision, the biker, the ghost, he didn’t know what it was, but it was there, staring at him, and he felt time slow to a crawl, the room losing color, leaving just him and the biker there.

“Confess.”

It wasn’t spoken, but it was heard. Felt, really, all through him.”

“One way or another, you will confess tonight–the truth will be your cage.”

“I didn’t fucking see you!” Jason said, “It wasn’t my fault, and who fucking cares about you anyway, some fucking hick, you aren’t even fucking real get out of my fucking head.”

The world snapped back, and when Jason turned around, the two cops and Harold were all staring at him, the video still playing in the background. “Everything alright, slut?” Harold asked.

“You fucker, you fucking did this, you fucking piece of shit!” Jason said, and started towards him, only for Pike to step between them and keep Jason back.

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, or what game the two of you are playing, but you’re fucking wasting our time with this weird ass sex shit, or fetish, or whatever,” Pike said, “Tell me the fucking truth then–what the fuck happened?”

Again, the color drained from the room for a moment, and Jason could feel it welling up. A confession. He was going to spill it, he was going to say what had happened on that dark highway, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t admit it, he fucking couldn’t. He knotted up his lips, looked for anything else to say, and what came out was, “I…I was lying, Sir, I was such a horny slut earlier, and I begged them all to use me like the dirty fucking whore I am, and I loved it, but I was so ashamed of it when I got home that I decided to lie, and accuse them of rape so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. I know it was wrong, I know I’m just a perverted whore really, and fuck, seeing it happen to me again, all I want is for you to use me, please Sirs, let me make it up it up to you, use my loose sloppy hole…”

Jason was horrified by what he was saying, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop it from pouring out. He looked over at Harold, saw the sneer on his face, and he knew–it had to be him, it had to be. It was a trick, some weird ass psychological gimmick, but he had to fight it, he had to. Instead, he started stripping off his clothes in front of the two cops, dropped his pants, cock cage revealed for them all the see, turned around and bent over the side of the chair, plug still in his hole, and froze in place.

No one did anything for a moment or two. The two cops were red in the face, clearly embarrassed on Jason’s behalf, almost with pitiful looks in their eyes. Then Harold said, “Well, what are you waiting for fellas, the whore confessed, and lying faggot whores like that need to be punished don’t they? Isn’t that your job?”

Jason saw the shift happen in a moment across each of their faces. What had been pity became disgust, and what had been second hand embarrassment turned to lust and sadism. 

“What a fucking waste of our time,” Pike said, pulling his baton free of his belt and walked up behind Jason, “Just a fucking whore faggot looking for attention, eh? Well, you got my attention, and now you’re gonna get your fucking punishment.”

He swung the baton against Jason’s ass, making him jump and let out a loud gasp of pain. Pike pulled back, rubbed one leather gloved hand over the red mark across Jason’s ass, and swung again. Instead of a shout, Jason let out a surprised little grunt, as the pain was tinged with a strange pleasure suffusing him, and each hit after that only made him ache for more and more pain. He realized too late that words were still pouring from his mouth, begging for more, asking for the cops to beat him up, to brutalize him, that a lying faggot like him should be left battered and bruised in the gutter. Mattis eventually shut him up, slapping him across the face and feeding him his hard cock–not too long, but quite thick, while Pike hauled the plug out of Jason’s hole, and ran his gloved fingers around the ring, probing inside a few times before pushing his cock in, unlubed. Jason’s hole was still plenty slick with cum from his earlier gangbang, so he had no trouble taking Pike’s sizable cock, Mattis pulling on his hair, slapping his face anytime he felt so much as a brush of a tooth against his cock. Pike reached under, found Jason’s nuts, and pulled on them, tugging them as far away from his body as he could manage, making the whore scream around his partner’s cock.

Harold just watched the scene unfolding with that same cruel sneer across his face. It wasn’t too long before the two cops finished up and stumbled back from Jason’s body, shaking their heads, a little confused by what had come over them. 

“Thanks for the help officers, I knew you were just the fellas to show this faggot his place, and teach him a lesson about lying.”

“Yeah…yeah, that…fuck. We need to get back to our, uh, patrol,” Mattis said, “Come on Pike, let’s go.”

The two officers left the house as quick as they could, leaving Jason still bent over the chair, moaning, the welts on his ass from the baton turning into bruises, a puddle of cum all over the chair from where his locked cock had leaked the whole time.

“Clean up your mess, you fucking whore,” Harold said, “Fuck, you’re such a fucking piece of shit. You were really going to smear all of those friends of yours as rapists? You’re that much of a piece of shit? Good fucking thing I took that video, so everyone knows exactly what kind of fucking pig you are.”

Jason stood up, and spit in Harold’s face, “Fuck you, you fucking edited that shit, I don’t know how you’re doing this, but I’m going to fucking expose you, one way or another. You can’t do this to people–what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“All you had to do was confess, Jason, and everything would have stopped–but you couldn’t do that. I guess the guilt will just have to keep eating away at you. But if you cross me again, or call the cops, I’ll just have to make that video public–how does that sound? You want everyone on campus to see you for the whore you are? Now clean up your cum, faggot.”

Jason stood strong. He wasn’t going to concede this so easily. Faster than he could react, Harold wrapped one hand around his neck and squeezed–Jason gasped, and tried to pry the fingers loose, but he couldn’t get a grip on a single finger–there was no way Harold could have gotten so strong so fast. He flung Jason to the floor, and before he could try and roll away and get up, he had one booted foot on Jason’s nuts and crushed them against his body, making him squirm.

“I don’t think they’ve driven away yet–maybe you need some more punishment?”

“You fuck, let me go!”

“Maybe I could get officer Pike back in here, that strong fellow, give him one of my floggers and let him go to town on you, really flay open that back of yours. Is that what you want? Too stupid to give up when the gettin’s good. It’s already going to get so much worse you know, now that you made your choice. You should enjoy what you have while it lasts.”

He pulled his boot away, and Jason crawled away towards the stairs. “You’re a fucking monster.”

“I’m not the monster here, Jason. You are, and pretty soon enough, everyone’s going to see it too. Now–lick up your mess.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, there was a compulsion behind it. He found himself crawling over to the chair, and licked up his own cum where it had dribbled from his locked cock.

“That’s it, faggots love the taste of cum after all. They would never let it go to waste, never ever,” Harold said, grabbed Jason by the hair and shoved him into the seat of the chair, rubbing his nose in it. “Good faggot, now get to bed.”

Jason stood up and limped away, his whole body aching, only for something to clatter at his feet when he reached the base of the stairs. He looked down, and saw that Harold had tossed Pike’s baton at him.

“Looks like the officer left you a new toy–why don’t you go upstairs and play with it until you’re too exhausted to continue.”

Jason bent down and picked it up, and carried it up to his room, shutting himself in with it. He tried to resist the urge, but he lubed it up and slid it into his ass, churning up all that cum from all those men together, fantasizing about all of them, drooling cum all over his bed that he would lap up until he collapsed, exhausted, and fell asleep.


Chapter 4 – Pinning Him Down

Jason groaned, aching all over, and rolled over on his bed onto something hard. With one of his hands, he fumbled it out from under him, opened his eyes, and found himself holding a lube-slick police baton. Fuck, it hadn’t been a dream. He didn’t know whether he should feel more horny, or more humiliated. From the sun coming in through his window, it was already late morning. He tried to figure out what day of the week it was, and ended up fumbling for his phone, which had almost no charge on it–Wednesday, ten in the morning. 

He sat up, trying to focus, but everything from the night before felt like a jumble of memories, and none of them seemed to fit together properly. One version, where he went to the party, was raped by Harold and three guys he’d thought were all his friends, and then beaten by two cops after he’d tried to report the rape. But it felt thin and hazy. There was another version that felt more real. How he’d gone to the poker game, lost on purpose so he could show off his caged cock and plugged hole to all of his friends, all so he could out himself as a Harold’s loser faggot. They’d been disgusted, of course–why wouldn’t they be, but the disgust hadn’t been enough to stop them all from using him, bent over the poker table, filming the whole thing so they could show all their friends, all of Jason’s friends, so they’d know exactly what kind of whore he was. Then, he’d gone home, still horny as hell, and phoned a couple of cops he knew who were into some real kinky shit. Harold had walked in on him getting his ass beat by one of them, and filmed that too–and Jason had loved every second of it. The cop had given him the soiled baton as a souvenir, and he’d ridden it to exhaustion. He couldn’t stop thinking about the debauchery he’d experienced, but he pushed it away. He had to–it wasn’t…true, even if it had happened, and somehow he knew it all had. All those videos existed, no one would believe him if he tried to tell them otherwise. Harold, though, was doing something to him. Or…or maybe not Harold himself, maybe something else. He thought of that strange vision that had been haunting him ever since the accident, and while he’d been so sure it was just his guilt playing tricks on his mind, maybe it was something more than that.

He sat up in bed, got up and took a cold shower, which helped clarify his mind somewhat, though everything still felt off kilter. From how quiet the house was, Harold must have left already, which was a blessing. One way or another, he was playing a role in whatever was happening to Jason, and the further away he could get from him, the better. As he toweled himself off, sliding a new plug into his ass, embarrassed but unable, and in many ways, unwilling, to stop himself. He had to get a hold of himself, or rather, he had to figure out what was happening to him. It was clear he couldn’t do it alone though, and he didn’t know who would be able to help him, or who would even believe him if he said anything. Maybe…maybe the best thing to do would be to pretend like it was normal. Try to get Harold lulled into a false sense of security, so Jason could get some answers from him. He didn’t know what else to try, in any case. He was at such a disadvantage, and each time he’d struggled, things had only gotten worse. Maybe, for a few days, he’d just do what Harold wanted, and wait.

He flexed in the mirror, and felt a bit better. At least he hadn’t seemed to change much physically. Reality was warping around him, but he was still handsome, muscular, and strong as hell. In a straight fight, even with his larger physique, Jason was confident he’d be able to take Harold down. He didn’t have class for a few hours, and if he stayed in his room, he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of his new toys. Best to find something else to occupy his mind, and one thing he’d always been able to count on was going to the gym.

He threw on his gym clothes and left the house, opting to run to campus, which was only a couple blocks away, instead of driving. He felt good, even with the plug in his ass and his caged cock. He felt in control for just a small moment, and that was enough to give him a little hope. As soon as he set foot on campus though, he got paranoid. Were those girls looking at their phones together and laughing watching a video of him? Harold wouldn’t actually post all of that stuff, would he? Were those students going down that other path to avoid him, or because that’s just how they usually went? He pushed the thoughts out as best he could, and arrived at the athletic facility feeling mostly confident. He found his way to the gym, opened the door, and froze.

There were Harold, Evan, Ricky, and a couple other guys from the wrestling squad, all of them wearing their singlets, and laughing over by the water fountain. Harold, though, was who drew Jason’s eye immediately. He was…massive. Easily a few inches over six feet tall, packed with muscle, the singlet stretched tight over his hairy physique, his huge bulge impossible to miss. He rubbed up against Evan’s own spandex clad ass, and Harold watched as Evan let out a little moan, and ground back against Harold, licking his lips, his own erection apparent through the spandex. He turned to leave, not wanting there to be a confrontation with them all, but he only got a few steps down the hallway before a hand landed on his shoulder and shoved him into the wall. “Well well, look who finally decided to join us for the team workout this morning?” Harold’s voice said, while the rest of the jocks all laughed.

“Harold, please–I was just…”

“You were just what, whore? What were you doing here?” Harold said.

 “I…I was just leaving, I don’t want any trouble, come on.”

“Come on now, Jason. Be honest for once in your life. I know its hard for you, but the truth will set you free, once you finally admit it…”

Fuck, he did know, didn’t he? How on Earth could he possibly know about the accident? Jason stammered for a moment, and Harold pulled him away from the wall and spun him around. He found himself surrounded by the members of the wrestling squad, all in their singlets, and all leering at him rather hungrily. “I…just wanted to work out, that’s all. I don’t want any trouble guys…”

“Well we were all just finishing up out workout and were gonna head to our place after–was hoping we’d find you there,” Harold said, “But if you want to get a workout in, pig, fine–we can hang out for a bit and put you through your paces. You can’t wear that though–you know that uniforms are required for team workouts,” Harold said, “Guys, why don’t you head back to the gym, while I get this late piece of shit dressed.”

“Sure thing captain,” Evan said with a grin, and the other jocks all returned to the weight room, while Harold grabbed Jason by the collar of his shirt and dragged him a little ways down the hallway, to the locker room. Jason tried to pull away, but Harold was several inches taller, and nearly fifty pounds heavier than he was now–and the smell of him. He reeked like he hadn’t had a shower in days now, and the scent was making Jason’s cock leak in his cage, as much as he hated to admit it. 

Harold shoved him into the locker room, and Jason had to catch himself on some lockers to avoid falling flat on his face. “Harold, please, I don’t know what the fuck I did to make you want to do this to me, but I’m sorry, ok? Please, just let me go home.”

Harold just laughed. “Will you admit it then?” he asked, and again, that strange vision appeared behind him, the figment of that biker, but now, they seemed…closer than they’d been before. “You had your chance to admit it last night, you know, and you wouldn’t. I still don’t think you’re ready to come clean just yet.”

Jason looked around, saw the emergency exit, and raced for it–only for the vision to appear in front of him, looming large, time slowing down. He could feel more than just anger coming from it. It was hatred, and loathing. He froze in place, Harold walked over, and literally tore the clothes he was wearing off his body. “Go to your locker, pig, and put on your uniform–now.”

He felt like a puppet, that something was dragging his limbs across the tile, over to where his locker was. He fumbled open the combination, and nearly gagged from the stench of whatever was inside of it. His hands reached in, beyond his control, and pulled out a wrestling singlet–but it was one of the filthiest pieces of clothing he’d ever seen in his life. 

The college’s colors were white and gold, and the uniforms matched that–most of the singlets were white, with a gold stripe down the sides. This one, though, was no longer white–it was patchy all over, covered with stains that had rendered it a dull grey in the cleaner parts, and a dark brown around the crotch. “No, don’t make me wear this,” Jason begged, but he couldn’t stop his hands from stretching the neck open, his feet pushing their way down into the still damp spandex and out each leg–and then he realized that the singlet was not the usual size, either. The thighs were stretched out and barely clung to his skin, but were also too short, hiked up a bit closer to his crotch when he pulled the straps up over the shoulders, like it was made for someone shorter than he was. The gut of the singlet was also too big and well stretched out, hanging off him, and the ass would have been as well, it hadn’t been ripped out, leaving his plugged crack exposed for all to see. The usual mascot on the front of the singlet was scribbled out with marker, and a crude, cartoon pig drawn over it with cocks shooting cum onto its face, and on the back, Jason’s last name was scratched out, and the word FAGGOT written underneath it instead. Lastly, a pair of trainers that were much too large for his already big feet went on and were laced up–and they too reeked like a weeks-unwashed socks.

“There, that’s better–now, let’s get you to back to the weight room–you said you were here to work out, right?”

Again, the force guided his body back to the doors of the locker room, but as he walked, he could feel something happening to his body. Almost like he was dissociating from it, no longer quite able to feel it in the same way he should. The walk back down the hallway to the weight room felt like a dream, his body slumping along, not lining up with him, not listening to him, until he was in the middle of the weight room in front of a wall of mirrors, and everything snapped back. He looked at his reflection, and could only whimper in horror.

That wasn’t his body. It couldn’t be his body. But there he was, his face, or almost his face, on a squat, morbidly obese frame that disgusted him to no end. He couldn’t have been more than five foot six, and easily over three hundred pounds, his apron-like gut distending the singlet and swallowing his caged cock whole. His arms were too short and jutted out at a strange angle, pushed up by the rolls of fat around his body, and he could see the thick armpit hair pushing out from across the room. In fact, there was hair everywhere, anywhere there was exposed skin, a pelt crawling up his chest and meeting a thick, bristly beard around his face, his hair long, lank and greasy. His feet had filled in the massive trainers, looking almost like clown shoes on the rest of his body. He would have cried if he hadn’t been so shocked. The crowd of jocks all started laughing at him, and while Jason expected to feel the humiliation course through him, what he didn’t expect was for it to feel good. To feel right, and sexy, and horny. He felt a pulse in his cock, a spurt of precum drooling into the spandex, adding another soon to be stain to the crusty crotch. 

“No! I don’t know what you did, I don’t know how you’re doing any of this, but this isn’t me, this isn’t my body. You have to stop this Harold, please, I’m fucking begging you,” Jason said, dropping to his knees in front of Harold. 

“Tell you what, Faggot,” Harold said, “If you can chest press the bar–just the bar–I’ll see what I can do about getting some of your body back,” he said with a grin. If the other wrestlers had heard, none of them asked about it, but it was the closest he’d gotten to an admission that Harold had some control over what was happening to him. The bar wasn’t that heavy, anyway. Forty-five pounds–almost anyone could press that. He nodded, went over and laid down on the bench, the team still snickering.

He gripped the bar in his fat hands, smelling the stench rolling off his own pits, even stronger than Harold’s had been, and pushed up–the bar coming free, and after a moment’s hesitation, it dropped and landed across Jason’s flabby chest. He pushed, but could only get it a couple of inches up, before his muscles collapsed, leaving him pinned under the bar, squirming.

Everyone laughed, watching him wriggle. He tried to tip the bar off to one side, only for Ricky and Evan to grab an end and pin him there, while Will came around and sat his ass down right on Jason’s face–and farted. The smell was overwhelming, and Jason couldn’t stop himself. He started grunting and licking at the jock’s sweaty singlet, weakly thrusting his crotch into the air as he leaked a full load of cum into the front of his nasty singlet, snorting and grunting all the while. 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Jason knew that voice. The jocks let go of the bar, and Jason could finally roll it off him and onto the floor. He managed to force himself up, heaving for breath, and saw Coach Millard in the doorway to the weight room, glaring at all of them.

“That equipment is not cheap, and it is not a toy–and who the fuck let the fucking Faggot Pig into the fucking weight room! He’s fucking filthy, you know he’s not supposed to be anywhere other than the fucking locker room.”

“Sorry coach, we’ll put him back, we were just having some fun,” Harold said, and together, the squad of wrestlers hauled Jason to his feet and shoved him out of the weight room past the coach, back down the hallway, and into the locker room. There, next to the urinals, was a filthy exercise mat, and a sign over it said, “Pig’s Place.” They all shoved Jason down onto it. Harold stripped down his singlet, hauled out his massive cock, and stared pissing all over Jason where he was on his hands and knees, and the rest of the guys, hooting and hollering, all followed suit, soaking Jason down in their reeking urine while he just froze, disgusted with himself, cock rock hard in his cage, wanting this nightmare to end. 

“Alright guys, I think the faggot’s had enough for today, let’s go get lunch,” Harold said, and they all proceeded to their lockers, got changed, and left, while Jason just sat on his mat, soaked to the skin, and tried to understand what had just happened to him. He didn’t dare move a muscle, terrified that if he did, Harold might somehow make his nightmare even worse, and only when all of them were gone, and the sounds of them had faded down the hall, did he heft himself up, waddle over to his locker, and stare at the empty contents.

He had nothing to wear. He couldn’t leave looking like this, he couldn’t let the entire campus see him like this. He managed to find the rags of his old gym clothes in the trash, and fished out his phone, but who was he going to call? Ghostbusters? He returned to his mat and sat down, wanting to cry but unable to find the tears, when the locker room door opened, and Coach Millard rounded the corner.

Before Jason could say anything, the coach slapped him across the face, sending him to the floor, head spinning. “You stupid, filthy, fucking pig, what the fuck have I fucking told you, so many fucking times?”

“Sir, I–”

“You know how fucking filthy you are. Now I tolerate you in the fucking locker room because you have a good couple of holes, and you’re good for team morale, but we all fucking know why you’re here, don’t we?”

That same sensation from that morning, another version tearing itself apart from the life he’d just lived, and somehow becoming more real than the truth. How he’d tried out for the wrestling team as a Freshman, and everyone had laughed at him, his fat, obese, hairy self wanting to be a wrestler, but it soon came out, at the first party, that he’d only wanted to join because he was a horny, perverted pig looking to feel up a bunch of guys in spandex. It had been Harold’s idea, to designate him the team pig, and as humiliated as he’d been at first, it had been everything he’d wanted, in the end. For four years now, he’d been on the wrestling team, but really, he was just their collective cumdump and urinal–and the most brutal of all, was the coach–who found himself enjoying the level of control and abuse he could level at the faggot pig on a daily basis.

The coach got down and started spanking Jason’s ass, making him grunt and snort in both pain and excitement, before hauling the pig’s plug out and driving his cock in. He shoved the pig’s face into the mat and fucked him good and rough, making sure it hurt–he knew how much the pig liked a good rough fuck, and the coach had quickly discovered that sex with his wife couldn’t satisfy him anymore–meaning the pig got the brunt of his attentions every single day. After a few minutes, the coach came, but he didn’t pull out–a minute later, he let out a sigh, and Jason felt a pressure and warmth on the inside of his ass, and realized that the coach was leaving a load of piss inside him as well. 

Millard pulled his cock free and quickly shoved the plug back in, sealing everything back up. “Don’t break the rules again, faggot, or I’ll have to bring out the paddles from the office, understood?”

“Yes coach,” Jason muttered into the mat, and listened to the coach leave. Once again, he was alone. He couldn’t go home–he couldn’t. He couldn’t go anywhere that Harold might find him–if he did, things would only get worse, though Jason couldn’t really imagine what worse would look like, after this. But then, he couldn’t really imagine somewhere he’d rather be, either.

His memories were still filling in, how word had spread that he was a faggot pig, and that any man in the building could use him as he saw fit. He spent most of his time in the locker room now, on his knees, waiting for men to come in to use him. Sometimes, they needed a little sweet talking–after all, not many guys found him attractive, but he was good enough at begging that eventually he could convince most of them to feed him a load of cum or piss–or maybe they’d smack him around and tell him to leave them alone, that was just as good in some ways, for a masochistic pig like him.

He picked up his phone and saw that he had a message from Harold. With a gulp, he opened it up and read it.

“Once Coach Millard is through with you, why don’t you hang out there for the rest of the afternoon, until after football practice? We all know you’d rather be in there, begging everyone who comes in to use you as a cumdump and urinal, than going to class anyway. But once you’re done with that, come straight home, and don’t bother trying to change out of your uniform or cover it up either. Everyone on campus needs to know what kind of pig you are, after all. Once you’re here, we’ll get the party started.”

He looked at the clock–it was just now one in the afternoon–and football practice wouldn’t be done until five or six. There was no fucking way he was going to just stay here for the rest of the afternoon. He tried to get up, only to find that his knees would bend, his feet refusing to push him upright. He got more and more frustrated, and when he heard the door open, he tried to call out for help–but what came out instead was, “Hey! Come on, come use me, I’m so fuckin’ thirsty, I know you need a piggy urinal.”

The guy who came around the corner was Max, one of the football players, who was probably getting changed to lift weights before practice. “Fuck, are you in here already? I try to get here before that, so I don’t have to fucking smell you,” Max said, the disgust in his voice palpable. “Fine, since I know you won’t shut up until you get what you want,” he said, came up, pulled out his cock, and pissed all over Jason, who drank down as much as he could, and then scooted forward, and sucked the jock off for good measure.

Once Max was finished with him, Jason was horrified by what he’d done, and by how much he’d enjoyed it. He looked at the clock again, and just wanted it to be evening–but from what Harold had texted him, he had something planned for him back at the house, and it couldn’t be good. He could feel the coach’s piss beginning to leak out around his plug, dribbling down the inside of his thighs, dirtying his uniform even further, and wondered how it could possibly get worse than this.


Part 5 – Father’s Discipline

“So fuckin’ loose, tighten up pig, come on, milk it, or I’ll beat this all fucking night.”

“Pig would probably fuckin’ love that, I bet.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want to spend all night smelling him, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

The head football coach picked up the pace on Jason’s hole, pounding harder and deeper, cum drooling out each time he pulled back–the collective loads of the entire football team, who had already had their way with him once they’d come on off the field. Jason hadn’t been able to stop himself from crawling around the locker room in his filthy piss and cum soaked singlet, begging each and every player to use his hole. Some fucked him, some used his mouth, others just stood around and jacked off on him, but none of them had left without giving him a load in one fashion or other, though none of them seemed too happy about it. They’d all humiliated and ridiculed him in the process, disgusted that they were even using him at all. At last, he’d finished with the team, and all the remained were the two coaches, who were now fucking him together, the head coach in his ass, the assistant fucking his throat. Jason was exhausted, jaw and hole aching, but he did what he could to get the two older men to finish as quick as he could, tightening up and sucking harder until, at long last, they both came within a few seconds of each other, and pulled out.

“Alright, let’s shower and get home then.”

“No kidding, I don’t think I could live with myself if I went home smelling like Pig,” the assistant said.

“Hey, my wife barely ever puts out anymore, always put such a tight leash on that pussy of hers. When you’re a bit older, you’ll understand–hole’s a hole.”

“Fair enough.”

Jason fumbled around beside him, found his plug, and fit it back in his hole, only for it to slide out again almost immediately. He was too loose for it after his marathon afternoon of fucking–he’d just have to go without it. He looked around a moment, considered trying to find some clothes to fit him, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to put anything on. Whatever Harold was doing to control him, it was getting stronger. He hadn’t been able to move from his fuckmat all afternoon, not a toe onto the tile, until the condition that Harold had assigned him had been met. He forced himself up, fat body aching and stinking, and left before anyone else could come into the locker room.

It was seven in the evening at this point, and mostly dark. That made him feel a bit better as he crossed campus back to the house he and Harold shared, but more than a few people saw him. He imagined they’d call the police, but most of them just scoffed or berated him from afar–only one fellow, a security guard on his smoke break, demanded that Jason stop and service him. He sucked him off behind the student union building while the beefy fellow finished his cigarette, then drank down his piss, and was sent on his way with a kick to the ass.

He got to his house at last, and from the number of cars and bikes scattered around, it was clear that Harold had been busy organizing something for his homecoming. He tried to run, tried to go anywhere else, but couldn’t stop himself from walking up the steps, opening the front door, and stepping inside. The living room stank of sweat and sex. There on the couch was the entire wrestling squad, still in their singlets, in the midst of an orgy with one another. Off to the side of the room, were Officers Mattis and Pike, in their service uniforms, fucking the wrestling coach at both ends. 

“Hey Pig!” Evan shouted from the pile of wrestlers, “Harold’s waiting for you down in the basement–get the fuck down there already, you’re stinking up the fucking place. It’s gross.”

“S-Sorry,” Jason muttered, happy at least that he wasn’t getting jumped by all of them for round two. He went into the kitchen and down into the basement. It was unfinished, but a helpful storage space. When he went down, though, he discovered that since the last time he’d been down here, things had changed a lot. The exposed studs and beams were now hidden–mostly. The large central room was now a well stocked BDSM dungeon, all number of whips, floggers, paddles, masks and other instruments of torture hung along the walls. 

Along one wall was Harold, sitting in a wingback chair, upholstered in black polished leather, with another man between his legs, sucking on his cock while Harold smoked a cigar. Harold seemed to have been the only one from the wrestling team to trade in his singlet, and was now wearing a leather harness showing off his muscular, hairy chest, as well as the tattoos running across his chest, shoulders, and down both arms. His beard was longer now, and showing a few strands of grey. Once Jason reached the floor of the basement from the stairs, he saw other signs of age across Harold’s face–some crow’s feet at the sides of his eyes, a few wrinkles here and there. He seemed to be close to thirty now, if not a bit older than that, even. Something shifted in the light, and what Harold had taken to be a shadow behind Harold shifted, and he saw that it was more than just a shadow–it was a being. The ghost, the vision he’d been seeing, it was there behind the chair, his hands on Harold’s shoulders, but it wasn’t just a vision now. It…existed. The shade’s hands slid down Harold’s body, and he shuddered and moaned, a few more grey hairs appearing across Harold’s chest as it did.

“Harold–you have to stop this. I don’t know what that thing is, but look at what it’s done to you, done to us! I know you don’t want this, I know it,” Jason said. 

Harold laughed, “How the fuck would you know what I want? Have you ever once even asked me, Pig? You just ignored me, pretended like I didn’t even exist, because to you, I didn’t. Before this, you never had to care about anyone other than yourself–as long as you had your Daddy here to solve your problems for you.”

Harold pushed the man between his legs off his cock, and when his head came up, Jason realized who it was–it was his father, the school’s dean of athletics, and the only person Jason had told about the accident. His father had helped cover up the damage to the car, managed the insurance claims, making sure that it looked like Jason had never even been near that highway when that biker had been flung off the side of the mountain. “Stand up, fucker. Now that your son’s here, we can get the real party started.”

Eyes dazed and glassy, Jason’s father–Samuel, stood up and wiped the drool and precum from his clean shaven face. He was in his early fifties, and did enough work to keep the worst signs of aging at bay. Only in the last few years had he allowed a bit of grey to creep onto his temples, his hairline receding slightly back. He went to the gym religiously, and kept himself lean and muscular to run two marathons a year. He straightened his tailored suit, still a bit confused as to why he was here, turned to the side, saw his son, and his jaw dropped. “Jason–what on Earth, what the fuck has gotten into you? What are you wearing, and why…why do you smell like a fucking cumrag?”

“Dad, I–”

“Shut up Jason, I’ll explain,” Harold said. “See, Mr. Camwell, I’ve been doing the job that you should have been doing from the start, Samuel–or can I call you Sam? We’ll find a new name for you soon enough, I think. See, my…friend here knows that you know what happened to him on that mountain highway, just like I know, just like Jason knows. You could have confessed, Jason, and stopped all of this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you didn’t, because I wouldn’t be getting what I want too, but all of this was in your hands.”

“Fuck you,” Jason said, pointing at the shade looming behind Harold, “You’re doing this to him. I don’t know what the fuck you are, but I’m not about to let some fucking ghost fuck with us. Harold, listen, you have to fucking wake up! I know you don’t like me, I get it, but this…this isn’t you, I know this isn’t you.”

“What makes you so sure?” Harold said, coming closer now, exhaling a cloud of smoke into Jason’s face, “This is…a mutually beneficial relationship, I assure you. I get what I want–power, authority, a whole collection of men willing to do anything for me, sexual or otherwise. And he, well, you’ll see soon enough. First though, I think there’s a disciplinary problem at home that needs to be addressed.” Harold stepped back, next to Samuel, who was still staring at Jason in horror, barely able to recognize his son under the hair, the fat, and the filth covering his body. “Look at him, look at that faggot son of yours. What a fucking waste he is, wouldn’t you agree? Aren’t you fucking disgusted that thing came from your own seed?”

As Harold spoke, the shade came closer, his dark hands landing on Samuel’s shoulders, and Harold watched his father’s eyes harden towards him, growing cold. “Dad, no–”

“Shut up, pig–don’t speak again until I allow it.”

Jason’s mouth buttoned up, and Harold continued talking to his father, leaning in closer to his ear. “This is your fault, you know. You were never tough enough on him, never gave him enough discipline. You let him turn into this worthless fucking thing, this blob, this slut, this slob, this pig begging men for their cum and piss. It’s fucking disgusting, and you did this, you did this because you should have been beating him every fucking day that you could, making him fear you. You want him to fear, you, don’t you? Doesn’t the thought of terror in those piggy eyes make you so…excited?” Harold reached around and groped Samuel’s crotch, and Jason could see that his father was hard in the front of his suit pants. “Well, it’s never too late, right?”

“Fuckin’ right it’s never too late,” Samuel growled, the shade’s hands tightening down on his shoulders, and the shade shuddered. As Jason watched, his father’s carefully curated grey hair spread across his whole temple, stubble erupting from his face and becoming a short greying beard, body thickening with muscle, the beginnings of a gut pushing out, Samuel’s shirt coming untucked, his undershirt visible between the buttons now.

Samuel stepped forward, and before Jason could try and defend himself, slapped his son across the face. Jason turned to try and flee up the stairs, only for Harold and his father to grab hold of him, drag him to the middle of the dungeon, and secure him into metal shackles hanging from the ceiling, and bolted into the concrete floor. Jason tried to beg, he tried to scream, but nothing would come out of his mouth since Harold’s last order. Harold secured an O gag in his mouth, and shoved a thick cigar into it, lighting it up and clipping his nose shut with a clothespin. “There we go–gotta make sure you enjoy cigars as much as your Daddy will, right?” Harold said, lighting up another thick cigar and passing it to Samuel. He took it, and again, the shade passed over him, his father’s beard growing in thicker, his grey hair now colored yellow from years of smoking. 

“Fuck yeah,” Samuel said, taking a long drag off his cigar, “nothing like a cigar to go with a good beating.”

“That’s the spirit,” Harold said, “I think it’s time this pig of yours learns some discipline.”

Samuel went to the wall, took down a sizable paddle, and brought it back. He rubbed it on Jason’s exposed ass for a moment, and then brought it down with a loud smack, and Jason tried to scream through the cigar gagging him, but all that came out was a muffled choke, followed by a round of gagging and coughing as he sucked only smoke back in, tears welling up in his eyes. 

Samuel kept pounding away, wrapping one arm under Jason’s gut when he tried to squirm away, pinning him in place as he kept pounding on his son’s ass, harder and harder, all while Jason tried to get away, and failed. He was getting lightheaded from all the smoke flooding into him, and not long after that, he started to get a bit nauseous, head drooping and swinging side to side, the room spinning around him as he struggled not to throw up–that he knew would be unpleasant with the cigar still shoved deep in his mouth. There was the sound of something ripping, and the pounding stopped, giving Jason a chance to get his bearings again. He looked up, and his father had come around in front of him–the tatters of his suit falling away from him. He’d packed on thick layers of both fat and muscle all over his body, along with plenty of body hair, all of it as grey as his long, thick beard. “I, uh…think I wrecked mah suit…” Samuel said, and even his voice was different. Slower, deeper, with a definite rural accent.

“That’s alright Sam, we’ll get you some new clothes, won’t we?” Harold said, and looked over at the shade behind him. Jason tried to shout, tried to do anything, but could only watch as the shade descended on his father, surrounding him, his dark mouth over Sam’s own, pulling smoke and something else, something bright from his father’s throat. Harold walked around beside Jason where he was strung up, and said in his ear, “You thought he was a stupid redneck, not even worth caring about, didn’t you? Both of you thought that. Well, now your daddy there is just a stupid redneck too. He’s sucking all of that out of him, all of his smarts, all of his civilized manner. He’s just going to be a stupid, stinking biker brute when we’re through with him–a biker brute obsessed with brutalizing his stinking pigson.”

The shade pulled back after a few more moments, and Sam staggered for a moment, trying to adjust. The tattered remains of his suit had disappeared, and he’d been dressed in shabby leather and denim biker gear–filthy jeans, dusty chaps, a denim jacket open to let his gut hang out, and a leather vest over it, leather gloves, engineer boots and a grungy red bandana keeping his long grey hair out of his face. “Wha…wha the fuck’d ya do tah me?” Sam said, looking down at himself, “This ain’t me, I ain’t some fuckin’ hick!”

“Oh, we aren’t quite through with you yet–we still need to do something about your memories. Still, at my age, I should be able to take over for you here at the school, and I know there’s some openings in the maintenance department,” Harold said, and the shade seemed to expand, encompassing them both, and after a moment, pulled back–and as Jason laid eyes on his father, he felt a headache, unrelated to the nicotine pumping through him, split his skull.

His father–he wasn’t the dean. How could he ever have been a dean, a stupid, illiterate pig like him? No, he worked as a maintenance man on campus, repairing anything that was broken, and spent all of his free time on his hog riding around the backwoods, looking for dick to suck. Tattoos had appeared all over his body now, trashy looking biker stuff mostly, and across the back of his neck, the word “SKUM”–or rather, his name. Jason tried to pull out his father’s real name, but couldn’t find it. He was Skum–he’d always been Skum, hadn’t he? Skum shook his head, beard flinging around, and took a drag off his cigar. “Fuck, that feel fuckin’ better–now where the fuck was I?” He went and grabbed a whip off the wall, “This’ll teach this pig a proper lesson, I fuckin’ bet.”

He brought the lash down on Jason’s back, and he screamed–properly, as best he could through the cigar lodged in his mouth. Harold came around and admired the welt, the cut where the blow had snapped the spandex apart, leaving a few spots where blood was welling up, even. Harold looked different now–older still, in fact, but distinguished now. A short cropped beard, his leather uniform fitting his muscled body better, but it was his air of confidence and authority that Jason could sense now. He…he was the dean of athletics now. He’d stolen his father’s position in reality, and left him as a worthless, trashy sadistic biker without a moment of regret. Jason felt fear then, for the first time. Another lash came down on him, and he screamed, and broke down, sobbing, muttering nonsense to Harold and the shade, begging for mercy, probably.

The shade drifted over, larger now. Still black, but somehow more tangible. When its hand brushed over him, he could almost feel it there, like a breeze on his shoulder. Then, it clamped down, and there was a rush, a rewiring–he’d felt it before, he realized, but this was so much stronger, so much more immediate. When the shade pulled away, Jason hauled on the cigar in his mouth, but no longer felt sick. The smoke filled his lungs like it belonged, made his little cock drool precum out of its cage. His body had changed again, tattoos filling in all over his body, obscene, filthy, nasty tattoos, all of them–but it was the piercings he felt. The heavy gauge rings in his nose and tits, especially, pulling them down, making him quiver in excitement as his father came around, tugged on them, and made his masochistic pigboy squirm in delight. His father leered at him, pulled the gag from his mouth, gripped Jason’s neck in one gloved hand and squeezed. Jason’s mouth opened, gasping for air, and his father knocked the long ash from his cigar into his mouth–it burned his tongue, but he soaked it in spit as quick as he could, and swallowed it, croaking out a thank you, as his father shoved the cigar back in his mouth, and picked up the whip again.

“We have some more energy that we need, before we’ll be ready for the final phase,” Harold said, “but thankfully, all of those horny men upstairs will provide more than enough for our friend here to start feeling like himself again. You keep that boy of yours well occupied now, Skum, until I get back.”

“Yes Sir, Mr. Greer,” Skum said, and brought the lash down across his son’s back again. This time, the pain was there–but with it a massive surge of pleasure as well, and Jason nearly dropped the cigar, he was so overwhelmed with excitement. “I’ll make sure this naughty fuckin’ pig gits exactly what he fuckin’ deserves.”

“You always have, Skum–I know I can count on you,” Harold said, and with the shade following close, they went upstairs, where the orgy was still heating up. The shade was almost pulsing with delight, and Harold, well attuned to the spirit’s need, could feel it himself. “Not too much from all of them now–I’ll still need a wrestling team when we’re done.”

The shade nodded, and descended on his first victim, Evan, who collapsed from where he was fucking one of his teammates and writhed on the floor in something between agony and ecstasy. Harold smoked his cigar and watched–and when the shade was finished, he moved onto the next boy. Harold pushed his leather boot onto Evan’s face, and the wrestler licked at it hungrily while Harold leered down at him. “Guess I’m more than a nerd faggot to you now, right boy? You want Daddy’s cock in your hungry fuckin’ hole?”

Evan nodded, rolled over, and presented his ass to Harold, who got down and slid right in. “That’s good boy, that’s real good,” he said, and another scream came from below, making his cock even harder. In a few hours, he’d take the shade back down, and finish their revenge together, and then he’d be free to enjoy this for the rest of his life.


Chapter 6 – Rebirth

Harold watched the shade move around the room, to the last couple of men that were as of yet untouched by his dark hands. He had fucked a couple of holes while he waited, but now he was waiting patiently, smoking his cigar by the entry to the kitchen, just admiring the scene unfolding around him. The shade needed energy, if it was going to come back into this world, alive again. A lot of that energy was going to come from Jason, naturally, since he was the target of the curse, but even if the shade sucked him dry, there wouldn’t have been enough. So, they’d spent the week priming a collection of men for tonight’s ritual, taking as much as they could from them all without upsetting the cosmic balance too far against them, and risking bringing the eyes of larger things to bear on them both. Just a few months from every wrestler, a little muscle, a little health, a little body. From the coach, he’d taken a bit more–aged him up into his fifties, given him a solid gut, drained a good chunk of his virility, leaving him with a limp cock and a hungry hole. He deserved it, though–all of the men here deserved a bit of this cosmic justice. Harold, of course, had already paid with two decades of his life, but he felt that he’d received much more in the bargain.

All his life, Harold had wanted power, and wealth, and prestige. He’d come from a poor family–not quite redneck trash, but close enough, that when he’d learned what Jason had done on those winding backroads, his blood had boiled. There were men in his family like the biker, if he hadn’t gone to college, he might have been one of them–or at least, closer to that, than to Jason. But Harold was smart, and he’d gotten his way into college with scholarships, and more loans than he knew he’d ever be able to pay off in his life. No–this future was much better. He was strong, he was powerful, the new dean of athletics at the college. No one could say no to him–especially not any man with a hole that Harold wanted. This house was his now–with a little twist of reality, Harold owned both this house, and what had been Samuel’s home in the wealthy suburbs out of town. Harold needed a place for his orgies, though–closer to campus. Easier for the jocks to get here after practice for their play sessions. 

The shade was working on the two cops now. They had been in decent shape to start with, but now they too were aging somewhat, their muscles sagging, guts growing, becoming a couple of fat, lazy, sergeants who had desk jobs these days, but were helpful in making sure any “complaints” against Harold disappeared, provided they got the occasional invitations to the new dean’s parties off campus. Apparently satisfied, the shade drifted back towards Harold, and he could see the change again. The shade’s darkness was thicker somehow–no longer two dimensional, but still quite thin. It didn’t seem like enough–until the shade brushed up against him, and he felt the cauldron of vital energy seethe up beside him that the shade was holding in. If that wasn’t enough, well, then they’d have to see what happened, he supposed.

It had been about a couple of hours since they’d left the new and improved Skum in the basement to work his boy over. They descended the stairs, and found that Skum had moved on from the beating, dropped his son to the floor, and had Jason on all fours in the middle of the room. Skum was behind him, his fist slippery with crisco and lodged deep in Jason’s hole, who was moaning and groaning in discomfort. “Quit yer fuckin’ belly achin! Ya’ve takken Daddy fist plenty a fuckin’ times, don’t know why yer so fuckin’ tight tahnight.”

“Please dad, please stop! This isn’t you, this isn’t–” Jason gave a holler as Skum worked in a bit deeper, his cock drooling out a long dribble of precum onto the concrete below him.

“Alright Skum, give the boy a bit of a break,” Harold said as he came down the stairs.

Skum grumbled, obviously unhappy about being interrupted in his playtime, but did as Harold told him, pulled his hand free, and Jason collapsed to the floor, ass spasming from the sudden removal. His whole body ached from the day he’d had, between the wrestling team, the football team, the coaches, and now this–he wanted to cry, but couldn’t seem to summon the energy necessary to bring the tears forth. Harold came around in front of him, and knocked his jaw lightly with a boot. “On your knees, you fucking piece of faggot filth.”

“Please, Harold–I don’t know what that thing is doing to you, but you have to fight it. This isn’t you, I know this isn’t you,” Jason said, pushing himself up to his hands and knees, and then lifting up. “Don’t let this thing win, don’t…”

“You stupid fucking–this wasn’t just his idea, you know. He wanted revenge, sure, but he needed me to do it. So we made a deal–and the deal was, that he’ll get your life, and you’d end up as a lowly fucking piece of fuckmeat, and nothing more. I’ve been pushed around by guys like you my whole fucking life. You kept a good mask on, but I know how you talked about me in front of those friends of yours–or my friends now, I suppose, since none of them can stand the sight of you anymore.”

Jason whimpered, and saw the shade come around–so much larger, so much fuller and darker and tangible than it had been even an hour before. “What…what are you going to do to me? What else could you possibly do?”

“It’s easy, faggot. He’s going to take your place, in the same way I took your daddy’s place.”

Jason tried to beg, but before he could even get a word out, the shade bent over and pushed itself over Jason’s head. He could feel it, the vital energy the shade had been draining from him, and all these other men, for the last several days, all of it swirling around–but it lacked purpose and identity. It was all power without direction. Then came a horrific sensation, like someone was sucking his eyes out with a vacuum cleaner, or drilling into his ears with a screwdriver, or both at the same time. The shade was removing something from him, but Jason found himself at a loss to even describe what he was losing–as it disappeared, it became unnamable. He realized too late that he had become unnamable. Then, he simply ceased to be entirely.

The shade pulled away, the darkness beginning to bulge and shudder, converting all of that energy inside of it into mass, into life. A wave of heat swept through the room, along with a burst of air enough to send Harold stumbling back into a wall, and knock Skum onto his fat ass. When both of them regained their composure and looked at where the shade and Jason had been, there were now two men–one standing, and one kneeling. The shade had returned to the living.

“Jason…I’m…Jason,” the new man said, flexing his hands and looking down at his body. He did in fact resemble Jason–as he’d looked before, at least. A strong jaw, auburn hair, lean muscular body. A few things were off–he was hairier than Jason had been, and his hair was longer, falling to his shoulders. “Dad–fuck, Dad, it worked…”

Harold looked over at the newly reborn man, and felt a crush of reality push into him. It was his son, of course. His sexy, handsome boy. Jason went to Harold and embraced him, and they kissed–deeply and passionately, Jason’s cock grinding up against his father’s suited leg. “Somebody’s horny already,” Harold growled at him, reached down and gave his son’s cock a playful tug.

“You have no fucking idea dad, watching all that for days, unable to do anything to join in.”

Skum had regained his footing at this point, walked over to his own son, still on his knees, and looked down at him. He was living, though perhaps not alive. His eyes were completely black, mouth gaping and drooling, body slumped to one side and about to tip over in a moment or two onto its side. “What…what did ya do tah him? Where’d mah pig go?”

Jason pulled away from Harold, and walked back over to where Skum was standing with the empty vessel. “Don’t worry–I’m not done with him yet. We’ve spent all week hollowing out a good, deep pit in reality for him to live in–he just doesn’t know who he is anymore. We can fix that though, can’t we?” He crouched down in front of the pig, grabbed hold of his fat face in his hands, and locked his gaze with those dull black orbs. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

So the new Jason told the hunk of flesh a new story, a new reality, a new history. He wasn’t born into a wealthy family of elites, with all of his needs catered for, not anymore. No, a single mother in her early twenties, working as a waitress and living in a single-wide with her own mother, knocked up after a drunken one night stand with a sleazy biker, egged on by his gang at the time, who were wondering if the fag could even get it up for a woman. He managed, barely. And so, the man needed a new name, since the shade had taken his old one. He called him Thomas Peterson, and while he was poor, he had a decent enough life. Normal enough, blissfully unaware of what seed he’d come from, he never had the resources to excel academically, but still managed to become a jock in high school on the wrestling team–though he never quite understood why he got such a thrill from grappling with another young man in tight spandex clothing. Thomas, you see, was quite thick. He had a string of girlfriends in high school, but nothing went anywhere, when they found out he had such a small cock, and that he couldn’t even get it up around them. Frustrated, he focused on his athletics, and managed to land a wrestling scholarship at the college.

The same college, it turned out, where his father had settled down somewhat–no longer a young renegade biker sucking guys off on the road, but now working as a janitor and maintenance worker–though if anything, his perversions had deepened, and he often enjoyed spying on the wrestling team in particular during practice, jacking off all the while. It was there that he saw Thomas–the spitting image of himself–and knew, somehow, that single encounter had yielded a son. A little investigation into the school’s records was enough to confirm it, and Skum knew, then and there, that he had to have him. He ran into him after practice, told him who he was, and Thomas, who had always dreamed of knowing who his father was, found himself appalled that the stinking, ugly, fat janitor covered in biker tattoos was his actual father. Or at least, appalled at first. The more he got to know him over dinner that evening at a cheap diner, the more he found himself warming up to Skum–or Daddy, as he insisted Thomas call him. They went back to Skum’s trailer that night, and once the roofie Skum had slipped into his son’s beer took proper hold, he had him in bed, and popped Thomas’s cherry right then and there.

The next morning, no drug was required. Thomas had never felt anything like that before, and found himself eagerly accepting his father’s cock the next day–all day long. Skum missed work, and Thomas missed class, and the boy’s descent into perversion was well underway. Thomas had never had a father figure in his life, and he found himself helpless against his father’s control and praise. He’d already been failing at college–and Skum seemed to have a way with him, with all the men around him, and it wasn’t long before Thomas was servicing the entire wrestling squad as their collective cumdump and urinal. Already failing at school, Thomas dropped out at Skum’s urging, and got a position with him in the janitorial department–but that was just a cover really. Thomas could usually be found in the locker room getting fucked by every man who passed through, his father’s sexual desires and perversions completely overwhelming him–but that was a decade ago, at this point.

Thomas wasn’t even Thomas anymore. He went by T.P. usually, but if you asked him what it was abbreviated from, he’d tell you it stood for Toilet Pig. It really was his name–Skum had gotten it changed on his ID and everything a couple years back, when he’d confirmed his drunk, stupid pig son couldn’t even remember the name his mother had given him anymore. After all, he wasn’t really her son–he’d always been meant to be Skum’s boy–or at least, that’s what Skum told him. T.P. would do anything for his daddy, after all. Hell, he’d do anything for most anyone, but for Skum, he’d give him the world.

Jason pulled his hands away from the pig’s face, and watched as his black eyes unclouded. They were no longer the pale blue from before–but a dingy hazel grey. He stared blankly for a moment until Jason gave the pig a slap across the face, and he gave a grunt, and shook his head. “Fuck, wha the fuck was that?” T.P. muttered.

“Stupid fucking pig,” Jason said, “I fucking asked you if you were hungry or not.”

“Yes Master Jason, this pig’s always hungry,” T.P. said, licking his filthy, bearded lips. 

“Alright then, Toilet, open wide,” Jason said, turned around, and backed his ass up to T.P.’s face. The pig gave a squeal of delight, shoved his face into the young man’s crack and started licking hungrily, prying the hole loose with his tongue, until he felt the first turd slide out. He scarfed it down, well accustomed to the taste of shit at this point. Skum trained him to be his personal toilet years ago at this point, and while T.P. had resisted at first…once Skum had taken care of his son’s nuts, castrating him and replacing them with the two steel balls dragging his sack closer and closer to his knees each day, Jason lost the will to resist much of anything. His father had removed his pitiful nub of a cock a year later, leaving him with just a hole to pee from in the middle of his thick forest of pubes. The surgery had left him largely incontinent, but T.P. was always happy to piss right into his singlet, and if he made a mess, he was always happy to clean it up right away. T.P. finished eating Jason’s load of shit, and the young man stood up, turned around, and leered down at what remained of his murderer–a filthy, middle aged pig in a filthy wrestling singlet, dickless and nutless, licking shit from his lips and already eager for more perversion. 

“Thank you Sir, your shit is always so fuckin’ tasty.”

“Skum, why don’t you take that pig of yours upstairs for a while?” Harold said, stepping forward and embracing his own son, rubbing his hands over his muscular body, Jason shuddering at the sensation, thrilled with being alive once again, “I’d like some time alone with my own son, I think.”

“Sounds good tah me, I think the pig here’s been neglectin’ his party duties anyway,” Skum said, dragged T.P. around by the heavy chain collar that had appeared around his neck, and shoved him onto his knees. “Come on pig, I know ya like that boy there’s shit, but give them some privacy.”

T.P. looked back at Harold kissing Jason, the two men groping each other, and for a moment, he felt something familiar about it. A moment of panic, of loss, but he couldn’t explain or express what it meant. By the time Skum had shoved him to the top of the stairs, he’d lost it, looked out at the ensuing orgy, and started to drool at all of his favorite men gathered in one place. For the next few hours, he took any number of cocks and fists, drank loads of piss and ate shit from several men as well. There was always a lingering sense, however, that he was missing something, that something had been stolen from him, but every time he got close to naming it, it would flee at the sight of the next cock to suck in front of his face. Each time it retreated, it grew more and more distant, until the early morning, when T.P. was certain that nothing was wrong at all.

Pleased with his son’s performance, Skum treated him to a fast food buffet on the way home in his old pickup, and arrived at the trailer where they lived together. Stepping inside, T.P. knew it was his home, and yet the stench of the place, the trash littering the floor, all of it seemed new to him somehow. His father stuffed his face with food, gave him his own load of shit for dessert, and then fucked his stuffed boy in the bed–not even caring when T.P. started pissing uncontrollably all over the mattress. But then, it always stank of piss and cum, there was no use trying to resist it. This was their life now–and both Skum and T.P. no longer could even aspire to something more than this. 

It was Thursday morning, and they were supposed to be at work, but no one really cared if, or when, Skum and his son showed up anymore. They ended up spending the whole morning with T.P. on the bed, his father working both of his fists into the pigs wrecked hole for an hour and a half, before making him lick his dirty fists clean and then suck him off nice and slow. This really was the life, Skum supposed.

Across town, Jason came home from class–to his real house, not the house he and his father, Harold, had been at the night before, which was just a party house where half the wrestling team lived. Harold was waiting for him, already in his leathers, and embraced his son tight, grinding their muscular bodies up against one another. “Fuck dad, we were already at it all night long. You already want another session with your hot son?”

“You know I can’t fucking resist you, stud,” Harold said–now get that ass of yours downstairs. I’m gonna turn it red with a few paddles I didn’t get to try out yesterday, then breed it just how you like it,” he said, biting down on Jason’s neck playfully.

“Fuck Daddy, you know just what this boy needs.”

“Of course I do–we made each other after all. We’ll always have what we need, as long as we have each other.”

Harold gave his son a passionate kiss, and then pulled him downstairs for an afternoon session. In a few more years, Jason would finish his own training, Harold would give him his muir cap, and he’d be a master in his own right–but as far as he was concerned, he’d always be his boy. For sheltering him as a shade, and in exchange for a few decades of his life, Jason was more than happy to serve him in whatever delightful way his father might imagine. Everything had been made right, revenge had been served, and the two lived their new lives, happily ever after.

(Flash Commission) Monster Cock

Jeff saw the package sitting on the porch when he got home, got out of his car, hurried up, got it, and took it inside. He’d been waiting weeks for it to arrive, and finally, it was here. He put it on his table, opened it up, and hauled it out, turning it over in his hands, already wondering if his eyes had been bigger than his stomach, or his ass, rather. It was a custom dildo from a fellow who called his creations “monster cocks”–each one was one of a kind, and while he didn’t charge for them, getting your hands on one of them was hard as hell. The creator took applications for his work, but who received them always seemed a bit random. He said that his toys chose who they wanted to own them, but after trying for most of a year, Jeff had finally been chosen, and now, it was in his hands.

It was in his hands, and the thing was massive. Far larger than anything he’d ever taken before in his life. He had a modest collection of dildos for when he didn’t have anyone around to fuck him, and he’d always enjoyed it. Some guys he knew had suggested he start training to take a fist, and he was close to that at this point. This dildo though was thicker than most guys fists, and easily a foot long. The dildo’s skin was a dark brown mottled with tan up the shaft to the head, which had a sheath, or a foreskin, bunched up around the glans of the cock. He toyed with it, and saw that it was actually rather elastic, and could stretch over the head, even, giving it more of a sheathed look. The base of the dildo included a set of substantial balls, the sack the size of a small melon. The sack and the bottom third of the cock was actually covered with hair–running his hand over it, he couldn’t quite tell if it was real or not. It had to be synthetic, but it felt a bit like soft boar bristle–he wondered what it would feel like on the inside of his hole–if he could get it that far in, even.

Jeff tried at least. Got himself cleaned out and lubed up, warmed up with the largest dildo he had, and then gave it a go. He was just too tight–he couldn’t even get the thing in past the head. He felt demoralized, got cleaned up and onto his computer, where he saw a chat message from the dildo maker.

“I saw that the package got delivered, just wanted to make sure everything got there alright.”

“It did,” Jeff replied, “It’s bigger than I thought it would be. Don’t know when I’ll be able to take it.”

“Don’t worry too much about that. It’ll get in you faster than you think, just keep trying. I know this is the right one for you, it won’t be too long at all.”

Jeff wasn’t sure of what to make of that, but he poked around online, looking for a dildo to train with larger than the ones he had, but smaller than the monster cock, but all he could think about was the beast waiting for him upstairs, and how much he wanted it inside him. It was getting late, and he had work in the morning, so he went to bed. His dreams that night were intense, and when he woke up he couldn’t recall much of them at all, aside from a strange sensation of being stalked. That, and he woke up with the monstrous dildo in his arms, when he was certain he’d left it in the drawer with the rest of them before bed. Confused and a bit bewildered, he went to work, but found it more and more difficult to focus. At first, it was just because he was tired after his restless night, but as the day progressed, he found himself thinking more and more about the dildo waiting for him at home, and he rushed home so he could be near it again, feel it again, lube it up, and once again try and fit it inside him.

That day, after an hour, he finally managed to get the head inside his hole, and that alone was a revelation. It was a sign of progress, and Jeff kept working at it, sweating and grunting, until he was too starving and shaking to continue. He went downstairs, found a couple of steaks he’d been saving in the freezer, and cooked them both, not caring they were rarer than usual, he was just starved. He considered a shower, but felt too tired to bother, and simply went upstairs to bed, curling up around the dildo without even thinking about it. The dreams that night were no clearer, but he woke with a groan, rutting his own cock against the dildo, the sheets under him soaked with sweat and cum from what must have been a very active night. He pulled himself together as quickly as he could, not even bothering to shower, but when he headed for the door, he struggled. He couldn’t…leave it here. He bundled the dildo up and took it with him not quite sure what he was doing, but it felt instinctual. He managed to leave it in the car for most of the day, but found himself terrified someone might see it, or worse, steal it. On his lunch break, he went down, retrieved it, and struggled to resist the urge to take it out and start riding it right there in the office. He settled for taking it into the bathroom with him, licking and sucking on the head while he jacked off, horrified by his loss of control, but still unable to stop.

It was when he got home, that he noticed something was off. He hadn’t really bothered looking at himself in the mirror that morning, but in the bathroom, ready to clean himself out and try again, he saw his reflection, and just stared. He hadn’t been that hairy before, or that muscular. It wasn’t…much, really, but it was there. His clothes didn’t quite fit right, which explained some of his discomfort the day before. His beard was thicker, and when he lifted an arm up in the shower, he caught a whiff of his musk, and that was more pungent too. He didn’t have time to shower though–he hosed out his hole, skipped the soap, and was back in his bedroom, riding the dildo again, working it deeper, inch by inch, now sliding halfway down the shelf. 

He could almost feel it…throbbing inside him, trying to wriggle deeper. He couldn’t tell if it was real, or if he was just imagining it. The idea of it was so hot, though, that he kept shooting load after load of cum all over his bed and his sheets until he collapsed again, too exhausted to move. It was nearly midnight, he’d been at it for hours. He had to piss, but was too weak to get up from the bed. He released it onto the bed under him, horrified at first, but the scent of it satisfied some deep, primal need inside him, and sleep took him soon after.

The next day, he got up from the bed, sniffed his hairy pit, and before he even really realized it, he was pissing all over the carpet and the wall next to the bed. Part of him was concerned, but it was much quieter than it might have been usually. Instead, he hauled out his cock and jacked off as well–it was the only thing on his body that wasn’t larger, all of a sudden. He squeezed his way into some office attire as best he could, no longer certain why he was wearing this, why he was bothering with it. He had more important things to concern himself with, after all, but some part of him clung to that normalcy, tried to deny the drives and desires that were well on their way to overwhelming him.

He didn’t last long at the office that day. He kept sneaking away to the bathroom to masturbate, to worship the dildo, his cock, his monster cock, as he kept thinking about it. Each load that he shot did nothing to calm him down, it only seemed to drive him to more intense heights of desire. When he stepped out of the stall shortly after lunch, and saw the one of his burlier coworkers at the urinal pissing, maybe it was the smell, maybe it was the sight of his ass filling out the back of his slacks, but he went over, shoved the man up against the urinal, and rutted against his ass, grunting and snorting like some animal. The man managed to get away, and before security could get a hold of him, Jeff fled the office with the dildo, abandoning everything else, and sped home.

He wouldn’t go back there. It wasn’t safe. He was safe in his home, in his den. He had to finish, he had to fuck himself with his cock, with his monster cock. He threw himself into the task, he was so close. The dildo was warm now, he could feel blood pulsing through it, the hair no longer synthetic, but so close to the hair that beginning to sprout all up and down his own body. He only had a couple more inches to go, and He worked at it, pushing everything else out. Every time he shot a load of cum, he realized, the dildo would slide in a little deeper. His body was getting larger, yes, but he noticed at last that his balls were shrivelling, his cock dwindling. At long last he took the dildo to the hilt with a roar, and felt the monstrosity come alive, the entire thing digging deeper, screwing into his guts, his wrecked hole closing up behind him.

He felt it push out, forcing its way from his body, his human cock stretching and ripping apart as his new, monstrous cock erupted from his crotch, his massive balls coming through last and dropping, slapping against his hairy thighs. He could feel it, his new cock pumping…something through him, changing him. His teeth, already sharper than they had been, grew longer, into proper fangs, is mouth and nose distending into a furry muzzle. The hair that had been growing thicker on his body became a thick pelt of black fur, hands becoming paws with thick claws on the end, his whole body filling out with layers of muscle and fat, until he was nearly eight feet tall and close to seven hundred pounds of pure mass. He looked at his monstrous bear body in the mirror, cock throbbing and leaking, and that was the last thing he recalled clearly, as he wrapped his paws around his cock and kept stroking, kept pleasing his cock, a slave to his new sexual desires, no longer interested in anything else.

When he awoke, his body had reverted–somewhat. His room was wrecked, as were several of his doorways, but he hadn’t managed to make it outside at least. That didn’t matter now. All that mattered was what his new cock desired–and it wanted a hole to fuck. There was a knock on his front door, and much to his surprise, there on the doorstep was his old coworker from the bathroom, the one he’d rutted up against. He was shaking and sweating, muttered some excuse about needing to see him again, but Jeff knew what the man needed. He grabbed him by the collar with his clawed hand and dragged him inside, shoved him down to his knees, and pissed all over him, marking the man as his new property, or rather, the property of his cock. It would take a while to open this one up and fuck him properly, but he had no doubt that in time, he would be a perfect slave–and when he took him to the hilt, and filled him with a load of his corruptive cum, he too, would turn. He shook off the last bit of piss from his cock, and dragged the addled and horny man into the bedroom now reeking of his scent, threw him on the bed, and went to work.

Caption: Rest Area Tales #2 – A Helping Hand

Hey all! For the month of April, I’m taking a break from The Pigtown Chronicles, and will be posting some caption stories instead. We’ll have captions Monday through Thursday, and I’ll be posting some longer stories on Fridays. This week, we have a mysterious force punishing men for their cruel language. Whatever you might feel about others, be careful, they might just come true for yourself.


CW: Raunch and scat, read at your own risk.

“Hey bud, think ya could help a fellow out?”

“The door? Who the hell knows, these rest areas are all beat to shit.”

“See, the problem is, I really gotta piss, real fuckin’ bad, but I’m also hard as a damn rock–so hard I can’t get this big fuckin’ cock in the bowl. Come here, think ya could help me out?”

“That’s it, just give it some good strokes, just like that–but I really gotta go quick, maybe ya could, ya know, suck on it?”

“Come on, it won’t make ya gay or nothin, yer just helpin’ a bud out! Real quick, ya don’t even gotta swallow.”

“Yeah, see? Fer a guy who says he doesn’t like it, ya sure can take this big dick of mine real easy down that throat of yours.”

“Sorry ‘bout the smell–already dropped a few logs. That’s what got me so damn hard tah begin with, somethin’ ‘bout the smell of mah shit always drives me a bit wild. Judgin’ from the bulge down in those jeans of yers, looks like I ain’t the only one. Go one, haul it out, jack it off–I won’t tell no one.”

“Yeah, fuck, gettin’ real close, here it fuckin’ comes!”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck, sorry bud, hosed you down with my piss too, didn’t mean to. But that’s what you get for pullin’ off. Don’t look like ya mind too much, look at how hard that cock a yers is. Anyway, thanks man, that’s real helpful, but maybe…ya could help me out with one more thing? Mind given my ass a wipe for me?”

“I know the toilet paper’s right there, but that single ply shit is so scratchy–I was thinkin’ somethin’ a little more wet, ‘n soft…”

“Yeah, that’s the ticket, really dig on up in there, ya fuckin’ pig. Fuck yeah, I can hear ya snortin’ back there, ya like my rank fuckin’ ass man? Sure sounds like it, bet yer gonna blow yer load all across the fuckin’ toilet, ain’t ya?”

“Fuck bud, my crack’s ain’t been that clean in months! Much appreciated–yer a real helper. Say, how about riding with me for a while? I could use a good toilet pig like you in my cab, wouldn’t have tah stop in run down places like this if I could just use that dirty mouth of yours.”

“On vacation? Family? Ya don’t look like the sort of fucker who’d deal with that shit–have a look in the mirror. Yeah–look at you, grungy, ugly, old pig like that, ya’d love tah help a guy like me out, now what do ya say?”

“I thought so–now come on, I got some cold bottles of piss for ya in the cab.” 

“Oh, I forgot to flush? Alright, but scarf that shit down quick, I don’t got all evenin’. We got a load tah deliver.”

Captions: Owned / Dirtier

Since I missed yesterday’s post, here’s a double feature!

Owned

“How long has it been since you were here, slave?”

“A…a month.”

“A month, Master,” he said, and gave the rubber clad man a smack on the ass, and left it there, running his fingers between his thighs, tracing the chastity cage locked on the outside of the rubber catsuit. “I will not have a slave disrespect me in public. We are lax at home on occasion, but I know you know your manners well.”

“Yes Master.”

“A month since you went home with me. Remember what a confident little shithead you were? Talking about how you were all top, never gonna bottom in your life? Now look at you. That big cock of yours locked away, hole loose and ready,” he said, and slid two of his fingers through the slit in the back of the rubber suit, pressing up against the slave’s hole, feeling him shudder at the touch. “You’re owned now, and once we go in there, everyone is going to know it. Everyone you’ve fucked. Everyone who wanted to fuck you. They’re gonna know that you’re my property. How does that make you feel?”

The slave didn’t respond right away, just let out a little moan.

“It makes you excited, doesn’t it?”

Another little moan, followed by, “Yes Master, it does.”

“How many men do you think I should let use your holes tonight?”

“As many as you want, Master.”

“Good, slave, you do learn quickly. The last slave I had, I couldn’t take him out in public for three months. I know you’re going to serve me well in there tonight, won’t you?”

“Yes Master.”

“And remember–always pride. Be proud that you realized who you are. Most of those men in there are too scared to accept it. But you are right where you want to be, isn’t that right?”

The slave nodded, and he followed his Master into the bar to begin his new life.


Dirtier

You hadn’t taken that old bitch seriously, of course. Who would have, really? Ranting and raving about some curse or something, while security was dragging her out of the bank where you worked, saying something about how if all you cared about was dirty money, then you might as well just keep getting dirtier.

But for the next week or so, you kept noticing things. Dirt kept appearing under your fingernails, no matter how well you cleaned them at night, and it wasn’t like you were doing anything to make them dirty in the first place. Then you noticed that, after you showered, you always still had a lingering musk around you. It wasn’t too bad at first, but by the next week, you got a couple of comments at work. You tried all of these different soaps and shampoos, but nothing helped, and by then, the dirt was starting to spread as well.

Then, it wasn’t just you, either. You went to bed in a set of clean sheets, and when you woke up the next morning, they were filthy. Stained, reeking of sweat and cum and piss, and worst of all, you didn’t mind it. It smelled good to you all of a sudden, and you couldn’t resist rolling over, grinding your cock into the sheets and adding another load to them. You showered after, of course, but it didn’t help. You could smell it lingering around you, that same grungy scent, and the more you noticed it, the hornier you were getting.

You tried to find that woman, but there was no sign of her anywhere, all of her bank records had just vanished. Your boss called you into his office, raked you over the coals for your slovenly appearance. You didn’t know where that beard had come from, or how your hair had gotten so long so quickly. You went home early, tried to shave it off and cut it away, but it would grow back faster than you could remove it, thicker and thicker each time. That day, you went to put on a suit, dreading going in to work again, but all of your suits had disappeared, replaced with grungy looking hi vis workwear and nothing else. 

But then, what else would you wear? In a stupor, you pulled on some of the filthy garments and went to work–but not at the bank. You were a construction worker, right? You spent the day trying to convince yourself otherwise, but couldn’t manage it. This just…felt right. You were scared, and too tired to fight it. Maybe if you just let it happen, it would stop. This wasn’t so bad, right? And for a while, your body didn’t get worse, at least, but your mind started growing filthier instead. Working around all of those other musky, masculine men, you found yourself caught in fantasy after fantasy, about how they would use your dirty body–and as you concocted each scenario, they came true. 

The foreman pissing on you in the portpotty. A father and son tag teaming your holes in the back of their pickup. Timmy, the fattest guy on the crew, sitting his grungy ass on your face while you jacked off your rank cock. You didn’t live in that nice house anymore. You lived in a studio apartment, never cleaned, never cared for. Sometimes, you would fight, try and remember who you’d been, but when you did, it would get worse somehow, always worse, but now, why can’t you find your way home?

You usually walked home, sometimes sucking cock in the alleys on your way to and from the construction site, but now, you just couldn’t find it. You ended up in an alley, and slept there, interrupted by a couple of cops walking their beat, who took a little break to fuck your nasty hole in the middle of the night. Come morning, you went back to the construction site, but you didn’t work there anymore. That didn’t stop all the men from using you of course, but you were too filthy even for that work now. You made your way back to your alley, still so damn horny, but things, at least, couldn’t get worse than this, right?

Caption: Daddy Issues #3 – Evan the Roughneck

Hey all! For the month of April, I’m taking a break from The Pigtown Chronicles, and will be posting some caption stories instead. We’ll have captions Monday through Thursday, and I’ll be posting some longer stories on Fridays. This week, we have a mysterious force punishing men for their cruel language. Whatever you might feel about others, be careful, they might just come true for yourself.


Evan wasn’t supposed to have even gone to college, if his dad had had his way. He grew up in the sticks in a small town. HIs dad, Gary, ran the only real construction crew in town, and made good money fixing up everything beyond what a handyman could handle, and he’d expected his son to be a proper man’s man, drop out of high school, learn the trade, and follow in his footsteps. Of course, Evan had ended up, in his father’s opinion, a total sissy. He’d given up on him really, and just to get out from under his father’s house, he’d taken on a bunch of loans to get to college in the big city, just as a chance to breathe. But now, he climbed into his car and got ready for the drive home, bracing himself for the culture shock he knew he’d feel after a few months in civilization, back under his dad’s roof.

It was a good four hour drive home, and Evan spent the whole time mulling over his father. He was so focused on it, really, that he didn’t notice as things started changing around him. The pack of gum in the console became a can of skoal, and without thinking about it, he popped it open, packed his upper and lower lips, and just let the spit drool out onto the shirt he was wearing, which had come a grungy looking t-shirt, his pants now ripped camo shorts. The radio switched over to the country station, and rather than change it, he found himself enjoying it. About an hour out from town, he pulled over to use the rest area, got out, but in the bathroom, despite having to piss like a racehorse, he just…couldn’t. He had to save it, didn’t he? He went back out to the lot, climbed into the sizable pickup that had replaced his little junker sedan, and sped off down the highway, eager to get home, finally.

He pulled into his dad’s driveway, hopped out, went inside, and sure enough, there was his lazy fucking father, passed out on the couch, wearing the coveralls for work that he pretty much never took off, even on the weekends. 

Evan jumped up on the couch, boots on either side of his dad’s flabby body, and spit right in his face, making him jump. “Hey pig, open yer fuckin’ mouth, yer boy’s gotta fuckin’ piss.”

He didn’t even wait for Gary to open up, just hauled out his cock, and unloaded all over him and the couch, his dad confused and sputtering for a moment, but once he smelled it, he sat up, opened wide, and drank down as much of his boy’s sweet piss as he could. Once he’d finished, the two of them looked at each other, trying to reconcile what they had expected with what they were looking at, but the smell of them both, and the piss all over them, only made them hornier.

“Fuck son, been waitin’ fer ya tah get home,” his stupid dad drawled, and shoved his face into his rank underwear, “All the guys on the crew been plowin’ mah hole, jus’ like ya told ‘em to, but it just ain’t the same as mah boy’s big ass fuckstick…”

“Don’t ya worry Daddy, yer boy ain’t gonna be goin’ away again anytime soon,” Evan said, “Now roll over pig, let me see if that slutty hole a yers is still a little tight.”

Flash Commission – A Demon’s Face

WARNING! This story has some real extreme stuff in it, and is definitely more of a horror story than an erotica story. This includes blood and knife play, extreme pain play, scat and demonic references. If any of that isn’t of interest to you, don’t read it!


The message had arrived for John as a bit of relief. His friend Aleks had grown more and more distant over the last year or so, delving deeper into the occult and demonology, beyond the sort of fetish play the two had always enjoyed over the years. The last time John had gone over there, the mood had been tense, Aleks not exactly high, but more than a little out of his mind. John had left, unsure of what to do, and when he’d expressed some concern, Aleks had lashed out over text and refused to reply since. 

But now, months later, he’d finally gotten a message back. Short and to the point, Aleks had asked him to come over, there was something he wanted to show him. No apology, no real admission that he might have gotten a little too deep, but for John, he was happy he at least wasn’t dead or something. He got geared up in some leather pants and a spiked leather jacket, and headed for Aleks’s apartment to see what he wanted to show him.

When he arrived, though, it was quickly clear that everything was not exactly normal. The door wasn’t locked, and when he stepped inside, it was the smell that assaulted him at first. Something beyond musky or stale, perhaps even beyond rank. It smelled like something between a burning trash pile and a grungy locker room. He stepped inside, tested a light switch in the entryway, but the light only flickered for a moment before going out, and refusing to come back on. 

Looking down the hall, the whole apartment seemed to be dark and maybe even empty. He went in anyway, despite a general instinct to turn tail and run, and as he approached the living room, a more familiar smell joined the rest, cigar smoke. Sure enough, he turned the corner, and there in the dimly lit living room was Aleks sitting on the couch in full leather, smoking a cigar. He even had on a full leather mask that John had seen him in a few times, which only made the whole look hotter still.

“Ah, there you are,” Aleks said, “I was getting tired of waiting.” He grinned, and John saw something strange–there was a light coming from the inside of his mouth. Aleks put the end of the cigar in his mouth, and again, something was off. The end of the cigar wasn’t burning, but he was still exhaling smoke out of his mouth. Aleks took off the dark glasses he had on, and John’s eyes went wide–his friend had no eyes underneath. There were just the holes in the leather mask, and behind that, there was just flame. “As you can see, I’ve made a few improvements to myself since the last time we saw each other,” he said, and when he talked, John could see the fire through his mouth as well. That explained the cigar–he was literally burning it inside his mouth. Aleks took another inhale off it, and John could see the thick plumes of grey smoke emerging not just from his mouth, but from his eyes as well. “Come on then, come have a closer look,” Aleks said.

Everything in John’s mind and body screamed at him to run, but the smell, the smoke, the light of the flame, all of it beckoned him closer. His limbs a bit stiff, he found himself lurching forward, the smell growing more intense, inhaling the smoke now, feeling his mind going a bit numb, his own cock stiffening in his leather pants. “Fuck Aleks, what the fuck did you do?” John managed to croke out as he came closer.

“Well, it turns out that selling your soul is the hard part,” Aleks said to him, “But once that’s gone, everything else is so much easier, you see. Demons will trade just about anything for a face. They use them to infiltrate our world, but not many people are willing to part with them. I feel like I got everything I wanted for mine though. Stop trying to fight it, John–my smoke can bend the will of any man now, my musk can corrupt even the most stalwart soul. Stop pretending that you don’t want to kneel before me, service me, it’s all you fucking want now.”

John could feel it, the hunger and desire welling up inside him. He couldn’t tell if it was his own–after all, they had imagined something like this together many times before, though only Aleks had really believed he could pursue such power. In the end, it didn’t matter. He could feel the smoke smothering all of the doubts, all of the fears, and he fell to his knees in front of Aleks, and shoved his face into his new master’s crotch, inhaling the scent of the musky leather.

One of Aleks’s hands cupped his chin and lifted his face up. “I always loved your face, you know, it’s so sweet–I’m going to get a great deal for yours, I think.” Aleks reached over to the table beside the couch where he was sitting, and opened up a switchblade.

“Wait…what…” John said, but his throat seemed too dry, his head spinning from the smoke.

“Your face, John. They want faces, and I will provide them. Don’t worry, I already know what I’ll be getting in return for yours. Now hold very still.”

The blade cut into his neck, shallow, but John gasped and tried to flinch away–only to find his body was paralyzed. Aleks drew the blade around his neck, and John could feel the blood drooling down onto his chest. Then, he drew it up the back of his head, following the spine, all the way to the crown of his head. That, it turned out, was the easy part. Aleks’s leather gloved fingers dug into the wounds at the back of his head, and began pulling the skin free of the muscle. John screamed then, the pain surging through his body and mind until he finally felt darkness overwhelm him, and he passed out.

In all honesty, he thought that was the end. When he awoke, the nerves of his face dully throbbing away at him, he thought he must be dead, now in some afterlife. He looked around at what he could see, and knew he was on a bed in a room he recognized as Aleks’s bedroom. Perhaps it had been a dream, or some hallucination. He tested his arms and legs, and while sore, they could move. He pushed himself up so he was sitting on the bed, and knew that there was a mirrored closet behind him. Terrified at what he might see, but knowing he had to look, he twisted around, and let out a groan.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw in the mirror. The horrifying, bestial face, something between a gorilla and a wolf, staring back at him. The only part that he could still recognize were the human eyes underneath. He reached up, felt the greasy hair, the thick beard, the coarse skin, looked lower, under his neck, and let out another groan–whatever it was that was on his head now, it was…growing into him. He could see the veins of corruption spreading down into his chest and shoulders. He got up and went to the door–but it was locked. He tried to call out for help, but after a few minutes of that, he could feel the pain intensifying–whatever this process was, it wasn’t yet complete.

He spent the next eight hours on the bed, screaming in agony, as the demonic face fully attached itself to his head, spreading its corruption down into his body, deep into his soul. That was the most painful part, in fact, feeling that darkness, the horrifying chill, drilling deep into his chest, finding whatever light and good it could and snuffing it out. As it did, his body was growing, bones cracking and extending, muscles burning and flexing, a thick pelt of fur growing all down his back and chest. When the pain finally subsided, he looked over at himself in the mirror–and saw that his eyes were gone. His humanity was gone, corrupted away, just two pitch black eyes staring at him, a gnawing hunger deep in his guts, and an aching horniness in his groin. His cock and balls had not gone unaffected–his cock was larger now, easily eight inches, now with a sheath running up his abdomen. He got up from the bed, now nearly eight feet tall, tested the door with his claw tipped hands, but before he could rip the door from its hinges, it opened, and John dropped to his knees before his Master in the doorway.

The smell of him was not only more intense to his now bestial nose, but also smelled absolutely delightful. Filthy and musky and corrupted. Drool began flowing from his mouth faster than he could swallow it, and John pushed his face into Aleks’s crotch, snorting and huffing in his intoxicating stench.

“Good, it took. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to incinerate your corpse,” Aleks said, wrapping one hand around the back of John’s head, tangling his fingers in his greasy locks. “I’m too fond of you to not spend an eternity with you as my thrall.”

Thrall. The word reverberated through him, and John could feel it. Their connection. He lived to serve his Master now, his soul was gone, and what had replaced it was a deep, undeniable desire to worship him. Aleks’ opened his burning mouth wide, reached in with a hand, and pulled free a metal chain glowing with heat, though his gloves were unburnt. He took it, wrapped it around John’s neck, and the beast howled in pain. Aleks pressed the metal into his flesh, searing it there, before gripping the free ends of the chain in his fist and melting them together into a knot, now impossible to untangle or remove.

The pain ebbed away, and John felt his flesh healing rapidly around the metal–in a matter of moments, it was like it had been fused to his body for years. “What…what have you done to me?” he growled out, words warped by his long inhuman tongue and sharp fangs.

“I took your face, and traded it for a demon’s. A lower one, a beast of filth and sloth and wrath. I knew it would suit you and your desires. You are hungry, are you not, my slave?”

John gave a growl, and Aleks’ turned around, pulled his pants down, and shoved his ass to John’s face. The stench was horrific and intoxicating. John pried his master’s cheeks apart with his claws, digging into the skin a bit, and drove his long, pointed tongue into his hole, tasting it, tasting what he desired now, more than anything. Aleks fed his thrall his massive load of shit, listening to the beast eagerly devour every last bit of it, and when he was finished, he turned around, and sprayed him down with a load of piss. It came out nearly hot enough to scald, steaming in the air, and John was in ecstasy, reeking of his Master now, belly full, cock aching to fuck.

“Now, why don’t we begin our real task, my slave?” Aleks said.

That night, John grabbed one of the other tenants from the building, and dragged him back to the apartment. Aleks took the face from the man, and replaced it with one of his own desire, a blank rubber gas mask, filling the man with his smoke until his entire identity had been erased, knowing nothing more than the fact he was a drone, a slave to his demonic master and his favorite pet. At last, John was given his reward, and mounted the their first drone, driving his monstrous cock into its tight hole, wrecking it, destroying it, filling it with as much corruptive cum as he could, watching the drone expand in size, growing more and more muscular as the rubber of the gas mask spread, encasing the drone’s entire body.

Soon, they would have a harem. Then an army. Aleks was not content, after all, with personal power. No, the demons had promised him much, much more, if he would assist them in their assault on the mortal realm. The time of man was in twilight, and the age of demons was about to dawn.

TPC – Chapter 2.12

Chapter 2.12 – The Hardhat Life

“Rise and shine meatheads, let’s get to fuckin’ work!”

Richard groaned and rolled over on the mattress, and nearly tumbled off–he reached out and found a post and stopped himself, then looked around. He had no idea where he was. In fact, he had no idea where he was supposed to be. He had no real idea who he was, either, for that matter. It was easier to start with the where–so he did that.

It was a long metal room, the two sides lined with bunk beds. All around him, guys were clambering out of their own narrow mattresses, all of them naked, and pulling on a wide variety of grungy, unwashed clothing that had been heaped in the center of the room. He laid there, watching, until someone came up and gave him a smack upside the head. He looked down and saw a face glowering up at him. “Newbie! Get your ass up, get dressed, and get your ass outside.”

The knock and the barking of the order was enough to stiffen his little cock, and he did as he was told. By the time he got down and lumbered over–his body just didn’t feel right, somehow, but he didn’t know how it was supposed to feel anyway, so maybe this was how it should be–the pile of clothes had dwindled to nearly nothing. He pulled on a filthy wifebeater than smelled like someone had pissed on it recently, found a set of overalls that were too long for his shorter legs, and ended up in sets of mismatched socks and workboots, but he was dressed. The last one out the door, he took the hardhat the boss handed him, and put it on like the rest of the men milling about in the yard. The crowd was larger than just the men who had fit in his quarters, which now that he was outside of it, he saw was a converted shipping crate. There were three more in the vacant lot where they were now wandering around. Some guys were trying to swap clothes, others were standing, waiting for orders probably. The Boss called them to order, and they all stopped what they were doing, and listened.

“Alright, we got the usual three spots today, and some special jobs I’ll be assigning myself. Twenty of you on the right–twenty on the left, and the rest in the middle.”

There was some jostling, and Richard ended up on the left flank.

“Alright. Right hand side, you have the project with House of Kings, working on their new compound. Left, you’re working the apartments up the block. Center, you’ll be broken into smaller teams for odd jobs. Alright, let’s get to it.”

The men broke off and headed to their assigned locations, Richard swept away with the twenty other grunts headed for the apartment job. They got there in a few minutes, and another Boss was waiting for them, lined them up, and assigned them duties. He gave Richard a once over and sighed. “Newbie, you’re gonna be runnin’. Just make sure everyone’s got the shit they need, and try not to fuck anything up,” he said, and then moved onto the next guy in line. Richard wanted to ask him what they were doing, why he was here, but he didn’t get a chance, and the other guys didn’t seem particularly interested either. When he was finished assigning duties, they broke off and headed to their duties, but Richard stayed behind.

“I…uh…I don’t know why I’m here, I think…I think there’s a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake hardhat. Get to fucking work.”

“But…I don’t think I work here. My name…my name’s Richard, and–”

The Boss slapped him across the face, and for the second time that morning, Richard found himself with an embarrassing hard on. “Get in the fucking trailer. I don’t know where they’re getting you fucks lately, but they aren’t even cleaning you out properly.”

Richard gulped, but did as the Boss ordered, following him into the trailer. He noticed a couple of other guys watching, then they shook their heads and got back to work. Richard felt a little shame at that, but what had he done wrong? He just didn’t understand. The door closed behind them, and he had no chance to think before the Boss whirled on him, put both of his hands around his neck, and shoved him back against the wall.

“Now, you need to listen real close, Newbie. I don’t like having to explain shit, and you fucking hardhats are too fucking stupid to understand half of it anyway. You don’t have a fucking name–not anymore. You’re a fucking hardhat. You’re all interchangeable. You work, you eat, you sleep, and you do it again the next day, got it?” Richard nodded, but the Boss only squeezed his throat tighter, until he was gasping for breath, and then released him. Richard fell forward as he stepped back, and he landed on the floor in front of him on all fours. Without letting him catch his breath, he shoved the toe of his dirty boot in his mouth. “Clean it, pig.”

Richard tried to pull away, but he just pushed it harder, rolling him onto his back, the bottom of his boot against his mouth, while the Boss pulled his belt free from his pants, doubled it, and gave him a sharp smack on the nuts with it, making him grunt–and much to his horror, leak profusely, enough to wet the front of his ill fitting overalls. “I said clean it, pig. I know you fucking hardhats love the taste of a grimy boot.”

Richard realized he was already licking the boot by the time Boss gave the order. Even worse, he realized that he was enjoying it. He reached down to grope his cock, only for Boss to smack his hand away with the belt. 

“Keep your hands off pig–do a good job, and maybe I’ll let you cum with my cock deep in your guts.”

That image just made Richard lick harder, much to his shame. But the shame only made him more excited, made him leak even more, and that made him lick more, and he…he was enjoying this. He wanted this. When the boots were clean, he begged Boss to fuck him, begged him to breed his dirty pig hole, and Boss eventually relented–but only after looping his belt around Richard’s nuts and pulling it tight while he fucked him good and rough. That was enough for him to explode with a loud squeal, shooting his load all over the desk he was bent over, and once Boss had finished inside him, he made Richard clean off the desk, then his cock, and then gripped his neck again.

“Now, who are you?”

“A…hardhat, Sir.”

“And what is a hardhat?”

“A…stupid pig, sir. A stupid, horny, stinking, gross pig…”

“And what are you gross pigs good for?”

“Work sir. And fucking. But mostly work…will…you fuck me again sir, please?”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” he said, and released him. “Get to fucking work, don’t you realize how much of my time you wasted, Newbie? Give me that hat.”

Richard handed him the orange hat he’d received that morning, and Boss handed him a yellow one. 

“You know what that means?”

Richard shook his head.

“Means you’re today’s urinal. Tomorrow too–as long as I think necessary, until you get used to being a filthy hardhat. You’ll still be running, but all the hardhats know what that hat means. Think you can do that? If not, I have another one you can wear instead,” he said, and pointed to a brown hardhat on hanging on the wall. “But maybe you’d like that one too much.”

Richard gulped.

“Now get out of my sight.”

Richard scrambled out of the trailer and back towards the workers, and saw that quite a few of them were waiting to see him come out–and when they noticed the swapped hat, more than a few of them even looked a bit jealous. Richard understood why. Boss stuck his head out, hollered at them all to get back to work, and they scrambled back to their duties, Richard quickly finding a little bit of a flow. Guys would shout at him if they needed something, and he’d find it and get it to them. If there was no one shouting, he started asking around–and if they didn’t need something, they usually needed to piss, and Richard was more than happy to drink it down for them.

“Lucky fucker,” one of them said as he finished, “Wanna trade hats? I never get to be the urinal.”

The hardhat considered it for a moment, then shook his head, and headed off to check with someone else, his concerns already evaporating, as the day heated up. He was a hardhat now–he didn’t need to know more than that–but he did, for some reason, hold onto his name. It wasn’t important really, but he liked the sound of it, how it felt in his mouth. Richard. He whispered it softly to himself that night, and each night after that–and before long, it was all he had left.


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(Caption) Halloween Nightmares VI

October Caption Challenge (27/31)

Nicholas liked order. He’d been a wild kid, ended up enlisting in the army, and getting shipped out to the Middle East. The experience had sucked, but it had given him the sense of discipline and consequence that he’d been missing, and when his tour of duty ended, he proceeded to get his life on the right track. Now, he was doing good. Engaged with a wedding planned for the next year, just bought a house, a solid job and good savings. He even made time to go visit the gym on a regular basis, and was in better shape now than he’d been, even in his army days.

The dream imp, however, looked at this and found itself a bit disgusted. It followed Nicholas home from the gym that evening, poking and prodding around in his head, looking for all of his quirks and weaknesses, crafting just the sort of nightmare that would break him properly, and send him back to his dirty, wild ways from before.

Nicholas fell asleep that night, and found himself in a room he didn’t recognize. A basement, probably, since there was no light or windows that he could see. He was…naked as well, which was rather embarrassing, but all of the clothes littered around the room were a bit…well, he didn’t know what half the shit was, in all honesty. There was a lot of leather, and rubber, and…fuck, what kind of faggot shit was this, anyway?

“Don’t worry about that stuff, Nick–come here, we can help.”

“Yeah Nick, let us help, come on.”

The voices didn’t sound quite human. They almost seemed to be coming from his own mind. He followed them anyway, and found himself looking at some of the filthiest clothes he’d ever seen, dropped in the corner of the room. 

“Hi Nick, don’t you want to wear us?”

“Come on Nick, it’ll feel so good…”

“No one has worn us in so long.”

Nick took a few steps back, “What the fuck is this?” he said, looking around the room, wondering what the hell kind of dream this was, when he felt something slither around his ankle, and grip him tight. Looking down, it was a leg of some coveralls that had slithered out of the pile–and the other filthy laundry was coming closer as well. 

He tried to pull his ankle away, but the coveralls tugged back harder, and pulling him to the floor–and everything swarmed over him. Some filthy briefs crawled up his legs, a nasty t-shirt squirmed over his head and down onto his body, and the coveralls swallowed everything up. He stood up, feeling almost light headed, and the words, the voices, they were so loud, they were drowning out his own mind.

“That’s it Nick, isn’t it good to be dirty again?”

“Such a loser Nick, you were always a loser. You never stood a chance.”

“You stupid fucking faggot, nothing but a dirty, filthy, faggot pig, that’s all you are.”

He felt his cock release a stream of piss into the coveralls, and the clothes squirmed like they were orgasming–they were orgasming, actually, and it felt like he was as well. After that, he just relaxed, and let the clothes drink him dry, sucking down his muscles, sucking down his mind, sucking down his cum and piss and sweat, and when he finally woke up, it wasn’t in his bed.

He was on a toilet.

He didn’t know where this toilet was. He didn’t know how he’d gotten the dirty workwear he was wearing. He didn’t know…anything, really. The dream had drained so much of him, that all that was left was a nasty minded pig. A pig with a name at least. Nick. He was called Nick–no last name. He didn’t need one. He…had a job too, didn’t he? He thought hard, tried to focus, and pissed his pants by accident, feeling it pool around the seat of his pants and dribble off onto the floor.

He would have gotten down to lick it up like a good pig, when the door to the bathroom opened. Later, then. He had work to do, after all. A greasy looking roughneck rounded the corner, ready to use the toilet, and found the pig there, with a surprised look on his face. But one whiff of him, and he knew what he needed to do. A full service toilet pig, just waiting for him. It was his lucky day, apparently.

Nick kept trying to leave, when he remembered there was a door outside the stall where he’d woken up. But whenever he tried, he woke up right back on the toilet. After all, he still had work to do, didn’t he? So much work to do.

(Caption) Halloween Nightmares III

October Caption Challenge (14/31)

CW: SCAT

Edward stood in the shower at the gym, trying to stay focused. He should love her, Mary, his wife of nearly forty years, but lately it had just gotten so…difficult. He’d always had feelings about men. All his life, he’d known that he’d contained certain dirty lusts that were better left unsatisfied. He’d imagined that, after all of this time, they would have ebbed away. He’d lived a clean life for so long, and now…why was he feeling so weak, now?

The heart attack almost a year ago had been a message from God, he’d thought, to get his health in order. He’d started eating better, going to the gym, and the gym…it had been difficult to resist some of the thoughts and temptations he’d been facing there. Just…why did they all have to be so beautiful? Every man he saw, it seemed, just made him feel filthier and filthier. He would take a cold shower after the workout, and that had helped a bit before, but it was harder and harder to resist the urges he was feeling. The same urges that had called to the dream imp to him. The same urges the imp was going to release for him, whether he wanted them or not. However, Edward had proven to be a tougher nut to crack than the imp had expected–and he was growing frustrated with him. Perhaps, the imp thought, it was simply time to show the old fellow just how filthy he could get.

The temperature of the shower he was standing under changed, going from tap water cold to body temperature. He smelled it a moment later, the distinct pang of piss all around him, licked his lips, and was horrified to realize that the showerhead was streaming piss all over him. He recoiled from it, but the shower followed him, spraying him down, and the more he tasted and smelled it, the stronger the filthy urges inside him became. All those…men out there, the men he’d run away from, he wanted them all so badly, and this was making it all so much worse. Soap, he needed soap, anything to get clean again. He grabbed for the bar he usually brought into the shower with him, gripped it, and felt it squish in his hand.

Looking down at his fist, he was shaking. It wasn’t soap that he’d grabbed onto–it was a warm log of shit that had just been sitting there on the shelf. He could smell it, feel it between his fingers and under his nails. He wanted to open his hand and drop it, but instead, his hand started rubbing it all over his body, coating himself with it, feeling the dirtiness inside him grow stronger still. He was filthy. He was irredeemable. He was nothing more than a faggot, a toilet, a hole. Worthless. He ran out of shit, squatted down in the shower, and squeezed out another log into his hand, smearing that onto him as well, licking his fingers clean. He looked up, and saw the horde of muscular young men waiting for him…but they were different too. Musky, grungy, asses unwashed and fully of piss and filth. He crawled out to them, and they surrounded him, the nightmare becoming a fantasy–and when he awoke, reality.

Eddie jacked off on the filthy mattress he slept on, holding onto what had to be the hottest dream of his entire life. When he’d cum, he rolled up, got into his rubber gear, and started hitting up some of his regular fuckbuddies, looking for some asses to service, and hopefully, some shit to eat and piss to drink. He lit up a cigar as he did, feeling sexy as fuck–sure, he might be an old filthy faggot, but at least he could finally be free.

Precinct 27’s New Recruit

When Jordan heard that he was being assigned to Precinct 27 after graduating from the academy, a couple of other trainees pulled him aside and asked what he’d done to get that assignment. From their tone, he couldn’t quite tell if it was a curse or a blessing. When he asked why they seemed surprised, none of them would really give him any details. The only hard fact he could get out of any of them was that the precinct was on the edge of a chunk of the city which was generally called Pigtown, which was a rather unsavory locale, where it was best not to be caught after dark. Jordan, having grown up in the suburbs of the city, hadn’t heard of it, which only seemed to surprise the fellows more. In any case, none of them had been there, or if they had, they weren’t talking about it, so they moved on to other conversations. Jordan learned what they meany by unsavory, however, when he pulled into a parking garage not far from the precinct house, and stumbled upon two guys fucking near the elevator.

He froze. The fellows looked over at him, from the shadows, and one of them was so bold as to beckon him over. Jordan didn’t join them, and if he’d been on duty, he would have hauled them in for public indecency. Instead, a bit rattled, he retreated down to street level, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and found it hard to believe he was still in the same city he’d always thought he’d known. The ground and storefronts were grungy and dirty, the air choked with smoke and exhaust, the streets narrow and full of alleys that seemed to weave around in directions that made no sense. The men passing him on the sidewalk (and it was only men, he realized after a few minutes) were all dressed in leather, denim, rubber, work gear, none of it clean, and some of it rather suggestive, but not as suggestive as what they catcalled him with as he passed by. 

He found his way to the precinct eventually, nearly getting lost in the process. He was certain, somehow, that the streets were moving around him, but that couldn’t be possible, right? In any case, he got there on time, climbed the steps and stepped inside, eager to find somewhere normal after such a strange start to his day, but he quickly discovered that there was a reason precinct 27 had…a reputation with the rest of the cops in the city. 

The building seemed tired. Whether it was because it was simply old, just uncared for, or something else, he couldn’t tell. The tiles of the floor were peeling up and scuffed. The walls had any number of stains on them. The chairs were falling apart, the officer manning the desk had his boots up on the desk in front of him, and he was flipping through a magazine that, Jordan realized as he came closer, looked to be a vintage gay porno rag. He cleared his throat, giving the officer the chance to put the magazine away, but he just looked over the top of it. “What’s up?” he said.

“Uh, hi. My name is Jordan Bethell, I’m a new recruit assigned here? I’m supposed to have a meeting with the commander today at ten.”

The man leered at him. Jordan had never really known what a leer was, until the moment this officer’s nose and lips turned up, upon the news that the precinct had a new recruit. “Sure thing man. His office is on the third floor. Elevator’s broke though, gonna have to climb,” the officer said, pointing to the stairs.

“They gonna fix it soon?”

The man just laughed, and returned to his magazine, groping the crotch of his uniform openly as he reached the centerfold. Jordan backed away, confused, and took the stairs up. He’d be sure to mention the officer’s rather inappropriate behavior when he spoke to the commander. The higher he climbed in the building, the hotter it became, adding ten, then maybe fifteen degrees of heat, despite it being a rather cool Spring day outside. He passed a few officers on the way up, and each of them were walking uniform violations–beards on almost all of them past regulation length, some men who were quite a bit too fat to pass the physical exam, illegal modifications to their uniforms–and he was certain that one of them smelled like alcohol as he passed, and another stank of piss. What kind of operation was the commander running here? He had met a few captains and commanders while he was at the academy, and all of them had seemed rather rigid and sticklers when it came to the rules of how an officer ought to present themselves. Whoever was leading this place–if this is what he let his officers get away with, how could he expect them to look up to him as a leader?

At the top floor, the temperature in the building had to be eighty degrees, and Jordan was already sweating through his undershirt and out onto the crisp, clean button down he’d worn, since he didn’t have his official uniform to change into yet. Those were stored at the precinct, and given to recruits when they arrived. He turned the corner at the top of the stairs, and at the end of the hall, he saw one officer had shoved another up against the wall, and was…making out with him? The other one had his hand down the other officer’s pants and was stroking the man’s cock, making him moan. “What…what the fuck are you two doing?” Jordan asked.

Both officers turned to him, surprised and annoyed at having been interrupted. “Who the fuck are you, askin’?” the larger one asked. He was big, one of the larger men that Jordan had ever seen, and he stalked towards him, footfalls reverberating through the floor, and Jordan stepped backwards, only to stumble into someone else. The officer stopped, stood up straight, and saluted, “Commander,” he said, and the other officer behind him pushed off the wall and saluted as well, “I was just inquiring as to what this…civilian was doing in our precinct.”

“I believe this civilian is Jordan Bethell, our new recruit out of the academy,” the voice behind him said. Jordan turned around, and found himself looking up at Commander Rumwell. He was a few inches taller than Jordan was, his body thickly packed with muscle. Unlike the other officers he’d seen, his uniform was at least worn as it ought to be, but that didn’t stop the older fellow’s musk from forming a thick cloud around him in the heat. Jordan’s nose wrinkled at the smell–it reminded him of the days back in high school after football practice, the air full of sex and hormones and sweat. He shuddered a bit, but wasn’t quite sure why. “We have a meeting, don’t we Jordan? Thank you for your promptness,” the commander said.

The other two officers backed off, and Jordan followed Rumwell down the hall to his office. Somehow, it was even hotter in there, but Jordan didn’t understand how that could be possible. He loosened the tie he’d added to his ensemble, hoping to appear more professional, but now he just felt silly somehow. “Thank you, Sir,” Jordan said once the door was closed behind them. “I walked in on those two making out in the hallway! I…and the man at the reception desk was reading a porno mag. A gay one, I think.”

“Oh yes, Lark and Willis are partners, they usually don’t make it without fucking in the hall until around noon, and Jimmy at the desk pretty much always has his nose in a rag like that. He gets them at an old shop around the corner. I’m surprised you didn’t walk in on him with his cock out–happens more often than you might think.”

“You…you can’t be serious,” Jordan said, and tugged at the collar on his shirt. “Is…the air conditioning broken, or something?”

“Yeah, very broken,” Rumwell said, “I can turn on my fan, if you want.”

Jordan nodded. The older man turned around, twisted the knob on the back of the fan he had sitting behind him, and air started flowing. It didn’t make anything that much cooler, and the air had to pass by the commander before it reached Jordan, which meant that it stank of the man’s musk. It’s not that it was particularly rank–it was…Jordan had a hard time describing it exactly. Rugged? Masculine? Powerful? He shook his head and shuddered again, trying to keep his composure. 

“Precinct 27 is…a special case, in the city,” Rumwell was saying, and Jordan struggled to recall what had started the monologue. “This is all classified, and does not leave this precinct. There is a bar, about ten to fifteen blocks west of here, depending on how you walk there, called Pigtown. It has always had a certain…reputation, but as of late, that reputation has become…an aura. Or a zone, perhaps. There’s a perimeter around the bar that, well, it has an effect on people. On men, especially. This precinct is charged specifically with trying to contain and understand this influence, so we can stop it from spreading further. Not many recruits from the academy have the stones to make it here, you know, but I think you’ll do fine once you’re a little seasoned. I selected you in part because your instructors took note of your determination and grit–and also because you’re a rather handsome young man, if I do say so myself.”

“E-Excuse me?” Jordan said, his words a bit slurred. He felt…high, almost. He wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with him, and figured it had to be heat exhaustion. “Do…do you have something to drink? I’m feeling a bit dizzy. From the heat.”

“Are you sure it’s from the heat?” Rumwell asked him and chuckled, a deep chuckle that made Jordan’s heart jump a bit for reasons he didn’t quite want to explore too deeply. He dug a water bottle out from his desk and tossed it to Jordan. He guzzled it, but it didn’t help his head clear much. “Anyway, this precinct and the bar have…an agreement. We enforce the perimeter, and do our best to keep everything on the inside, in, and everything on the outside, out. Nice, and separate. We have our place, in here, and they have their place, out there.”

“Wait, in? Aren’t we…out?”

“Oh no, the perimeter is at 134th street–we’re a good five blocks inside here.”

Wait, it’s…how big is it?”

“Too big, perhaps. This far out, it’s  noticeable, but the further in you go, especially at night…well, you’ll see in good time. No reason to send you running away screaming on your first day. Around here we have a little more lewd conduct on the street than other places in the city, and the only folks who live around here tend to be men, but beyond that, nothing too out of the ordinary, especially during the daytime.”

“I saw some guys fucking in the parking garage…”

“Yeah, like that.”

“I…this…I don’t understand, what are we doing here?”

“It’s a lot to take in, and it looks like you’re having trouble focusing, Jordan,” Runwell said, put his arms back behind his head, and the smell of his musk intensified. Jordan moaned, and realized his cock was tenting the front of his pants. “Seems like your commander’s scent has you all riled up. Don’t fight it–no one around here can resist it. That’s why I’m in charge, you see. That’s why all of the men here, including you, have to obey everything I tell them to do.”

“I…I don’t understand…”

“That’s ok. Recruits like you, if I told you everything right away, well, your heads would probably explode. But that’s ok. You’re kind of tired of listening to an old man like me prattle on and on, aren’t you? Isn’t there something else you’d rather do?” The commander stood up from his chair, and Jordan gaped at him. Six foot five, massive frame packed into a uniform a little too small for him, pit stains under his arms, a thick beard growing out of his face down to the collar of his shirt, a firm muscle gut pushing out, and the bulge of his cock and balls under that. Jordan realized he was staring, but he also couldn’t quite bring himself to pull his eyes away. Would that bulge smell different from his pits? How would his ass smell, he wondered? He shook his head, and managed to push out of his chair.

“This…it’s a trap,” he said, but he couldn’t quite manage to walk to the door, something was…keeping him there, a voice, maybe. A desire. An urge.

“It’s not…not a trap. I really did choose you because I knew you would be able to take it. The work here requires a…certain kind of man. You aren’t quite there yet, but give it a few months around the rest of your brothers here, and you’ll be one fine fuckin’ specimen, I can fucking tell. Yeah, look at you, all clean shaven, short hair, lean frame…but fuck, we’ll make a damn fine man out of you. Isn’t that what you want? For me to make a man out of you?”

Jordan tried to go for the door, stumbled, and fell to the floor on his hands and knees. Before he could crawl, Rumwell stood beside him and rolled him over with one boot, when he was on his back, planted it on his chest. Jordan tried to push him off, but whatever it was that was in the commander’s musk, he just felt weak. He couldn’t oppose this man. He couldn’t fight him. And if he couldn’t do those things, what could he do?

He could submit.

The idea popped into his head a little too readily for him to trust it, as much as he wanted to. He struggled anyway, even knowing that there was nothing he could do. Sensing resistance, Rumwell moved the boot, planting it on Jordan’s neck, applying just enough pressure to make breathing difficult, and Jordan froze.

“Bitchell–you don’t mind that I call you that,” the commander said. It was stated as a fact, not as a question. “Bitchell, you’re going to have to learn here that, as a recruit, you are on the bottom of the totem pole. The harder you fight, the worse you’ll make it for yourself, and the more likely it is that you’ll find yourself dragged away down some alley in the middle of the night, and when you come crawling back out–if you come crawling back out–you will not be the same man that you were when you were taken. Obedience is what protects you. If you obey me, if you only obey me, then you will always come back to me, because that is where men like you belong, do you understand?”

Jordan nodded as best he could with the boot on his throat.

“Now, I am going to remove my boot, place it on the floor, and you will lick it. Then, I will remove my boots, and you will worship my feet–you will do this not because you want to, but because as your superior, in every way, you must obey me.”

Rumwell pulled his boot away, and Jordan did everything he could to push back against the man’s musk and command, and bolt for the door. He managed to roll over onto his belly, but before he could push himself up to run, he crawled over to the boot and started licking at the leather. All the while, he was stuck in his head, screaming at himself to run, but it was like all control of his body had been severed away from him. His mind was reeling still, his vision swirling from the smell of leather and musk and the heat. Rumwell smirked, and then walked back to his desk. Jordan followed, trying to lick the boot as he walked, until the commander sat back down in his chair and put his booted feet up on his desk. “Take off your clothes, including your underwear, then take off my boots and socks and worship my feet, recruit.”

Jordan did as he was ordered, stripping off his tie, shirts and slacks until he was naked and sweaty in the commander’s office, horrifically embarrassed to find himself completely naked before the uniformed older man in front of him. He pulled off one of Rumwell’s boots, and the smell that struck him was even stronger than the general musk of the room, and much to his own disgust, he almost craved it. Not…the smell itself, exactly. He craved…he craved the pure manliness of it. He wanted to drink it down. He wanted it to pour out of him as well. He pulled off the other boot and sock, faster now, and then got down and started licking the commanders size seventeen feet clean, shoving his nose between his toes, snorting up the scent, taking in as much of it as he could.

“That’s a good recruit, get as much of that in you as you can. I had a feeling you’d have good instincts. You want it, don’t you? You might not understand why yet, but fuck, you want it. I can see it, I can tell–there’s no use trying to hide it. Go on, enjoy it. Relish it. Take it all in.”

Jordan didn’t know how long he was there in front of the desk, cleaning the commander’s feet, but when he finally took them away and pulled his socks and boots back on, Jordan collapsed back in the chair, looked at the clock, and saw that an hour and a half had passed since the start of their meeting. “I…What the fuck are you doing to me?” he said.

“Heh, that was just the introduction, recruit. Get up and follow me. Leave your clothes here–you won’t be needing them again. We’ll get you into the recruit uniform for now.”

“I…won’t…everyone see me?”

“You aren’t a very quick learner, are you?” the commander said, “Get out there–locker room is on the ground floor.”

The commander marched him down the stairs, past a few officers who catcalled and whistled at him as they passed, making Jordan’s face burn in humiliation. But as he walked, he was certain that something about him was off. He didn’t quite know what it was, exactly–like he was a little thicker, or a little hairier, his dick a bit bigger–it was rock hard despite how horrified he was by this entire scene. The officers that passed them went and told the rest of the shift that there was a new recruit about to be broken in, and a mob of officers followed them into the locker room, surrounding Jordan, making him feel even more self-conscious. 

“Now, recruits tend to wash out here pretty regularly. They run out into the streets, and when we find them again, they usually aren’t very interested in being officers any longer. We started saving time keeping just one recruit at a time, and you all get the same uniform. I always tell the guy who had it last to wash it, but they never do, for some reason,” Rumwell said, opened up a locker, and pulled out a grungy looking uniform stuck to a hanger. The commander pulled it off, and it was…crispy. He brought over to Jordan, and he realized, from the smell, that the reason it was crispy was because it had been saturated with cum–and probably a bit of piss–and left to dry there in the locker. Once the pants were laid out, he saw that the ass of the pants had been ripped open, giving ready access to whoever’s ass might be underneath. His ass, soon enough, he supposed. 

“I…No fucking way am I putting that shit on,” Jordan said.

“Recruit, put on your uniform–that’s a fucking order,” Rumwell said, and watched the young man struggle to resist. There was no underwear of course, and no boots or socks. He pulled on the shirt, trying not to gag when he realized that some patches were still a little wet–apparently it had been worn more recently than he’d thought. The pants were next, and he had to use the belt that the commander handed him to cinch them up, because they were too small for him, the ankles pooling around his feet. The officers around him laughed, and all Jordan wanted to do was run away.

“Well men, this is our new recruit. For now, you all will address him as Bitchell, until he’s proven to us that he’d good for more than being the precinct’s bitch, right?”

Again, the men laughed and some advanced closer to him, a few with their cocks hanging out of the flies of their uniform pants. This has to be a dream, Jordan thought to himself. He didn’t know what to make of it, if it was, but it was better than this actually happening to him. He tried to shrink away, but the officers were coming from every side, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

“Attention, Recruit!” Rumwell snapped at him, and Jordan immediately took the proper position. “Here are your orders. From now on, you will serve this precinct as our cumdump, urinal and bitch. You are not to leave the premises under any circumstances. A cell will be reserved for you below, where you will sleep when you are not on your shift. When you are working, you will service any officer who requires it. You will not refuse a request from an officer under any circumstance, no matter how much it might personally revolt you–but I have a feeling you’ll come around to our way of things soon enough,” the commander added, whispering that into Jordan’s ear.

With that, the men of the precinct descended upon him in the locker room, bending him over the length of the bench between the lockers. One officer took his mouth, another took his ass, and with that, Jordan lost his virginity to two sizable cocks at both ends. He tried to do something, anything, to get away, but his body refused to obey him again, and the smell of the men around him was so heady and intoxicating he wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to leave. The men didn’t last long. Some waited until they could have a turn at either end, while others were too excited and simply shot their loads all over the back of Bitchell’s uniform, as they all called him now. After an hour or so of constant sex, with his hole pulsing and his jaw aching, he was finally done, and just stayed on the bench for a few minutes, shuddering, feeling the cum ooze out of his ass, drain down between his thighs and pool in the crotch of his pants. 

He pushed himself up, and found that he wasn’t alone. The commander was still there, standing against the lockers, admiring the sight of the new recruit plastered with his men’s cum, and a few loads of piss to go with it. “Fuck, you’re gonna be a handsome pig once we’re done with you, I can already fucking tell,” Rumwell said, “I knew it from the first time I saw you in the yard that day, that I had to have you.”

“Please Sir, please…I…just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I…please…” Jordan said, crawling over to where the commander was standing and kissing his boots.

“Are you sure you want to leave, recruit? Get up, I want to show you something.”

He got down and hauled Jordan up off the floor, and helped him over to the mirror at the end of a bank of lockers. There, Jordan got his first good look at himself since putting on the disgusting uniform…and he was appalled. There was cum all over his face and hair–but then he saw something else that hadn’t been there earlier. He had a five o’clock shadow. He never had a shadow like that. Hell, he generally didn’t have to shave his beard more than a few days a week, because he didn’t grow that much. He opened up the shirt, and saw that the same thing had happened across his chest and belly, a thicker trail of hair had appeared than there’d been before. There was something else too, but harder to pinpoint. He smelled different. At first he thought he was just smelling all of the cum that was on him, but it was more than that. He’d never had much of a musk before this, but he could really smell himself, and…and he liked it. 

“Look at you, already growing into a proper man. Probably won’t even have to have you in the recruit uniform for very long, if you work hard and bulk up quick, and show that I can trust you to be good and obedient. You like being obedient, don’t you? It feels good to obey men like me. The better you obey me, the sooner you’ll be a man just like me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you recruit?”

He came closer and licked the side of Jordan’s face, one hand groping his cock and balls through the front of the crispy uniform–only the crotch wasn’t so crispy anymore. Some of that was because of the cum that had drooled out of his ass, but he realized he’d been leaking this entire time into the front as well. “Please, I…” Jordan managed to say, but then the commander pulled him into a kiss, forcing his tongue into his mouth, invading it, dominating it, and Jordan just…relented, as the commander’s other hand slid behind him, found his well used hole, and slid a finger inside it.

The commander pulled away, and put his lips to Jordan’s ear again. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Getting fucked by men feels good. It feels good to service them. The more you service them, the faster you’ll stop being a bitch, and grow into a real man like them too. You want to be a real man, don’t you? You don’t want to be a bitchy little recruit forever, do you?”

“No, Sir.”

“No–you want to grow big, and strong, and hairy, and musky like a real man, don’t you?”

“Fuck…fuck Sir, I…I do Sir.”

“Do you want me to fuck you Bitchell? Do you want me to pound that hole of yours, flood your guts with my seed? Do you want me to make you even hairier, and bigger, and smellier than you already are? Do you want to become a proper pig like the rest of my men here? You do, don’t you?”

“Please Sir, please fuck me…” Jordan moaned.

“You fucking bitch slut, if you insist.”

The commander pushed him over in front of the mirror, lined up his cock, and pushed inside Jordan’s hole, sliding right in up to the hilt. His cock wasn’t the longest, but it was the thickest, and the stretch of his hole made Jordan gasp and contract. “Don’t fight it bitch, you need this. You want this load. You want every load this bitch hole can take, isn’t that right? If you don’t, you aren’t going to be man enough to stay here. You’ll just wash out, and we’ll leave you out back for the freaks to come collect when night falls–that what you want? You want those pigs out there to drag you into the alley and do all sorts of unspeakable things to you?”

Jordan shook his head.

“Yeah, why would you want that, when we can do all those filthy, unspeakable things to you right here,” Rumwell said, and fucked him harder. He came, flooding Jordan’s guts with his load, and he could feel it, this time. The potency of the commander’s seed, the corrupted essence of it, Jordan looked at himself in the mirror, saw his shoulders widen, his pecs beef up, his waist expand enough that he needed to let the belt out a notch. Even his feet grew larger, and had a fine coating of hair on the surface. 

The commander pulled him close, making sure he got every last drop, and then led him downstairs to the jail. Most of the cells were empty, but the commander showed him to his new room, but left the door open. After all, the men needed easy access to the bitch. His first shift would start tonight–the night shift was always more active here in Pigtown, and a lot of the officers liked to blow off some steam before going out on patrol–it helped keep some of the temptations down. As the commander was leaving, Jordan asked, “Wait, what about my car? My stuff? I can’t…just stay here.”

“Don’t worry about that life anymore, Bitchell,” the commander said, “We’ll take care of you from now on. This is your home now–even when you aren’t the bitch anymore, you won’t want to be anywhere else. You’ll see. That’s the thing, really. In the end, Pigtown will claim us all. Until then, well, someone has to keep order around here.”

With that, the commander left. Jordan thought about trying to escape, but he was exhausted. He curled up on the cot, still in his uniform, and passed out. It wasn’t until around nine at night that someone shook him awake, and shoved a dick in his mouth. The night shift was here, and Jordan’s time as the precinct’s newest recruit had begun.


Those first few months were hard, as Jordan adapted to his new role in life as the precinct’s bitch. Nothing worked the way it ought to. He felt like he was trapped in some sick and twisted gay porno–all the actors were wearing cop uniforms, but none of them were actually cops, no matter what they might look like or say. Except, they were. It was all confusing, and he struggled to keep his footing, just trying to take things as they came, rather than sort the whole mess out all at once. One thing was certain, and that was that the night shift at the precinct was much more active than the day shift. It was populated with a different sort of officer as well–younger, bigger men, all of them forming a stern and tight knit community. They didn’t talk to Bitchell much or engage with him as a fellow officer–it was clear that they didn’t see him as an equal, but merely as a tool. They would go out on their patrols, but who they returned with, if they had to make an arrest, shocked him at first, and one thing the officers always told him, was to stay away from the other cells in the block when they were occupied–best, in fact, to avoid the jail altogether during the night. He had plenty to keep him busy in the rest of the precinct anyway. After their patrols, the officers were usually so horned up and desperate, they either fucked each other right there over the desks or up against the wall, or if no one else was available, they’d use Bitchell. 

Once the night shift ended around dawn, Jordan would go down to the jail, once one of the officers had given him the allclear, and find that all of the men that the officers had dragged in over the course of the night had disappeared from their cells–he’d never see them leave the building in other ways, and there was no other way out of the jail that he had seen yet. It was like the perverts, the leather beasts, the rubber pigs, all of them just evaporated with the morning sun. The one exception, on occasion, would be a rather bewildered businessman waking up with a massive hangover, possibly someone that an officer had dragged in to keep them from going too deep. One thing was clear–if you went too deep, you weren’t going to come out the same person again. Even just skipping across the surface, you’d slip under eventually. He saw a few of these businessmen reappear in the cells as the months passed by, the cops doing their best to convince them to stay away, but the place had its hooks in them, the suits giving way to leather and rubber, tattoos appearing across their bodies, begging the officers for abuse–and some of the cops even gave it to them, if they begged enough. Then, they wouldn’t show up again, or if they were showing up, they were disappearing with the morning, like the rest of them.

Once the cells were empty, Jordan would collapse and sleep in his own cot for six or seven hours, until the day shift had gotten in and was ramping up. Then, Jordan would wake up (or be woken up, if one of the officers was particularly desperate) and he’d spend the afternoon and evening servicing them. The day crew was generally older, chubbier, and looked a little more ragged around the edges both physically and mentally. There was more laughter he supposed, but less camaraderie. None of them remained in the building after sunset, and on a few occasions, he heard them talking about the nights, about their time on the night shift–work that none of them could do anymore, not after what they’d seen, what they’d done, or what had grabbed them in an alleyway during a patrol and done to them. They were scared, he realized. Scared of Pigtown, to some extent, but more terrified of themselves, of what would happen to them when their resolve failed, when they decided to stay out one night, and just relent, at last. But until then, they had each other, and that was enough, even as that fear also held them apart. They processed the paperwork left by the night crew, took note of which apparitions seemed to be active or growing stronger and what could be done about that, and they would leave their advice and suggestions for the night shift, sometimes heeded, and other times balled up with a laugh and chucked against the wall.

But Jordan didn’t understand what they were doing here. When he had the occasional opportunity, he would make his way up to the commander’s office and try and get a straight answer out of him, but for the most part, Commander Rumwell wasn’t interested in giving him a clear answer. He would just tell Jordan to focus on his training–that he’d understand in time. As for his training, it felt like a cruel joke to Jordan. Mostly, his training meant crawling from officer to officer, servicing them in whatever sick way they preferred, and then doing it all over again with the next one. In the bathroom (where Jordan tried not to remain for too long, if he didn’t want to spend a few hours doing urinal service exclusively) he’d look at himself in the mirror, and every day, he looked at a different version of himself. Hairier, more muscular, fatter, taller, shorter, older, strong, weak, filthy, tattoos, piercings, shaved head, shaggy mop, long beard goatee–it wasn’t long before he couldn’t even really remember who he’d been to begin with, that bright eyed, clean cut, young man was gone for good. Not too long after that, he lost his last name–he just couldn’t remember it. All that would come to him was Bitchell. He clung to Jordan for a while after that, but lost it one night, when he made his first proper mistake.

It had been a crazy night at the precinct, which meant that for Bitchell, it had been relatively boring. When most of the officers were out on patrol, or dealing with the men they’d arrested, that usually meant that Jordan was stuck in the office, bored out of his mind and working out in the small gym next to the locker room, waiting for someone to come and need one of his holes. It wasn’t dawn yet, but most of the officers had left, tired and ragged, and so Jordan, without thinking about the fact it was still an hour or so until dawn, descended down into the jail, and found one of the cells was still occupied.

The officers usually took care to make sure that Jordan didn’t get a good look at the men they brought in (he thought of them as men, still, though the officers generally called them beasts, apparitions, or monsters) but Jordan had always assumed they were at least human. They had to be human, didn’t they? Downstairs, Jordan had his first proper encounter with one of the apparitions of pigtown, men who had been swallowed up by the bar at some point, then spit back out as something else and now they roamed the streets, their single purpose now to corrupt others. This one had no flesh visible, just a pile of grimy rubber gear heaped around him, but whether he was wearing it, or whether it was simply stuck to him, it wasn’t clear. Each time it turned its head, another face appeared on the rubber mask it had on, always facing him: a pig, a gimp, a demon–so many so quickly, that all he could do was stare at it, and step closer, and closer to see, to feel it. The next thing he knew, the officers had him by the shoulders and hips, dragging him back, the sensation of the rubber coming unstuck from his face, where the thing had latched onto him–something between a kiss and a sucker–and all he could do was try to get back down there. The other officers spent the next few hours with him in the locker room, shoving their own musk in his face, dominating him, fucking him, but it took the commander coming in and brutally fucking him, to finally break the things hold on him properly. When he was back to himself, back to Bitchell, the rubber beast was just a memory now–faint, but powerful, and he asked what had happened, none of them could come up with an answer that satisfied him.

He came away relatively unscathed–but he did lose his first name–it had just been pulled right from his mind by the beast’s sucking rubber. If that rubber thing had kept a grip on him, what else could he have lost, and how quickly? Bitchell looked at the night shift with more respect after that. They could have abandoned him to that thing, the apparitions were always easier to wrangle after a snack, but they’d saved him. It was the first time that Bitchell felt like he belonged there, and he minded them and their orders more carefully in the future.

As the weeks became months, Bitchell’s body began to shift less from day to day, and was beginning to solidify into something he could at least recognize as a person. He hadn’t grown much older, at least. Some of the times he’d looked at himself in the mirror he’d seemed older than half the officers at the precinct. There was a thick beard coating his face, about an inch long. It never seemed to get longer, oddly enough, but it would get thicker and bushier. His face was more angular, brow heavier. His eyes were no longer blue, but instead a dark grey. The rest of his body was filling out the recruit’s uniform he’d been given rather well. Where before everything had been relatively baggy on him, on some days it now felt too tight. The belt was on the last notch, when he could even manage to get it fastened, the buttons across his chest were threatening to pop free, and he could fell the fabric stretched tight across his thighs, biceps, and hips. The officers had pitied him after a month and thrown him some boots–they’d been size sixteen, and now his toes cramped up in them after a day.

There were other changes as well. While he found himself still bound to obey the other officers, and especially the commander, the compulsion no longer seemed as strong. Lying on his cot in his cell in the mornings, while he listened to the activity above him, he wondered if it was because the commands were losing force because he was stronger, or whether it was simply because he wanted this. Did he want this? He hadn’t seen the outside world in so long now, he wasn’t entirely sure that it existed. There was just the constancy of his service, wallowing in the musk and the fucking and the piss and the debauchery of his precinct. Wasn’t he enjoying himself? He struggled to remember the academy, what he’d learned there, but none of it seemed to matter anymore. The men of precinct 27 carried their guns, but they were largely worthless. They couldn’t keep you safe from Pigtown. It was the strength of your will that saved you, not a bullet. Was he getting stronger though? Is that why he was thinking…all of these new thoughts? Having all of these dreams?

His sleep had been filled with visions lately, fantasies of storming through the precinct house, bigger than he is now, roaring, pinning down the officers one by one and fucking the daylights out of them, culminating with the commander in his office, but he always woke up before they came to blows. The dreams terrified and thrilled him, and more than once, he’d filled the front of his stained breeches with a load or several even before waking up and climbing from the jail to assume his duties. 

Then one day, he lost it. It had been Hopkins of course–that fucker was always taunting him, from his first week at the precinct. Hopkins, Bitchell had managed to deduce, had been a stellar cop at a central precinct, aiming for a promotion, before he’d been transferred here as a way to get rid of him for some failure Bitchell hadn’t deduced yet. The commander almost never took experienced cops–they simply didn’t understand what they were getting into. Hopkins had disregarded all of the commanders warnings, gotten in over his head within the first month, with several cops having to drag him back to the precinct just to keep from losing him entirely. Now, he was dayshift only, and Bitchell had heard that he got up to some rather…freaky shit when he wasn’t here. He took a lot of his rage out on Bitchell because he was an easy target–at least until Bitchell had had enough, and with a snarl, thrown Hopkins to the floor, tore out the rear of his pants, and mounted him right there in the middle of the office. 

The rest of the officers had just laughed and watched–there was no real love for Hopkins at the station. They all knew that one day, he just wouldn’t show up, and he’d be just another one of the freaks out there. Hopkins knew it too, and that terrified him more than anything. By the time Bitchell was through with him, he was begging for more, begging him to fuck him harder, and only when Bitchell pulled his cock out, and Hopkins looked around him, did he realize what had happened. He fled the station, and Bitchell was summoned to the commander’s office. He’d expected to be reprimanded, but instead, he was told that he was being promoted, and to get out of that filthy uniform. He was so thrilled, and so thankful, he stripped down and bent over the desk, allowing the commander full use of his ass, and then he received his first civilian clothes in ages, and that afternoon, he left the precinct for the first time in nearly nine months. The sunlight on his skin, even just in the evening, sent a shudder down his spine, and he cried a little. Gunner, the other officer he was with who had offered him a spare room in his place, just held him for a moment, and let him use his shoulder. “You’re alright, brother,” Gunner said, “I know it sucks, but its fuckin’ necessary. Come on, let’s get a meal in you, and then get home.”

They got there as twilight was ending, and already, the denizens of Pigtown were out in force, selling their wares, or just tempting the unsuspecting men travelling through for a little fun in an alley. Gunner showed Bitchell into his apartment–a cozy and rather rundown two bedroom flat, but after sleeping in a prison cell for most of a year, it was heaven. Gunner had made up the second bed, as an offer, but he wasn’t surprised when Bitchell climbed into bed with him, nuzzled up to him, but he was asleep before the two of them could get past foreplay. Bitchell wasn’t sure whether he should be embarrassed or apologetic the next morning, but Gunner got down, blew him, then fucked him, and that was enough to explain that there was nothing to feel bad about. Back at the precinct, he received his new uniform–and it really was a new uniform, much to his surprise. He pulled it on, and found that he missed the smell of his old one–he’d felt…surrounded, in it, by everyone at the station. Now, it was just him–his own musk, warped and twisted by the men around him, sure, but it was still him. Lastly, he received his badge, but where he’d half expected to see the name Bitchell written there, instead, he saw the name Bulldog. “I think it’ll suit you, soon enough,” Rumwell told him with a wink, and with that, he was officially a full-fledged officer of precinct 27.

He trained with the day shift at first, as they explained what to expect outside the walls of the precinct, and what their job was. They had two tasks, really. Protect the folks outside of the zone, and do their best to keep them out. This was what the day shift did, primarily, policed the space between and tried to keep everyone on their proper sides. This was the best they could do to keep Pigtown from getting any larger than it already was. Over the years, they’d learned that the more men that congregated there, the stronger the power at the center became, and while they knew the deal would hold between them and the owner of the bar, they were sure that, as soon as the opportunity arrived to overwhelm them, the owner would do so without hesitation. The second task was the night–dealing with the rogue agents of Pigtown–the apparitions, the beasts, the monsters–whatever you wanted to call them. He wasn’t ready for that yet, but he would be soon. For now, he was partnered up with Gunner, who worked both shifts off and on, and kept sleeping at his place for the time being. Together they walked the streets, did their best to steer folks away using whatever means necessary, and gathered what intel they could from the men, in exchange for a load of cum or piss, usually. 

Then, after about six months there, he was transferred–the commander thought he was ready for the night shift. The crew that greeted him was familiar to him, but now, instead of keeping him at arm’s length, they welcomed him into the fold as a fellow officer. After all, the night was different from the day. Out in the maze of the night, the only folks they could rely on were each other. It was night when the apparitions came out. None of them knew for certain what they were, if they’d been men before this, if they were men during the day, if there were something else entirely, some tendril of power coming from the bar itself. The only thing they knew, was that the stronger they got, the harder they would be to fight. So they captured and tamed them, as best they could, worked to uncover their weaknesses, or at least tried to keep them confined to the inner segments of the neighborhood. Those first few nights were unlike anything Bulldog had ever witnessed, and when they got back to the precinct house, he tore open another officer’s clothes and fucked him there in the entryway–the other officers pulling him off, calming him down, but all of them were so caught up in it, it wasn’t long before an orgy had broken out around the office. When a new recruit appeared in the jail one night, Bulldog realized how necessary his own role had been–the more he could fuck here without distracting another officer, the clearer his head could be out there without impeding their mission.

He proved himself many times over the next few years, dragging a few of his fellow officers back from the brink, and surviving more than a few encounters with apparitions that should have been the end of him, but which he scraped free from with just his wits and sheer force of will. The only weakness he had was rubber. More than once he’d seen that apparition from the cell when he’d been a recruit, just watching him. Perhaps, one day, when he finally fell, it would be at the hands of that thing, everything sucked from him, until he was just a pile of rubber, just another face in the mask–but not tonight. Not for a long, long time, if he had anything to say about it. 

Officers came and went. Hopkins never came into work about a year after their encounter in the office. Not too long after that, a couple of officers found him in a rather sleazy den, the property of a leather clad pimp. Hopkins was decked out in a rubber cop uniform with a zipper up the ass, his hole drooling cum and lube, his mind already gone for the most part. They did their due diligence and tried to get him to return with them–a brother is a brother, after all–but he no longer remembered anything before his service with his new master, and so they left him. He was happier now, in any case, right? New cops came, usually three or four a year, barely enough to replace the ones they lost. Only a few came up from the academy–most of the others ended up in precinct 27 because they pissed off someone more important than they were, and they needed to disappear. Usually they did, but the rare one, who listened to Bulldog and the others, managed to stay relatively sane and become a proper brother. 

Bulldog and Gunner had something like a relationship, but neither of them could really explain what it was between them. A shared tragedy, mostly. Gunner had been the recruit before him, raised up to a proper officer just a week before Bulldog had arrived. They had seen everything together, and no one else could really understand them, other than the commander, perhaps. Bulldog kept meaning to move out and find his own place, but being alone no longer felt right. They were safer together, in the end, even off duty, even if commitment seemed dangerous and terrifying. Would that make them a target? Could he bear to lose him one day? Could he resist him, if he had to? It was better not to worry about it, to take the shelter where he could find it. Happiness was fleeting, and that made it all the more important to hold onto, wherever you could find it.

Slowly, he found himself not just a brother, but a leader. The other officers started asking him for his advice, and more often, he was the one leading their incursions into Pigtown, tracking down the troubling apparitions and finding ways to drain at least a bit of their power and keep their city safe for a little longer. It was a losing battle–Pigtown would creep larger, pulling in a few more blocks each year. The further out you went, the less you felt it, but it was there. At the same time, Bulldog knew he’d never be able to leave. It was home, now. A part of him. He wondered, at times, what it would be like, if Pigtown were…everywhere. He tried not to listen to the part that seemed thrilled by the prospect. They wouldn’t have to fight it anymore. They could just…give in. Fuck. Night would go on forever then, they would never have to go to bed, they’d never have to wake up. It would be hell, it would be paradise. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it. He had to be a force for order. He had to, if he was going to live with himself.

He was surprised when, a couple months shy of his five year anniversary at the precinct, Commander Rumwell invited him to his home for dinner. It wasn’t the first time he’d been to the commander’s townhouse, but it was the first time he’d been invited alone. Unsure of what to expect from the older man, he arrived looking as sharp as he could out of his uniform, as twilight was falling, and stepped inside.

“Evening Bulldog, good to see you,” Rumwell said, and pulled him into a hug and a short kiss. This close to the man, Bulldog felt that same flutter he always did when he smelled his commanding officer’s musk. No matter how many holes he fucked, no matter how much of a top he was, he knew he’d always bend over for Rumwell with just a word, no matter what. 

“Evening Sir, my pleasure,” Bulldog said, took off his leather jacket and hung it up, along with his cap. “I just wonder what the occasion is,” he added.

“What, I can’t have dinner with one of my most reliable and trusted officers at the precinct? I can’t congratulate him on the fine work he’s done over the last few years?”

“I mean, sure, but…” Bulldog wasn’t really sure what to say to that. There had to be more. It felt like there was more, between Rumwell’s words. 

Rumwell put an arm around his shoulder, and pulled him towards the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat. We can discuss more over a cigar after, alright?”

The food was delightful–Bulldog had always been surprised that the commander was a decent cook. With Gunner, he mostly relied on takeout and a good workout regimen to keep the fat off as necessary. After they’d eaten their fill, they retired downstairs to the commander’s modest, but well supplied dungeon, stripped out of the rest of their clothes, and took a cigar each from the humidor. Even now, being naked with the commander made him feel so…vulnerable. He could almost remember a young kid, fresh out of the academy, a sweltering hot office, a scent he could barely even understand, a power he not only wanted to worship, but a power he desired himself, worshiping this burly, masculine, forceful man. But that felt like a lifetime away, now.

They chatted for a while about some cases that were ongoing, before they fell into a lull of silence, and Rumwell said. “The reason I’ve asked you over, Bulldog, is more than just to congratulate you on your work, though fine it is. I’m offering you a promotion. Precinct Captain. I trust you won’t refuse.”

Bulldog stared at him, a bit confused. The precinct didn’t have a captain. In fact, it didn’t really have rank at all–they were all just officers. Equals, aside from the commander, and whatever recruit they might have crawling around at the moment. “I…I guess I didn’t know there was a position for a captain available.”

“There usually isn’t. But I’ve been doing this for…nearly twenty years now. I have a few more left in me, but I know, one of these days, it will get me too. I’m…I’m ready, in some ways, but not yet. I needed someone that I knew would be able to handle this job when I’m gone–a proper successor. And I want that man to be you, Bulldog.”

“I–I mean…” Bulldog stammered, but in all honesty, he’d never allowed himself to think about a future where the commander wasn’t there. But if there was one thing he’d learned about Pigtown, it was that none of them would escape it, in the end. Not even he would. Not even Rumwell either.

“And more than that, as well,” Rumwell said, getting up and walking over to a cabinet, where he pulled out a uniform not unlike Bulldog’s own. But when the commander brought it close, and Bulldog smelled it…he moaned. It smelled like the commander, pure, delightful, pungent power, almost dripping from it. “I’ve been wearing this one for a few weeks at home, getting it ready for you, boy,” Rumwell whispered in his ear, “Look at the badge, too.”

Bulldog did, and saw that it was a captain’s badge–and the name on it was, “Bulldog Rumwell”. 

“I…I don’t understand…”

“I’ve always wanted a son, you know? Rumwell said, pulling Bulldog up from his chair and helping him get dressed in the uniform he’d prepared for him, “In this place of course, that’s out of the question, but…but I think this just might work. Wrap you up in my scent, seed that ass of yours, and maybe, if we believe enough, we can get what we both want, eh son?”

Bulldog shuddered at the word, and nodded, smelling his own scent from his body melding with the scent of the uniform, becoming something between them. He fell to his knees and pushed his face into his commanders–no, into his father’s crotch, inhaling his scent, licking at the head, sucking the web of pre that had already formed between the head of his cock and his low hanging balls. “Feed me Daddy,” he said, “Feed me your seed, and make me your son, your successor, please…”

He lost count of how many loads Rumwell fed him that night. It seemed that the magic of the place was suffusing them both, stretching out time, driving them to heights of arousal and perversion neither of them had experienced before. By morning, they were a tired, aching, heaving knot, Bulldog’s uniform discarded and crumpled off in a corner of the dungeon. Rumwell Sr. was snoring still, when Bulldog got up, thighs, and hole aching, and stumbled into the bathroom to take his morning piss, but froze in the mirror. 

His face–it was his face, almost. But the nose, the jaw, the auburn hair–there was no mistaking it, was there? He lifted up an arm and sniffed his ripe pit, and moaned in delight–he smelled like his dad, fuck! That same authority, that same masculinity was flooding the bathroom around him, and it was so hot he could barely contain himself. He tried to stroke off, his arm was too tired from the night before to finish the job, and he had to go back to his father lying on the floor, lick him clean, thank him for his gift, for his power, and Rumwell Sr. was so thrilled to have his son, that they spent the morning fucking as well.

Everyone at the precinct was nervous, when Bulldog and Rumwell showed up late. The commander was never late, after all, and never arrived to work…with anyone. But as soon as they caught a whiff of them both, they found themselves beginning to understand what had happened, and by the time Rumwell gathered them all in the office to announce the promotion of his son, Bulldog Rumwell, to the position of Precinct Captain, no one could object. Bulldog would oversee the night shift as their shift commander and report to Rumwell Sr., while the commander would continue to supervise the day shift, as he had been. 

Afterwards, the other officers came up to congratulate Bulldog, and to get a good sniff of him too–which Bulldog was more than happy to give them all. And when they were all drunk of his own powerful musk, he enjoyed ordering them all up against the wall so he could sample all of their holes with his cock–and whoever was the nicest fuck would get his load. His father looked on, proud of his boy and pleased to see how quickly he’d been able to assume control over the officers. He could rest a bit more easily now, knowing that when he was gone, there would be a leader here. And maybe, when Bulldog found the right man, the Rumwell legacy could continue. Someone had to keep the city safe, after all. Bulldog looked back at his father, and realized that this is what he’d always been looking for, when he’d decided to become an officer. A family, and a duty. And now that he had both, he would do whatever he could to protect it, until he too, fell under, until they all did, one day. But that was for the future. For now, he had holes to breed–it was time to put these pigs in their place, and show them who would be boss around here, soon enough.