Tag: watersports

Blank Skin

Everyone wanted to know about the shaved head, and his missing beard. Wasn’t the cue ball look a bit too radical, for someone like him? A wealthy, older man like him in his fifties, who dressed in fancy suits tailored to his large gut? He told them he’d wanted a change, and they all just passed it off as a mid life crisis. He couldn’t tell any of them the truth, he wasn’t allowed to, and it was frustrating, so frustrating. He acted a bit strange all day long, in his meetings. It seemed to his co-worker’s like it was hard for him to get comfortable–he kept fidgeting in his seat, and glancing to the clock, like he had somewhere else that he needed to be. A man who was known for short, practical lunches rescheduled meetings and was gone for an hour and a half so he go to some all you can eat buffet nearby. However, other than those relatively minor oddities, he played his role, as usual, leading the team, directing their focus, but when five o’clock struck, a man who rarely left earlier than seven or eight instead grabbed his briefcase and rushed out of the office as quickly as he could. He knew something none of them knew, he knew a secret he couldn’t tell anyone. The secret was, that Mitchell Pratten wasn’t a person anymore–Mitchell Pratten was just a hog in a fancy suit.

That Friday, he’d left later than usual, and the subway had been empty, aside from a rough looking, burly skinhead, face full of piercings, arms coated with tattoos, carrying a backpack. Mitchell had been wary, but unprepared for the man to spring at him and shove a needle in his neck–but after they’d had a chat, everything had been sorted out, and he’d let the skinhead follow him home and into his apartment.

But he was almost back now, he was so eager to get out of these clothes. It was stifling him, the real him. He couldn’t be himself in it, he had to be “Mitchell Pratten” and do “Mitchell Pratten” things, like read the paper and scowl at young punks when what he really wanted to do was crawl over and beg the young men to fist his ass with their big hands. He reached his stop, and he hurried to his building, taking the elevator up to his condo, where he opened the door with shaking hands, and stepped inside, immediately ripping at the suit, tearing it away from his body, so he could be rid of this horrid fabric skin.

Master had taught him so many important things, on Friday night, in his condo. He’d taught him that he wasn’t a person at all, that once you stripped away the clothes, that once you stripped away the hair and the beard and the fur coating his body, he wasn’t anything at all–just a blank page. And blank pages needed to be written on, right? And so master had written on him, had taken the tattoo gun he’d brought along in his backpack and helped fill in all the gaps. He wasn’t blank anymore, as he stood at the door, free of “Mitchell Pratten” for the day, his entire arms and chest were covered with crudely drawn words and pictures, all of them marking him for what he was. A whore. A hog. A pervert. A masochist. A hole. A slave for his master. He rubbed his smooth skin, still sore from Master’s work, and let out a snort of pleasure, before getting down on all fours and crawling where his master was sitting, and began licking his boots. He served him for the evening, licking his body clean of any sort of filth, before Master finally allowed him to eat, setting a huge steel bowl on the floor, watching as his pig shoved his face into the slop and devoured it hungrily. He was a glutton now. He was gluttonous pig, and Master liked his pigs fat, so very fat. The fatter he was, after all, the more skin he had, and the more Master could fill him in. That was why Master had insisted on cutting off his balls this weekend–hogs grew fatter much faster than boars, after all. It had hurt, but he’d already noticed the difference. He was calmer, more focused. His pleasure didn’t matter–the only thing that mattered was pleasing his master. Master told him that once that wound had healed, he’d remove his cock as well–after all, he didn’t need it, right? Right–the hog would be more than happy for it to be gone as well.

He emptied the huge bowl four times–only then did Master help wipe his face clean with a rag, and afterwards, Master told him that it was time for him to fill in more of the hog’s body, and he grew excited. He loved having his master fill him up, he loved everything his master did to him. It hurt as he tattooed him, working on his back, and as he did, Master told him what he was writing. That this hog was not only a cumdump and a fisthole, but a urinal too. This hog craved the taste of piss, and would drink whenever he could, fresh or old, and when his Master fed his his first load, he knew it was true, that he’d spend the rest of his life drinking piss and getting pissed on by his Master and any other man. But by that time, it was very late, and they were both exhausted. Master climbed into his large bed, and Hog curled up on the floor next to him, already dreading the morning.

He would have to be Mitchell Pratten again, for the day. He’d have to be Mitchell Pratten for ten or eleven long hours. Master told him he’d have to play the role for quite a while, that a good hog would want to make lots of money for his master, and Mitch did make lots, and lots of money. But the hog wasn’t happy. The hog didn’t like meetings and suits. He didn’t want to discuss business strategies–he wanted to suck his coworker’s cocks and drink their piss. At least Master had ordered him to stuff himself silly during Mitchell’s lunches–that was the one moment when he’d felt the most free. Still, he was just a hog–he didn’t get to choose, he could only obey. Just a hog–something gussied up in a suit–but at the end of the day a hog through and through.

Persistence’s Rewards – Part 4

***WARNING*** SCAT

“Fuck man, you fuckin’ reek.”

“No fuckin’, shit, Greg–fuckin’ awesome, right?”

“How many loads did you drink?”

“Lost count at thirty.”

“Damn, you’re a fuckin’ pig.”

“You complainin’?”

“You fucking know I’m not,” Greg said, pushing his neighbor against the wall in the lobby of their apartment building. running his hands over his taut gut, pumped full of piss at the bathhouse they’d been at all evening, where Shane had spent his first time strapped into the urinals there, as happy as any true piss pig could be. Greg, meanwhile, had been collecting samples–he had some ideas for new beer recipes he was eager to try, now that he had a brand new hunting ground here, and a nasty pig neighbor for a willing test subject. He leaned in and gave Shane a deep kiss, sucking salty piss from his mustache and beard, feeling his ten inch cock press out against the yellow jockstrap he was wearing with rubber chaps and a yellow rubber vest–an outfit Greg had given him as a gift before they’d left for the bathhouse earlier.

Shane had had a much better morning than the last few days. He’d woken up to a piss soaked bed, but rather than find it strange, he’d unloaded a second blast of piss all over himself, making sure to get as much of it into his mouth as he could, before jacking off three times, coating his huge gut with cum. By then it had been early afternoon, but he’d already been fired, so who fucking cared what he did anyway? He sure as hell didn’t, but fuck he was horny. He got on a pair of briefs and knocked on Greg’s door, pushing his way in when he opened the door, kissing his neighbor’s filthy mouth, licking out his pits and ass crack before slamming his ten inch cock in deep, Greg begging him to fuck him harder, ordering him to fuck him harder, like a real pig. The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon fucking, before Greg ordered a few pizzas for them both, which they demolished, and then they’d headed out for the night’s festivities.

“Fuck, it was hot seeing you with that tube down your throat, all those fucker’s pissing right into you–gonna have to take you back there tomorrow, fill you up some more.”

Shane shook his head, “I gotta… look for a job. Can’t pay rent with piss.”

Greg smiled, and groped his cock some more. “Trust me. I’ve had more than a few beers with our landlord–he’ll be more than willing to take a few of your pig loads in his ass as payment.”

Shane smiled at him. Greg thought of everything, not like him. His head hadn’t seemed to be working so well today–like he was just operating on instinct and desire. It was easier just to do whatever Greg told him to do, than to try and think of anything on his own, even now, his brain felt like it was just idling in his skull–there and running, but not producing anything of note. It was…freeing, really. Not having to think so hard. He could just exist and fuck and drink piss, like he really wanted.

“Speaking of pig loads, I could use one myself,” Greg said, “Let’s get up there.”

“Sounds good to me,” Shane said, but as they headed into the lobby, they peeled apart unexpectedly, as Shane headed for the stairs.

“Yo, the elevator’s over this way, you dumb fuck.”

Shane just stared at him. “I…always take the stairs though.”

“Pig, get over here and in the damn elevator with me.”

Shane didn’t move, and Greg strode over, angry that he still hadn’t managed to get rid of all of it. “I said, come on, piss pig.”

Shane just stared at the stairs, wondering what he’d been thinking, wanting to take them, and he let Greg pull him back towards the elevator. Something…he could almost remember something. About climbing, about wanting to…to be better. Thinner. Successful. But he wasn’t that person, not anymore. They got in the elevator, but Greg was fuming, the mood killed. “S-Sorry…” Shane said, though he wasn’t quite sure why he was apologizing.

“You’re such a stubborn bitch, you know that?”

“Sorry…”

He was just going to be trouble. He could tell. He would make a mess of things, if he didn’t take care of him right now, for good. He hated it though. He hated having to use it. It meant he’d failed, if he had to resort to that. They got off at the tenth floor, and Shane tried to veer off and go to his own apartment, but Greg grabbed him and pulled him next door. “No, we’re having a nightcap.”

“I don’t want a drink, Greg. I don’t need to drink anymore,” Shane said, anxiety growing in his swilling gut, “You don’t have to make me drink. I’ll…I’ll be a good pig! I’ll take the elevator, I’ll drink all the piss you want! I swear.”

He fought. Greg had to cuff his hands and feet, had to clamp his mouth open wide, before getting his most powerful brew, so dark it was almost black, and feeding it to him drop by drop. One drop, and Shane’s entire body went slack aside from his cock, which grew even larger, now longer than a foot, ball churning, cum spewing from the tip in a constant stream, but not enough, he could tell. A second drop, his hair filled in even thicker across his body, so thick his skin was barely visible, all of it slick and wet with sweat. Greg waited, eyes narrow and angry. A third drop–no one had ever needed a third drop. Shane’s body filled with fat, firm gut sagging into a heavy, hair covered apron, pecs softening into moobs, but still not enough. A fourth drop, and finally, he heard it–the loud wet fart, the stench of the pig finally losing all control of himself, of his mind dissolving to bits in his skull. Four fucking drops, but it was over. What a god-damn waste.

He uncuffed the animal, and the pig rolled over, smelled it’s shit on the floor and started eating its own mess, pissing itself at the same time, and Greg just watched it, before dragging it into the bathroom, stripping off its clothes, and chaining it around the apartment’s toilet, where it remained, groping it’s fat body and huge cock, reaching around occasionally to coat it’s hands with its shit and lick them clean. Eventually, it’s body grew tired, and it curled up on the floor. At first it dreamed of falling down an endless staircase into the depths of some unknown abyss, but even that faded into darkness before too long, and it never dreamed again.

Persistence’s Reward – Part 3

Why was he even bothering with this? What was the point? He sat down on the stairs, feeling another button pop off his shirt, as he gasped for breath in between the fourth and fifth floors. He was climbing earlier than usual today, because he’d been fired from his job. He replayed it over and over in his head, the entire day, wondering what in the world had made him do any of it. He’d woken up late again, just like the day before, and found himself in a sopping wet bed. He’d told himself that it was just night sweats, that he’d just been hot all night long, but he could smell it, he could smell it, and he knew it was piss, that he’d pissed himself in the night, and he’d…he’d jacked off. Jacked off, rolling in his own mess, and then, without even taking a shower, he’d gotten his clothes on for work, even though he knew he shouldn’t go, that he should just call out and feign illness, he went anyway. And there, right there in a meeting with his boss, it had happened. He’d pissed himself. He’d pissed himself, a full bladder, and he hadn’t been able to do anything, just stand there while Mr. Montgomery stared at him, watched the tent grow in his pants, and tell him to leave, and not bother coming back–they’d just send his things home by mail in a few days.

And so here he was, climbing the stairs again to the tenth floor, exhausted and fat, his pants still soaked with piss and sweat. He could smell himself, he could smell himself, and his cock was so fucking hard, and as he sat there, he felt it again. That warmth, piss flowing from his dick right into his pants, soaking the seat of his pants, flowing down the stairs in a stream from where he was sitting, and all he could do was watch it. Stare at it, and think…think about getting down and licking it up, think about how…how thirsty he was, how horny he was. That was what got him up and moving again–he knew that if he stayed there, he would get down and start licking it up, he’d lick it up and jack off, and even though he wanted it, he knew something was wrong. Wrong with him.

He was fatter. He was hairier. He had a beard growing down to his chest, even as his hair was receding back past the crown of his head. He reeked and sweated non-stop. And for some reason he was still climbing these damn stairs, when he should just get in the damn elevator, but he also knew that if he did that, he would be seen. Someone would see him, and they would know what he is, they would know that he’s a nasty pig, a nasty fucking pig…He hit the seventh floor, and couldn’t stop it. The friction of his thighs, the smell of his piss soaked clothes, his sweat and musk, his cock started pumping out a massive load of cum, and he nearly fell back down the stairs from the force and pleasure of it, snorting and grunting, fighting up one step at a time. It happened again below the ninth floor, and by the time he finally emerged into his hallway, he barely even felt human. Too exhausted to stand, he fell to his hands and knees, crawling down the hall towards his apartment, snorting and grunting for breath, but Greg was there in the hall, blocking his way.

“You look like you could use another drink today,” he said, why don’t you come inside and hang out for a while?”

No. No, not that. He turned around and started crawling back towards the stairs, shaking his head, even as his cock was screaming for him to go inside.

“You really are a persistent one, aren’t you?” Greg said, following him, “I’m amazed you can still climb those damn stairs without having a heart attack, but more than that, I’m amazed you’re climbing them at all. Most people prefer sitting on their ass after one date with me, but you, you just keep on fighting.” He straddled Shane and sat down on his back, forcing him to the ground under him, listening and feeling him struggle, “Where do you keep all that gusto of yours? You’re never going to be happy as pig if you don’t let me get rid of it, you know.”

“Not…Not your…pig…” Shane huffed.

“Oh trust me, you’re most certainly a pig, and certainly mine. So what is it, Shane? What is it? If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to have to get rid of everything, you know…”

Shane kept trying to pull himself out from under him, when he felt something warm on his back. He could smell it, the pig in his head taking over and salivating. Piss, his fucking piss. Greg got up, still pissing the front of his shorts, and he pulled out his cock, walking back to his apartment, leaving a trail behind him, Shane turning around and dragging his tongue across the carpet, following him at a crawl until he was inside the apartment. In the middle of the front room Greg was standing over a dog bowl brimming with beer, and he was pissing into it, and he knew he shouldn’t, he knew it, but his body, his nasty piggy body couldn’t help itself. He crawled over and started lapping up the beer and piss, drinking it down as best he could. It took him a while, and Greg came around behind him, pulling off his soggy clothes and started fucking his ass. He licked the bowl clean, drooling from the mouth, groaning and grunting, his eyes glazed over once again.

“Don’t you worry, pig,” Greg said, “I’m sure we can get you sorted out tonight. By tomorrow, we’ll have you set as a proper pig for life.”

Persistence’s Rewards – Part 2

Ugh, why was he even still doing this to himself? Shane was panting at the sixth floor, already winded beyond belief, sweat pouring down his face. He unbuttoned his shirt and fanned himself, trying to cool off, but there was no ventilation in the staircase, and the summer heat was baked into the concrete even though evening was underway. It had been a terrible day anyway–he’d woken up late for work, his head pounding from all the beer he’d drank the night before. He never got blasted like that anymore–not since college. He couldn’t remember a thing, but fuck he’d been horny. Even though he was late, he’d worked a load out of his cock, and he’d shot two more in the bathroom at work during the day. His cock just hadn’t been able to get enough. It hadn’t helped that he’d forgotten to shower, and he reeked. It fact, his BO seemed even worse than usual, and more than a few co-workers, including his boss, had ribbed him lightly. Needless to say, he’d be taking a shower tonight, and shaving off this damn beard too. He…couldn’t quite remember growing it, and everyone at work had thought it was strange, but he’d had one for a while, hadn’t he? He sighed. Should he just give up? He was exhausted, but he struggled on, hauling his body up. He felt heavier today, and his clothes hadn’t fit well either. It was discouraging–he’d been trying so hard to lose weight, and he was only getting bigger. It just made him want to…to stop fucking caring entirely. To just…just park his fat pig ass down, and…

Hard again. What the fuck was it with his cock today? Still, he wasn’t about to whip it out in the stairway like some perv–he could at least wait until he got to his apartment. He crested the ninth floor, took a short break before mounting the final flight, and slogged down the hallway, shirt and pants soaked, but his neighbor’s door was open. He’d introduced himself yesterday–Gary? Greg? Some ‘G’ name. “Hey Shane, how was the day?”

“Fuckin’ exhausted,” he said, and saw his neighbor had a beer in his hand. Just…seeing it made his mouth water. Still, something told him not…not to take it. Not to drink it. Greg pushed it into his hand, and without really being able to stop himself, he but the bottle to his lips and chugged the whole thing down. It tasted familiar…like…like something he’d tasted the day before, and he sighed, a silly, stupid grin on his face as he groped his hard cock in the hallway, trying to remember where he’d tasted that before.

“Why don’t you come inside before someone sees you, Shane. I’d hate to have to explain to any of our neighbors why you’re groping yourself like a fat, sweaty, perverted pig in the hallway.”

Shane couldn’t quite process what he’d just said, but he let Greg pull him into his apartment, even as he tugged the zipper of his pants down, fished out his nine inch cock and started stroking it. “Feel…fuckin’…strange….” he muttered, “Kinda good, though…”

“You know, I was pretty angry at you yesterday Shane, for wasting some of my brew. I go to a lot of trouble to make that, you know. I was just gonna make you a musky, hairy man for some fun, but you know? I think you need to be taught a more severe lesson than that. I don’t share my beer with everyone, you know–you should be thankful.”

Shane was still standing there by the door, shirt open and soaked, gut hanging out the bottom of his shirt, growing and swelling a bit bigger with each heaving breath. Greg helped him out of his clothes, running his hands through Shane’s lengthening beard, watching his already thick chest and belly hair grow in thicker still, as it filled in over his back and ass as well. “Did this yesterday. You…”

Greg shushed him. “Now, I have any number of different styles I brew, you know. One I don’t pull out very often, except for the most difficult pigs like you. I’m not about to let you waste any though, and you’re going to have to drink a lot, so get down on your knees, and we’ll get you all set up.” He pushed Shane down, and then shoved the hose from yesterday into his mouth, and then took duct tape and started taping it in, pinning his beard to his face as he wrapped it securely, making sure there was no way he could spit it out. Then, he brought out a pitcher from the kitchen, held the funnel up, and started to pour. It took Shane a few minutes to find a good rhythm–and Greg poured carefully, making sure he was swallowing and not sputtering, but as the new beer settled in his gut, Shane’s eyes glazed over, and he began swallowing with an odd sort of urgency. This beer was even more bitter than the previous style, but he began to appreciate it more and more as he swallowed it, feeling his gut swell larger and larger, bloating out and remaining firm, like a beach ball inflated in his stomach. His head was swimming, and he was close to passing out again, when Greg finally finished, and started carefully peeling the tape away from his face, managing to avoid ripping away any of his thick, wiry beard.

During his binge drinking, Shane had blown several loads across the carpet. He could smell his own cum, his sweat, but now also something else. He started crawling forward, sniffing the air, something bitter and rank on the air, his vision tunnelling, and then he was at the door to the bathroom, sniffing. The toilet, in the toilet, and he crawled over, and yellow, so yellow, all the yellow, wet, and then he was submerged in darkness once more.

Albert’s Last Party (Part 2)

The revelers began to arrive, and the house was oddly quiet–usually Albert had the stereo going early, but the young men approached the house, not really paying attention as the girls arriving turned away, each of them suddenly realizing they had better ways of spending their time. The young men entered, and found the foyer littered with small, wrapped boxes–all of them with names on the tags, aside for a few left aside, unnamed, for anyone who had come uninvited or unexpected. The young men were suspicious, but the tags were all written in Albert’s hand writing. Still, a few managed to resist the pull and left–good for them, they didn’t deserve to be punished, in my opinion. Others were greedy enough to open the boxes, revealing a pipe of their own given from my collection–and found themselves unable to resist packing them with the provided tobacco and lighting them up, the room full of smoke, as they filed their way down the basement stairs, where they found that the rec room–the usual dance floor–had been converted into a sex dungeon, and that there in the center of the room, chained into a sling, was Albert.

None of them knew how they knew it was Albert–but they knew. They also knew that they were here to help punish him–and more than a few, I could sense, also could tell that they might be down here to be punished as well. I was next to Albert, no longer wearing a suit, but my own leather gear, smoking a huge boswell pipe, and watched as they lined up at my boy’s ass, the first in line stripping off his clothes, stroking his cock hard, before pushing it into his friend’s ass.

I took this chance to poke around in his mind, seeing what kind of person he was. The first was lazy, greedy, and had raped several young girls at previous parties of Albert’s. By the time he came, I had shrunk his height to just under five feet, his cock to a meager one inch nub–he went and climbed into a sling as well, one thick hand toying with his loose, eager hole. One by one, the men filled my boy’s hole with their cum, and I judged them–some deserved leniency–I let them go on their way, though they would remain pipe smokers for the rest of their lives–a reminder that they should behave. Most, though, remained. I changed them as they fucked–my boy’s hole. Thick, burly, hairy bruisers covered with tattoos and hair, all of them dumb as rocks and no longer able to even think about something beyond their cocks. Other’s grew soft and fat, smoother, finding their minds consumed with various hungers–food, cum, piss, musk, filth. Before the line had ended, the room around us had turned into an orgy–the first in line taking town fists in his hole, another obese man surrounded by a group of muscle bears, bathing in their piss and cum, other’s in pairs and triples, exploring each other’s bodies and various holes, hungrily sharing fluids and smoke. But finally the last one finished his fuck, and joined the others, allowing me to finally take my turn at my boy’s hole.

Boy. It was tongue and cheek now. Every load of cum had aged him, and Albert now looked to be in his mid fifties, only a few years younger than I appeared. His massive beard was a tangled mass with a streak of white down the middle, his body covered with a riot of tattoos, his head bald aside from a short horseshoe of grey. His hole was loose and slick with cum, but he wanted to please me. He’d forgotten all about the old Albert at this point–now, he remembered something entirely different. How he’d pledged his life to me, promised to be my horny, cock hungry and cum starved fuckslave for the rest of his days. I came, and several men returned for seconds helpings of his hole–one especially filthy looking bear more interested in eating the cum from it and licking it off the floor than anything else. I took a tour of the room, filling in gaps here, intensifying a fetish there, cementing a relationship or two in stone. It was early morning by the time I was satisfied, and the men, all of them exhausted, but still sucking smoke from their pipes, filed their way back up from the basement, their old clothes and old lives forgotten in heaps left on the basement floor.

In the entry way, there were more gifts–larger ones this time, again with their names on the tag. New lives for all of them–they had all wasted the silver spoon gifted to them by their parents, and so I saw no reason why they shouldn’t have to work just as hard as I had, if they wanted to reclaim the quality of life they’d wasted partying, and ruining my sleep. Dirt crusted construction workers, grimy trash collectors, older men in cheap suits still plugging away at dead end office jobs–those were the lucky ones. Others became sex addled, unemployed rednecks who’d lived in the same filthy single wide trailers their whole lives, homeless bikers who spent their time whoring their bodie out at truck stops, and the worst became derelicts who spent their time begging for piss and cum outside of gay bars in the city. But none of them knew lives other than those any longer, and I didn’t regret it, watching them stumble out to their trucks and motorcycles and beat up sedans, driving off into the dawn, leaving me and my fat, old boy alone, and we returned to my–well, our–home.

The couple returned from their vacation on Monday, now childless, and stopped by to thank me and my “boy” for watching the house for them while they were away. I told them it had been no trouble at all, and we would be happy to do it again in the future. In fact, I had quite enjoyed that party I’d thrown, not that I told them about that, and figured I might host a few more with the men I’d changed in the future, to check on their progress. They did have one question which almost got me to laugh–there as a strange stain that had appeared on the Persian rug in the entryway–they wanted to know if either of us knew what had happened.

I shared a knowing look with my old boy through the haze of our pipe smoke, but told them no, neither of us had any idea. Still, if they needed help getting it out, I had an old secret for stains–it worked like magic.

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

Bart loved hitchhikers, though not for the reasons one might usually expect. Of course, not many people were very willing to ride with him–he stank like smoke and booze–it also didn’t help that he wouldn’t shower for months at a time, but there was usually someone desperate enough to climb up into his cab for a ride, but he’d only let men up. For a few hours he’d probe them for information, and ply them with a drink, and when the drug had them passed out and slumped against the seat belt in the passenger seat, he would drag them into the back of the cab, undress them, and tie them securely in the sleeper.

Those were his favorite moments, when they were well secured, but still asleep for a few more hours. He would explore their bodies with his tongue, get to know their flavors, inside and out. Suck their cocks and taste their cum. With enough prodding on their prostate, they’d eventually piss, and he’d drink that down too, just to sample it, see what kind of person he’d be travelling with for the next several months. It was always so very informative–somehow, he would be able to get a sense of them–how they worked, what kind of person he could shape them into.

Of course, they would protest once they woke up, but they quickly discovered that Bart’s drugs had left them unable to resist obeying every order he gave them. Really, their obedience was just a precaution–he preferred keeping them tied up more than anything else. Over the next several weeks, he would introduce them to their new chores–primarily as his cumdump, urinal and toilet paper. They would all discover in due time that they enjoyed their new chores more than they knew they should–something about Bart’s filthy body would drive them mad with lust. Before too long, they would be begging him for attention, asking to clean his body and suck his cock. He would tease them, listen to them squirm against the ropes binding them in the back as he drove. They always begged so nice–it was a special kind, while they still knew they shouldn’t want him, but couldn’t quite figure out how to say no to their own changing minds.

When they were finished–when all they could think about was Bart’s filthy body, he would begin training them for work. Pimping them out to other truckers at various stops, teaching them to enjoy all sorts of filthy bodies–not just his. The time spent in his truck tied up and unmoving, with a diet of mostly junk food and Bart’s filth, usually didn’t do them any favors–they would grow large guts, their limbs withered, all of them with long, grimy beards they couldn’t see themselves without anymore. When he’s confident that they’ll survive on their own, he dumps them and tells them to get to work, and make him some fucking money. 

Everyone on the road can recognize one of his whores–they all wear the same collars bearing a single tag with the words, “Owned by Bart.” They cruise the roads, catching rides with any horny trucker who will have them, serving them in any way they might desire, and collect money for their Master, depositing it in his bank account at their next stop. They all do their very best, because they know his best whore gets one whole month riding with their master in his truck, tied up in the back, the privilege of once again being their master’s sole focus in the world. And the one thing they all desire more than anything else, is one more taste of their fat master’s filthy body.

Baby Bear – Part 2

How could I have forgotten? I’d sucked his cock nearly every night, and most nights he’d fucked my ass as well. I’d licked his body clean from neck to toes. He’d fed me pipe smoke right into my eager mouth. And I had somehow forgotten all of it, gone off to school each day like nothing strange was going on at all. I realized I had done none of my studying that I’d needed to do, and I was failing all of my classes. The semester was nearly over, and I had no idea how I was going to turn any of it around. Perhaps it was silly to worry about school when you discover some old man has been manipulating you and forcing you into diapers, but it was something I could think about. I didn’t want to think about his old cock in my mouth–I didn’t want to think about how much I wanted his cock in my mouth, really. Because I did. And I wanted him to fuck me. And so I ran.

He probably expected me to try and run; he didn’t even try and stop me. I didn’t even care that all I was wearing was a diaper soiled with my own cum, I just wanted out of that house. I flung open the front door and ran out across the lawn, but as soon as I was outside, this monstrous fear rose up inside me. I was outside. More than outside, I was lost. I didn’t know where I was. The world was gigantic, and I had no idea where Daddy was, and I might never get home, and who was going to take care of me? I made it to the curb, tears rolling down my face, no longer able to focus on getting away, not even really understanding what I was feeling, and then he was beside me, pulling me close–Daddy. I was so happy to see him. I gave him a huge hug, and he led me back up the driveway and into the house, where the fear immediately disappeared, and my mind tried to get a grip.

“I wouldn’t try to run away again, baby bear. You all try it once, but if you keep trying, then I’m going to have to punish you,” he said. Daddy said. I struggled with his name, trying to find it in my mind, but his name was just that–”Daddy”. I remembered that was the same thing all those strange men who visited called him, and before I could ask, he explained what he had done to me, and to the rest of them over the last several decades.

It was true–he was lonely. He had been a very skilled hypnotist when he was younger, and he decided to make himself what he called “Baby Bears”–young men he’d keep in diapers, and raise to be better men than what they might have otherwise been. Better from his perspective, of course–I was horrified at the thought, but he assured me that there would be no escaping my new fate. He told me that I had already accepted the first round of conditioning, and now it was time for us to decide what kind of bear I was going to grow up to be, and how much work it was going to take for me to grow up.

You see, he would only be able to make me into a “proper bear” after he’d destroyed and erased most of who I was now. This could be, he told me, a rather violent process, and leave a person’s mind quite damaged, unless they went along with him, and willingly allowed him to destroy their old selves so they could be reborn again. I, of course, was freaking out. He assured me that the more I fought, the worse it would be for me. I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, if I proved indestructible, he would have to let me go. He smiled. It was almost like he liked the idea of me fighting back. And then he said something, some phrase I can’t remember, and things grew slippery. I could feel him ripping out chunks of my personality, and I was fighting him, trying to hold onto them, but he would just tear harder, and it would hurt, like a massive migraine, but I couldn’t let him win, I couldn’t.

I don’t know how much time passed before I came back to myself again, shaking on the floor in a fetal position, Daddy sitting in an armchair beside me. I was still me. I still had lost some, but I still remembered who I’d been. He told me to quit fighting him, that if I kept fighting him, he was going to have to make things worse for me. I laughed, and told him to give it his best shot. He looked disappointed, repeated that mysterious phrase, and this time, I had no real understanding of what was happening. When I resurfaced, however, something had changed in my mind. I was moving slower. I tried to ask him what had happened, but all that came out was baby talk. I also realized, to my horror, that I had pissed my diaper again–and that I had also taken a massive shit as well. I tried to get up, I tried to stand, but my body wasn’t working quite right. All I could do was crawl. Daddy got down at eye level with me, and told me that I was being a very dumb baby bear. That I was going to grow up and become a very dumb baby bear, and if I didn’t let him win, I was going to be the stupidest bear he’d ever raised, that I’d never even be able to go potty like a big boy again. I didn’t want to be that stupid, I really didn’t. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life wearing diapers. One day, I wanted to be a big boy, I wanted to grow up again. I was crying, and he asked me if I was done fighting him. I wanted to say no, but I was exhausted, and I knew he would win. When I went under that final time, I let him remove every bit of me that he could find. This is the last of me, this is the last little bit, the last chunk, and I’m holding on, but he’s coming, he’s coming and–

Baby Bear – Part 1

I was a junior, and I was sick and tired of living in the dorms on campus. The creaking heaters that refused to turn off, the mold, the toilets that couldn’t flush shit–all of the buildings should have been razed twenty years ago, but school instead had built a bunch of other dorms they could charge more for, that I couldn’t afford, naturally. So I figured, “Fuck it,” and I managed to find a room to rent a few blocks from campus from a nice older gentleman named Willard. He’d lived in the neighborhood for years, but he told me when I came to see the room that he didn’t really need the rent money–he just hated being all alone in the house more than anything else, and so he usually rented it out to students at the local college for some company, and to help the house feel “lived in.” It was a little pitiful, but the rent was so cheap, I figured I could give him some company on occasion.

In fact, as the first semester wore on, I discovered that Willard was one of the best landlords a college student could ask for. He had dinner for me every evening if I was home–all I had to do was give him some extra money for the grocery bill. He was a bit of an insomniac, and since I often stayed up late studying, he let me use his office to work in, and he would sit in there with me, usually smoking a pipe, and we would chat. It never really struck me as odd, however, that I never seemed able to remember the things we’d talked about, or even remember doing any work for my classes. He started sitting in the study wearing less and less clothing, usually opting for an open robe, his cock hanging out, and I was, for some reason, completely unfazed as we chatted, his pipe billowing smoke, while we both had some of his whiskey.

Those first few weeks, I also noticed that, for a lonely old man, he sure did seem to have quite a few visitors who came around regularly. Some were only a bit older than me, while a few others were approaching middle aged, but they all seemed very familiar with him. They shared some other similarities too–they all were smokers, and all of them were big, hairy, burly guys. One other thing, is that they all gave me this…look. Like they were trying to suppress a laugh, or were in on some joke I had no idea about yet. I suppose I should have seen something coming, but I was just oblivious.

Then, during midterms, I wet the bed for the first time. I was mortified–I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something like that. I managed to get the sheets through the washer and dryer without Willard noticing, but the next night it happened again. I knew I couldn’t tell him, I was too embarrassed, and yet, in his study that night, it all came tumbling out, how ashamed I was of it, how I couldn’t believe I’d lost control like that, how I was afraid I’d do it for a third night in a row. He was very understanding, holding me close on his lap until I’d stopped sobbing, and then he suggested that I start wearing diapers every night “as a precaution”.

I should have thought he was crazy. I should have left right then and never come back. But for whatever reason, his suggestion just made perfect sense to me. Diapers–of course I should just wear diapers. I never asked why he already had a supply ready for me–he just helped me strip, got me powdered and diapered, and put me to bed with a kiss on the cheek like all of this was perfectly normal. I woke up with a heavy, cold, wet diaper, but Willard was there, ready to get me changed out of it. I never bothered asking why he was so intent on helping me–I just let him, and then I went off to school like everything was normal, until a few weeks later, when I wet myself during a lecture.

I couldn’t stop it. I noticed after a few seconds, feeling my crotch turn warm, but I couldn’t do anything. I panicked. I heard it dribbling off the seat and onto the tile floor. I could smell it. I grabbed my things as quickly as I could, and fled the room, piss still running down my leg and into my shoe, and I didn’t stop running until I got home. Sobbing, I was barely able to get the words out to Willard to tell him what happened to me. He seemed…perfectly fine with it, as he hugged me tight, and when he told me that I would just have to start wearing diapers all the time from now on, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable suggestion. He helped me out of my wet jeans and underwear, got a diaper for me and helped me into it. But this time…this time, something else happened. I got hard. I got hard in the diaper–just the feeling of it was turning me on, and I started…doing things. Humping the air, grinding my crotch into Willard’s side, and my landlord shoved his hand down into the front of the diaper, finding my hard cock, and started jacking me off, his other hand pulling my face to his, and he kissed me deeply, shoving his tongue into my mouth, the taste of his pipe overpowering everything else.

I ended up on my knees, his old, hard cock working its way into my throat. I couldn’t put my hand in my diaper for some reason, and so I was forced to rub my cock through it, humping it, getting myself closer to cumming, but he came first, filling my mouth with cum. Even though I knew I had never sucked him off before, the taste was so familiar and comforting, and I came soon after that, filling my diaper with a load of cum. I pulled away from his cock and licked my lips. He said, “Time to remember everything, Baby Bear–we should have a talk,” and suddenly I could remember everything.

And never have I felt so used in my entire life.

The Fall of Troy – Part 6

***WARNING*** Contains mentions of scat and bestiality.

Troy had expected, like before, that he would have no memory of that old life of his, but Leo had no real reason any more to lock them away–after all, Troy had no real desire to go back to his old ways anymore. Trying to describe it to himself, once his father’s eyes had returned to their normal grey, it was like he was trapped on the side of a sheer cliff plunging down into darkness. leo had been leading him down the side all weekend, but only now did he realize his predicament. He was now incapable of climbing the side of the cliff back to where, and who, he’d been, but more importantly, he no longer desired that self. Down there, into the darkness, there was someone down there, someone he could be who was far more interesting, far sexier, far more desirable than anything he’d been before, and he wanted to get there, he wanted to climb down as deep as he could go.

From that moment on, Troy rarely ventured up the stairs into the house proper. As far as his step-mother was concerned, he didn’t even exist. Leo, in an effort to help his son, brought in a number of private tutors he’d contacted online, who were more than happy to help guide his son deeper into the pit. Master Parker, an overly muscled power bottom, helped stretch Troy’s holes, taught him to eliminate his gag reflex, showed him how to take two big arms in his ass at the same time, and just how good a punch fuck could feel. Master Jack, a chubby, grungy trucker, oversaw his development as a true, full service toilet slave. Master Emerson developed his sadism, schooled him in bondage and pain, as well as the proper manners of a pig in his position. Troy eagerly learned everything he could, finding his way down the slope. Before too long, he discovered that the light was disappearing on its own. He could barely recall his old self, and he pushed it away, eager to be away from it.

Of course, he had to make money in order to pay rent. Leo was flexible, but he wasn’t about to have a son in his house who couldn’t pay his fair share. Much of his money, at first, came from renting himself out to private fetish parties, generally as a toilet, or occasionally as a fist hole for a group of tops to brutalize. His camshows gained a devoted viewership as well, watching him degrade himself in his rooms, fuck himself with massive dildos, eat his own shit off a plate. For a certain amount of money, someone could pay him to fulfill a particular fantasy of theirs–some were easier than others, but finding a farmer willing to let a boar fuck his hole in his barn took him and Leo several months of searching.

It was his idea to sell off his skin. For a steep price, including the cost of the tattoo, anyone could buy a patch of his skin and cover it with the tattoo of their choosing. His father actually purchased the first one–which turned out to be a fine business investment of it’s own. He had the name of his cam site tattooed across his forehead–www.fithpigtroy.net–and immediately he saw an increase in subscribers. Some people paid for more traditional tattoos, like the realistic turds tattooed on his cheeks, but quite a few others followed Leo’s example and used his skin to advertise their own fetish sites.

Years passed, and Troy began to notice something new–there were certainly plenty of men who watched him to see him humiliate himself, but there was also a group who wanted to be him. Who wished they could take the same steps that he had, who wanted to be pigs too. He offered an apprenticeship (serious applications only) and was swamped by the response. He eventually culled the applicants to one, and he moved his apprentice pig in with him, showing him the ropes, finding a strange pleasure in controlling someone and forcing them to walk their way down into the same deep pit of deranged filth that he himself now called home. And that was when the trouble started.

He and Leo started fighting more and more often. Troy was the one making him all of his money after all, so why shouldn’t he be able to keep it? Leo, finally, had had enough, and he tried to stare him down, only to discover his son had fallen deeper than he could control–Troy was his own pig now, and there was nothing he could do about it. Troy and his apprentice pressed their advantage, blindfolded him and chained him to a chair, and a new bidding process began. Tens of thousands of dollars later, it was decided–Troy shipped Leo off to a private bathhouse where he would spend the rest of his days chained in a bathroom, just another urinal for the men who visited there, and Troy’s empire grew. True, he may have fallen, and yet, who could have known that at the bottom of the pit he would find himself atop a castle of another sort altogether?