The Catcall Curse (Part 6)

Jack awoke in his bed, feeling every muscle ache, in parts of his body he hadn’t even known existed. His huge cock was halfway into the pig’s hole, snoring beside him in his bed, and he was immediately torn. Slip it in and keep fucking? Pull it out and see what he could about extricating himself from this mess of a spell? At least the choice was there–he had almost no memory of the night before, ever since the spell, and Clyde the pig, had seized control over him and used him to corrupt the entire bar around them. He had been a willing accomplice of course, but he still hated the idea that, at the end of the day, it was the curses that manipulated him, not the other way around.

Gently, he inched his hulking form away from the pig’s warm body, letting his semi-hard cock slip out, bit by bit. Clyde snorted a time or two, but didn’t wake–he had to be exhausted too, after everything he’d been through. He was able to roll away–slowly, trying to not let his body disturb the mattress too much, and got off the bed, not at all adjusted to the body he had at the moment. The simple size of himself alone was enough to give him waves of vertigo–he was so damn far from the ground! Wide too, his shoulders were almost as broad as two smaller men, and the mere idea that he’d never be able to go somewhere without people gawking and staring at him, it was enough to send a shiver over his skin, his cock engorging to it’s full thirteen inch length, and he turned back to look at the pick, licking his bearded lips.

He must have weighed in somewhere a bit north of five hundred pounds at this point. He’d kicked the covers off, giving Jack quite the show of his new body–he didn’t remember all of those tattoos before, they must have showed up after the spell got control of him. They were everywhere, running all the way to his fingers, and up onto the pig’s hairless face. Fuck, his fucking face–he’d never seen that much metal on a body before, just there. He couldn’t get a good view of the pig’s junk, but he knew what was down there anyway–his mind just…supplied the image. It’s cock was nearly invisible, but it’s balls were so huge they formed an impossible bulge in the front of anything the pig wore, and it had to walk bowlegged, or just crawl–which the pig obviously preferred. Fucking whore, disgusting piece of shit pig, fuck, he’d teach that bitch another lesson or two–

Jack bit his lip, hard, to stop himself from storming back onto the bed and ramming his cock deep inside the pig’s loose hole. He couldn’t afford to get anymore lost in this, he’d wasted too much time already–there were appointments to keep, curses to cast. He retreated to the bedroom, walking as soft as he could, unable to believe how loud a simple footstep of his size twenty feet had suddenly become. He faced himself in the mirror, and recoiled–he’d known he was a brute, but even…that was more severe and extreme than he’d expected. He was quite a bit older, his hair and beard mostly grey, the skin lined with wrinkles–where skin was even visible. So much of his body was simple coated in hair. He ran his two, huge, scarred hands through his pelt, proud of how much of a man he was, what a beast he was, a fucking beast! Fuck yeah, should go fuck that pig again, show that bitch what a real man’s like–

He gripped the sink, hard enough to worry his new strength might just break it, and took a few deep breaths. Enough of this–he focused on himself–his real self–pushing back past the curse, stripping away the layers the spell had painted on him, a bit at a time. After twenty minutes, he took another look at himself–still too big, still to hairy, still too old, but more manageable at least. The urges, while there, were easier to control. It would be a few more days before he could recall himself well enough to put the curse completely behind him, but this would be enough to get rid of the pig–as long as it was still here, he’d never get out entirely.

He walked back into the bedroom and shook the pig awake. “Hey, you’ve had your fun, now you gotta get lost,” he said, keeping the gruff attitude going, figuring it might help him out here.

The pig yawned and lolled in bed, before it said, “I thought you were bigger–didn’t you like being bigger?” It reached out for jack’s now more modest cock, but he pulled away before he could touch it.

“I mean it, get out. We’re done here, and I have other work to get to.”

“But daddy,” the pig whined, “You don’t have to return me for hours, you know. It’s twenty four hours for a reason…Now where’s my big stupid daddy fucker? I know he’s in there somewhere…”

Jack felt his control start to weaken, his body suddenly expanding at the pig’s words. Damn, this pig was still strong. He had a feeling it wouldn’t have a hard time finding new men to abuse it every night, and every man it touched would probably end up as yet another brute at the bar. “No…No, I’m stronger than you, you don’t have the spell helping you now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about daddy,” the pig said, wiggling it’s ass at him, “I have a hard time thinking before my first fuck of the day–better than coffee. Now get over here you stupid fuck, and plow me rough.”

One step forward. One more fuck couldn’t really hurt, right? Another step. Fuck, his cock was so fucking big, fucking nasty, fuck. He pressed the head to the hole and slipped in. “One more, then yer goin’ back, ya fuckin’ slut,” Jack snarled, as big as he’d been when he woke up. He knew he shouldn’t give in like this, but he did need a day off–besides, it was a 24 hour rental, and Jack would hate to waste something as good as that.

brackenousjunk:

Requested by @andyreworld.

WARNING: SCAT AHEAD

Kyle liked going to the gym in the mid-morning–everyone who got a workout in before work had left, and everyone who came around lunchtime wasn’t there yet–it gave him a good hour and half with most of the weights to himself, to focus on lifting. He’d sure been working out long enough to learn patterns like this, he’d been a gym rat for years, and maintained a near flawless physique–low body fat and ripped with muscle. Still, he wasn’t a far of people–especially fags–staring at his body, unless he wanted them staring, so he preferred off-hours. Usually he had peace, but, today, some fat fuck was crowding his space.

He’d seen him around the gym before, but Kyle didn’t usually care about what other people were doing, and if he wanted to work out, good for him. But it seemed like every time he turned around, the guy was within five feet of him, lifting something, or on the next machine over–and then the first one came, loud enough that Kyle could hear it over his music, a massive, horrific fart that lasted at least five seconds.

He looked over at the pig, disgusted, but the guy just leered back at him–and then Kyle smelt it–it was horrific, one of the worst things he’d ever smelt in his life. It was so strong that it was almost like his mind and body blew a fuse–he couldn’t move, he couldn’t think–his eyes went glassy, his jaw gaping as the pig got up, pulled the headphones from his head, leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Finally got you. Come on, you’re gonna spot me today.”

Kyle did as he was told, even though he fought the compulsion as best he could, but his body wasn’t his anymore. The smell lingered in his nose, and just as he’d start shaking the pig’s control off, the fat fuck would nearly shit his pants again, and he’d…lose it all over again. The pig kept talking to him while he lifted, telling Kyle how much he loved the smell of him, how much he loved his farts, how much he loved submitting. Soon, as much as he hated himself for it, he started craving it, the smell, the filthy thoughts his master whispered in his ear. Finally, he couldn’t resist it anymore–his master was doing squats, and let a huge fart loose, and something in Kyle broke. Snorting and grunting, he got down behind him, shoved his head to the man’s ass and started crewing at his shorts, cum spewing in his jockstrap.

“That’s a good pig–I think you’re ready for your post-workout meal, don’t you?”

Kyle didn’t know what he meant, but he crawled after his master, who went into the locker room, commandeered the large stall, and sat backwards, his hole right in Kyle’s face. He fought as hard as he could, hesitating, but a wet fart pulled him in, lips locked to his master’s hole, tongue burrowing in, ready and eager for his first feeding.

Here’s an expansion requested a few times, and also incorporating this request.

Also, still really messy!

This close to the source, Kyle felt like his brain was literally melting away inside his skull, the wretched stench of his master’s farts stripping the paint from his soul. He sucked down as much of the filth as he could, and didn’t even realize when the shit started pouring out with the gas, his mouth devouring it, grunting and moaning, his master laughing and berating him as he fed him. It never seemed to end, his gut felt full and distended, his mouth coated in filth, but at last his master did finish, ordered Kyle to lick his crack clean, and then got up and left without another word, just the sound of laughter.

Kyle just rolled over and slumped next to the toilet, trying to get his bearings on what had just happened to him, trying to grapple with what he’d just done. He looked down at himself, at his shit stained shirt bulging with a sudden gut full of shit–he belched, and the taste of it was disgusting, but also made his cock even harder. He couldn’t just stay here, though–but he also couldn’t leave. If people saw him like this, what would they even think of him? He had fresh street clothes in his locker though, maybe he could get out of this, somehow. He wiped his face and neck clean with water from the toilet bowl and toilet paper, took off his shirt, threw it in the trash, and then went to his locker–only to discover someone else had gotten there first. His normal clothes were gone, and in their place were the filthiest, most disgusting garments he’d ever seen. A white shirt crusted with stains he didn’t want think about, some briefs equally disgusting–crusty and crispy. Some jean shorts that felt so…disgusting in his hands, and the stench of his master on them, his master! He buried his face in the filthy fabric, snorting and grunting in front of everyone around him–he stripped off the rest of his gym clothes, pulled on the briefs, and immediately exploded–all the cum he’d build up in the last few hours pouring out of him in a sopping deluge. Then the shirt, then the cutoffs. A couple of tennis shoes without socks. He didn’t even notice the clothes should have been too big for his old, muscular body, but now they barely fit him, a sliver of hairy gut poking out under the shirt, cutoffs bursting around his thighs.

He came back to his mind a bit, enough to know he needed to get out of there. However, he didn’t notice that he left a trail of piss as he left, oblivious to the stream running down his leg and into his shoe, leaking out onto the floor. He had to get home, he had to get away from here. He fled, got in his car and drove home as quickly as he could, belching up the stench of his master’s shit, gut bulging larger, and he kept ripping off the most horrid farts–in the enclosed car, the stench only made him horny, and by the time he got home he was pushing out longer and louder. In his parking spot, huffing and panting with need, he bore down, filling the back of his underwear and cutoffs with a huge load of shit, feeling it squelch out the legs and coat the car seat under him, while he rubbed his sopping wet crotch until he came with a squeal.

He recovered slowly, his mind exhausted–and looked around. This wasn’t his house–it wasn’t even close to where he lived. But he needed to be here, he knew that–this is where his master was. This is where he belonged.

The surfer had always heard tales of the dunes around that beach, nervous stories by young, muscular men who, he thought, had no reason to be so terrified of a bunch of old faggots, fucking in the sand. They insisted, however, that any surfer who’d gone there had never returned, or if they had, they were always…different. No one would give him more details than that, and the surfer wasn’t about to pass up the amazing waves he’d glimpsed rolling up on that shore. If anything, the strange stories would keep people away–he wouldn’t have to worry about other people getting in his way. Besides, why not give the old faggots something nice to look at for a change?

He got to the beach, and sure enough, it was everything he’d expected. Clothing optional, a bunch of fat, old, overweight fags tanning and eyeing one another, slipping away into the dunes. What the surfer hadn’t expected was that no one was giving him a single look. They all seemed utterly uninterested in him and his muscular body., He wasn’t someone who was used to being ignored, and as much as he might hate fags, he also wasn’t someone who objected to their lust for him.

Instead, what he found, was that he was the one staring at them…admiring them. He gave up surfing early, and spent the day watching the old men masturbate, following them up into the dunes so he could watch them fuck, stroking his cock, wondering why none of them were interested in him at all.

Once he was back in town, he was appalled with what he’d been doing all day. Guys asked him how the surfing had been, if he’d seen anything, and he refused to talk about it, and told himself he wouldn’t be going back…but the next day he found himself needing to go, needing to watch them. All day he was there, and the next day too. Slowly, he noticed men started to take notice of him–just glances at first, but more and more, they were accepting him.

And why not accept him? He was a hot fucker in his 70′s, a bit of a gut sure, but he could get fatter, once he lost more of this muscle. His beard though, grayed and yellowed from the cigars he’d started smoking, his hair balding severely, but not far enough that he felt comfortable showing his crown off without a cap on. His cock had started shriveling, his balls too. He hoped they’d be puny, he…he didn’t need them anymore. His teeth were getting loose; soon he wouldn’t have to worry about grazing them against a cock, when a guy fucked his throat, and they all wanted to fuck his throat now, and he wanted as much cum as they would feed him. Soon, he was just another name in the tales whispered around the tables of surfers, and he’d forgotten all about his past–why else did he need, if he had the beach, and all the cum he’d ever wanted?

The Catcall Curse (Part 4)

In the dimness of the bar, it seemed to the pig that he’d been surrounded by a single wall of flesh, the lines and boundaries between men indiscernible from the shadows. The wall was in constant motion, the faces at the top shifting as men jostled for position at either end. No sooner would a cock slip into his mouth or ass, that someone else would push him away and take his place. There were…too many of them. Too many men. He couldn’t do this by himself, he couldn’t please all of these men. The spell needed outlets, and so, the singular mass around Clyde began to break apart, smaller bubbles forming.

The jeers would start out as benign, masculine posturing. One man would challenge the other’s prowess or form. But always one or two would be isolated, torn down further, unable to muster a returning challenge, finding the constant barrage of humiliation from the men now surrounding them to be…turning them on, not making them upset or angry. Soon, they were asking for for, begging the men to abuse them further, unable to keep their hands from their cocks, licking their lips, thinking about how good all of these men’s cocks would taste. From one pig came four. When four was too many, the spell made twelve pigs scattered throughout the room. Twelve was still too few–so it made twenty. All of them were slightly different–reflections of the particular crowd that shaped them and called them forth.

The spell tended to focus on deserving parties. Two of Clyde’s lieutenants, who had often been the crudest and loudest calling to the women, always competing with the old Clyde for the best comment of the day, found themselves surrounded by men, who began taunting them together:

“Look at you two, like a couple of faggots. Bet all you two brutes want is to have your cocks in each other’s faces!”

“Yeah, they might look like men, but you know they’ll moan like a couple a whores!”

The constant barrage of comments formed a constant static. They heard all of it, and yet couldn’t separate any one bit from the mass of sound, as they stroked and rubbed each other’s hair bellies, leaning in close for a deep kiss that only grew more intense as the crowd pulled in tighter around them. The two of them were still kissing, face to face, as the men forced them over a table and started working their asses over, first with their cocks, then with their fists, the two men’s construction gean becoming leather and rubber highlighted with red.

Others were pulled in by the spell because they showed an odd resistance. A younger man, who’d remained pressed to the wall–caught between a terror at what he was seeing urging him to flee, and a strange, external compulsion planting his feet and urging him to join in. The men noticed his reluctance, they began to break off, laughing, pointing and jeering at him:

“Hey little boy, don’t be shy, I know what that pretty ass of yours likes!”

“Got nothing to say? Good! Everyone knows a mouth like that isn’t meant for talking.”

One man stepped forward and started working the young man over, and the crowd surrounded them both, urging them both on, the daddy finding himself holding the leash of his cub’s collar, proud of how good his little boy was doing, his first night out. He was nervous, sure, but the catcalls were turning him on–everyone could see it–and after he’d drank a full load of his massive daddy’s cum, he was more than happy to be led around on his hands and knees, servicing anyone else his daddy liked.

Eventually, enough attention was diverted away from Clyde, that he discovered there was no one else around him–they had all lost interest, and gone off to look at the new whores forming their own orbits around the room. He was angry, frustrated. People were supposed to be looking at him, wanting him, disgusted by him, and he looked around until he laid eyes on the one person still paying him attention–a man he could just make out through the grimy window of the bar, hunkered down and staring at him. He beckoned him in, and saw the man’s eyes go wide.

Jack hadn’t wanted to be noticed. He’d been…happy observing the festivities inside the bar, content to avoid the full force of this incredibly savage curse as best he could. It wasn’t like it could do him any real damage–or at least he hoped it couldn’t. He hadn’t made one of these storms in a while, and he’d always been careful to keep his distance before. Now, he didn’t really have a choice, but to try and keep to the edge, and hope the wind wouldn’t pick him up with a sudden gust and whirl him in closer.

Then, Clyde saw him. Clyde didn’t just see him, however–it was more that Clyde knew him. The spell, through Clyde, recognized him, the power he had in him, and it was…hungry. It wanted to be bigger, it wanted to exact more justice. He was too close, this was too powerful, even for him. The pig…wanted him. He stood up, and fought his body moving him inside the bar, trying to protect himself from the power threatening to engluf him, but he felt helpless. That was, really, how curses worked–the harder you fought, the more they ensnared you until you couldn’t even fight anymore, until you couldn’t even imagine why anyone would fight this. But he had to fight, he had to. With all of his will, he froze himself a few yards inside, focusing his mind as best he could, pushing against the spell, trying to create a zone of protection for himself.

That, of course, couldn’t stop Clyde from approaching him. The pig could sense the power rolling off him, and he was so hungry for it. So hungry to be punished, desperate for it now. And this man, whoever he was–he could sense that no one would be able to punish him like he would, and with a laugh, he whispered in Jake’s ear with a voice not quite his own, “Come on now, don’t be scared–don’t you want to play with a nasty pig like me?”

The Catcall Curse (Part 2)

Clyde told himself he’d just suck one. Maybe, if he sucked one, the rest of the guys would feel like they’d had their fun, and would leave him alone. He looked around, surveying his workmates’ cocks, sizing them up…wondering how each of them might taste. Eventually, one of the hornier guys made the choice for him. “It’s not a fuckin’ buffet, pig, fuckin’ get to work already!” He said, grabbing Clyde by the hair, pulling so the pig moaned in pain, and then slammed his cock into his mouth. It wasn’t one of the largest, by any measure–just around four inches…but as Clyde sucked, and he started getting hornier, he found himself caught up in a fantasy, that the shaft was growing in his mouth, down his throat, large enough to make him gag and choke, thick enough to stretch his jaw. Thinking about how…how much of a whore he’d feel like, if he was servicing a cock like that.

He was so caught up in his fantasy, that it took a deep thrust by the guy down his throat, forcing a gag out of him, to realize his sudden, unbidden fantasy had, in fact, come true. He didn’t have much time for thoughts after that, he was too caught up in figuring out how to breathe, while still getting the cock lodged as deep in his throat as he possible could, hungry for a load, a…big load, fuck, filling his mouth, running down his chin onto his chest…

The man exploded, his suddenly huge balls constricting and unleashing a blast of cum so huge, and so deep, that Clyde felt the seed push up into his sinuses, burning and making his eyes water as cum streamed out his nose and out from around his mouth, the man still thrusting until Clyde had to pull away, wiping cum from his face, the guy staring down, agog at his now massive cock and huge balls still dribbling cum onto the gravel, and Clyde could only gawk at it, at…at the size of it, and he realized he’d been mistaken. There was no way he could only suck one cock–he…he wanted more. Besides, it was only fair, right? But more than that, the guy’s couldn’t believe the change, and they were all fighting for the privilege of being the next cock in the whore’s magic mouth.

Clyde…kind of lost track, after that. For a while he stayed on his knees, sucking at a near constant clip–and every cock that entered his mouth grew, the smallest ending at eight inches, but thicker than a beer can. His hands were busy too, stroking cocks, keeping the men happy as they waited for their turn, but his brain wouldn’t stop…thinking. Imagining. Fantasizing. Sure, these guys were all hot, but…but they could be hotter. Bigger, of course. Hairier too. Rougher and cruder, beastly musky and stinking of manhood. The men’s combined musk welled up around them all, as their bodies responded to Clyde’s thoughts, their muscles expanding, guts growing heavy and hairy, none of them now less than six foot three, and there was Clyde in the midst of them, trying to juggle all of their cocks, all of their desire, but these new men were impatient. They hauled him up–he was amazed that just two of them could carry him–and he was bent over a sawhorse, the men forming a second queue for his ass. The first one hurt…and he liked that it hurt. He liked being tight, he liked feeling himself being torn apart by their massive cocks, their huge hands gripping his chubby hips tight enough to bruise, listening to them huff and pant and whisper crude nothings in his ears:

“Tightest ass I’ve ever felt on a pig, and plenty of cushion for pushin’–just built to be a slut.”

“Come on boy’s let’s coat the pig in cum, if it likes it so much–gotta make sure everyone knows this pig’s roll in life.”

“Soft and smooth, just how I like ‘em, not a fuckin’ hair to be seen!”

Overhead, on the roof, Jack had positioned himself for a birdseye view of the orgy down below. Yeah, this curse was a strong one–all he’d really planned on was Clyde becoming the new slut of his worksite. If the guys were too busy shouting at him and getting the pig horny, they wouldn’t have time to harass the women passing by–not that any of them would have an interest in women after this. But apparently the curse had collected some feedback–from where he was, he couldn’t tell whose fantasies were feeding it, but he watched the guys go from average looking blue collar guys, to huge brutes, coated with hair, bulging out of their jeans and shirts, all of them strong jaws, heavy brows, and when the wind blew, he could catch their collective musk on the wind, and fuck, it was even making him hard.

Still, the energy was beginning to wind down. All of the guys had taken four or five turns with either of Clyde’s now well worn holes, his fatter, now hairless body crusted with cum. He watched the thought appear in each guy’s mind at the same time, that the pig needed a shower of course. They got Clyde back on his knees and together they spewed their yellow, stinking piss all over him, the pig drinking down as much as he could, thirsty for more, and then the men started to emerge from their sexual haze, stumbling back, trying to process what in the world had just happened to them. That was it then–that wasn’t quite as powerful as he’d expected then…but why was there still a buzzing in the back of his head? Some…thread unresolved?

Indeed, the men in the circle were coming back to themselves, but looking again, it was clear Clyde was not. He was simply delirious with lust, sucking piss from his lip, rubbing it into his body, stroking his tiny cock, gut stretched taut with the men’s massive loads of cum. Had he really not had enough? Or had the curse ensnared him so tightly that even still, it felt he deserved more?

He saw two guys speak for a moment, and then one trotted over to his truck, and start digging around behind the seats. He came out with, what looked like to Jack, as a pair of overalls–probably something for the pig to wear, since they’d shredded his clothes to bits. The guy went over and tossed them to Clyde, probably telling him to get dressed, but in the air, Jack watched them ripple in shift, landing in front of Clyde as a couple pieces of leather. Jack took a deep breath–this had only been the first act then, but what now?

Miles didn’t know how everything had gone so wrong. It had seemed easy enough a task–Sonja had made him promise that he would lose fifty pounds before her sister’s wedding, as soon as they’d received the invitation nine months prior. It was going to be his first time meeting most of her extended family, and he did want to make a good impression, of course. But…he’d also never been very good at the whole diet and exercise thing. And so he’d turned to a slightly sketchy corner of the internet, which one of Sonja’s uncles recommended for him, through her. The pill promised that he could eat as much as he wanted, and he’d shed weight no matter what. It seemed like too good to be true, but supposedly he’d had great success with it. He added the pills to his diet…but not long after, he’d started to backslide.

He’d take the pills, and he’d be…ravenous afterwards. He’d do his best to only eat healthy stuff, but it didn’t seem to matter. He was packing on weight faster than ever before in his life. Sonja was furious–when he tried to tell her it was the pills, she refused to believe him. After all, they’d worked for her uncle! Was he calling her uncle a liar? They fought more and more, and he kept taking the pills, and by the time the wedding rolled around, he had to buy a whole new wardrobe for his now 450 pound body. They hadn’t had sex in months…and if he was being honest, she…just wasn’t that attractive anymore for some reason.

The wedding was beautiful, but his relationship was a disaster. He couldn’t wait to get to the reception so he could get drunk off his ass and stuff his face. He saw Sonja hitting on one of the bridesgrooms, and they disappeared together–she made sure he saw. He tried to care, he really did, but he was just so…hungry. Food first. beer first. Then he could figure out what to do about that.

“You must be Miles–Sonja told me quite a bit about you, boy.”

He looked over, and bellying up to the buffet was a huge man, at least 200 pounds heavier than he was. Miles just gaped, his cock hardening. He’d…started to notice that big men were turning him on, but he’d been trying to ignore it. But this fucker…he was salivating, and not for food. “H-Hi…” he stammered, wiping a sweaty hand on his pants to shake the mans hand, “I’m…here with Sonja.”

“Oh, I know. I’m Sonja’s Uncle. Those pills worked mighty fine, I must say.” He stepped closer, their fat sides pressing into each other, “Fill up that plate boy–I wanna see you eat. And then you’re coming to my hotel. Been needing a tight, chubby hole for my cock, and yours will do just fine…be even better once we pack another few hundred pounds on that wide ass of yours.”

Source: emkay202

Here at R.V. Wink’s Furniture Outlet, we pride ourselves on having not only great deals, but the most comfy sofas, loveseats, armchairs and beds in town! Goodness, they’re so comfortable, almost everyone who sits or lays on one finds themselves losing the will to get out, and not too long after that, they tend to drift off. Almost everyday, it seems like the most common sound on the sales floor is the snores! But I do love helping out my customers, why, just take a look at him.

He’d come in here this morning, some wealthy college kid looking to furnish his new condo his parents are renting while he’s going to school. He kept sneering at my wares as I led him around the floor, telling me that my furniture was decades out of style, and not in a classy, retro way. I did eventually cajole him into an armchair, and he’s been snoozing his life away for hours now. What do you think he is, 40? 50? At least. Well, he’s still probably a bit older than you are now. I see that you’re gotten used to that big gut of yours now. How does it feel, when I rub it like that? Yeah, that’s good, moan for me gramps, you fucking love it, just like I knew you would.

Still, I think it’s time for an afternoon nap, don’t you?

Oh don’t shake your head at me, your eyes are drooping at the mere thought. There’s a king size bed right over here, why don’t you lay down for a bit? Take off those clothes of yours, they’ll just make you uncomfortable–that’s it, doesn’t that feel so soft? So relaxing? Now hold on, I’m sure you’d rather have a teddy bear to snooze with right? Let me just get him out of the chair…

Oh look at you, already slipping off to sleep again. Now you too–go crawl in with your husbear–don’t be silly, of course you have a husbear? Cuddle up close now, give him a big hug–feel how good that gut of his feels? By the time you wake up, you’ll have one yourself. A couple adorable grandbears–my favorite kind of customer. Now close those eyes and have another nap–when you wake up, I’m sure you’ll find the furniture more you’re style, don’t you?

The Catcall Curse (part 1)

Note: For those who have been around long enough to recall the old NCMC, there used to be a wiki section for collaborative story writing. This next story takes place in one of those recurring universes, begun with “101 Curses”, and continuing through a few sequels. I contributed to a few of the stories, but it was always one of my favorites on the wiki. You don’t have to be familiar with those old stories to read this new addition, but I like providing context where appropriate, and I’d recommend reading them just for enjoyment if you haven’t already.

His name was Jack, and he had a unique job–or at least he’d never met anyone else who did anything quite like what he did for a living. Then again, he’d also never met anyone capable of literally cursing anyone before either. Yes, for a…sizable fee, Jack would find the target of your anger, and lay upon them a curse exactly to your personalized request, or at least something along similar lines. It wasn’t always the easiest job, but it was lucrative. This job though, this one was going to be easier at least. A woman, let’s call her Jeanette, walked to work each day, and each day, for the last six months, he’d walked past this construction site, and every day for the last six months, all the guys on the crew had catcalled and heckled her, and she was sick of it. One guy was the ringleader, and always the crudest–Jeanette had thought she’d heard everything, until that fat fucker kept opening his filthy mouth. All she wanted, was for the big boy to get a taste of his own medicine.

That day, Jack hung around, and watched it happen–Jeanette walked past, and once big boy there started on her (he’d thought she was being funny when she called him that, but big boy he was–close to 400 pounds, easily six foot five, and a good chunk of his mass was muscle, from years of hard labor) the rest of the guys on the crew all joined in, jeering and laughing. That was all Jack needed to see—he could feel the power bristling through him, and jolted out of him, right into the big fuck. He didn’t…feel anything, exactly, but he froze for a second, looking like all the hair on his back had stood on end, and then looked around, trying to catch his breath, and Jack felt…a bit wiped. He hadn’t planned on that one being quite so strong–in fact, that had probably been a bit too much. Still, he probably deserved it, right? He texted Jeanette, and told her the curse was on it’s way–in a few days, when he had some solid results, he’d update her and collect the rest of his payment. But he hung around for a bit longer–he kind of wanted to see how this one might play out.

“Lookin’ good though, fatty! Love seein’ that ass of yours shakin’. Wouldn’t mind seein’ it shakin’ while I plow it with my dick!” Luis said from across the worksite.

Clyde blushed again, not that it was easy to see through his beard. “Yeah yeah, you guy’s think you’re so fuckin’ funny…Why don’t you save it for the bitches, eh?”

“Who wants to look at bitches, when we can look at you, piggy?”

The rest of the crew burst out laughing, and now you could see Clyde blushing, even through his beard. What in the hell had gotten into all of these fuckers? Ever since that bitch had walked by earlier, the on they’d been hooting at for months now, the rest of the guys had just been relentless. I mean, everyone on the crew got ribbed a bit on occasion, but Clyde was feeling…a bit uncomfortable. At least, he was feeling something, and he wanted to say in was discomfort. But if it was discomfort, why in the hell did his cock keep getting hard?

“Look guys, the pig’s turnin’ red!”

“That probably means he likes it. You like being called a piggy?”

“Guy’s, just…just stop already, I’m serious…” Clyde said, but one of his hands kept…groping his cock through his jean shorts. He tried to pull it away, but…but it wouldn’t budge.

“What? If you don’t want us callin’ ya a pig, then stop looking like one, ya know? I mean, look at how fucking fat you are. If you don’t want us callin’ ya a pig, then have some self-respect!”

“Please, he’s just playin’ hard tah get. He wants the attention.”

“Fuck guys, is the fuckin’ pig rubbin’ himself?”

“Fuck he is, isn’t he?”

He kept telling himself to stop, but…he couldn’t. He felt so fucking humiliated, rubbing his cock in front of all his workmates, but…but that thought just made him hornier, and he slipped his hand down into his pants, so he could really…grip his cock–except there wasn’t anything to grip, suddenly. He could find his head though, just barely popping out of his fatpad, and so he rubbed that instead, feeling himself shiver in the heat, every eye on him. The guys were…closing in on him now, forming a circle around him.

“What a slutty pig.”

“Aren’t you hot? Wouldn’t you feel better without those clothes on, piggy?”

The guys closed in and started ripping at his clothes, cutting them away when he tried to fight them off, and in a matter of moments he was naked in the middle of the construction site, the rest of the crew laughing at him, pointing at him and his tiny cock, which he couldn’t stop rubbing with his fingers, his other hand twisting one of his nipples.

“Can’t believe we’ve been working with a pig this whole time.”

“You’d never fuckin’ know, would you?”

“Tiny clit on the fucker too, never seen such a worthless piece of meat before.”

“Oh…oh fuck…” Clyde groaned, “Fuck you guys…”

“What, is piggy getting horny? Is piggy gonna shoot a load for us?”

“Go on piggy, show us what a slut you are.”

He tried to stop it, he tried, but he was too close, the cum spurting out of him–dribbling really, onto the dirty ground below him. His knees started quivering, and he he collapsed onto them, mouth open and panting, skin covered with sweat as the circle closed in tighter, and the men all pulled their cocks free from their jeans, laughing.

Learning to Like Ass (Part 3)

The biker walked over, and pressed close, laying the length of his cock in the crack of Rudy’s ass, listening to his whimper, feeling him try and maneuver his hole into position. “Not so fast, Rudy,” the biker said, and started kneading the cheeks in his hands, “I wanna take a moment, savor this wide ass of yours. Gonna be a nice fuck, especially if I don’t have to look at that ugly mug of yours.”

“Please, just fucking fuck me! I can’t fucking take it anymore, please, I need it so fucking bad…”

“Oh now Rudy, you know I never fuck without eating first, it’s only polite,” the biker said, and slipped down onto his knees, and started licking at his crack, burrowing in with his tongue, making Rudy squirm and grunt, gripping the sheets in an iron grip. It felt good, hell, it felt amazing, but it wasn’t what he wanted–what he needed more than anything. Still, he didn’t push him, he tried to just enjoy himself, one hand stroking his oozing cock, hanging on the edge of an orgasm but not able to cross it.

When the biker was satisfied that Rudy was open enough, he got back up, pressed the head of his cock to Rudy’s hole, and slipped inside, feeling him shudder around him and immediately throw himself back, but the biker stepped with him, teasing him, keeping just the head inside. “Come you, this is what you fucking want right? So fucking plow me!”

“I just don’t want you to get excited and blow your load too soon. After all, a good, fat piggy like you knows you can’t cum until you’ve made the man you’re with cum, right? Only once you have a nice and warm raw load in this chute, can that cock of yours finally explode, isn’t that right?”

“Oh god, please…”

“Well? Am I right or not, Rudy? I think I know my fat pigs well enough, I’ve plowed a shit ton of them. Get that hand off your cock, you’re too eager. You’re attention should be on me. On making sure my stay in this hole of yours is the best it can be.”

“Ok, ok,” Rudy said, pulling his hand away, feeling his gut drop, first brushing against the sheets, and then pressing into it. Fuck he was a fat pig, fuck yeah, and he was gonna make sure this hole was the biker’s best fuck in ages. He might not look like much, sure–hell, he was outright ugly, but once a guy got inside him, they all forgot about that. He relaxed, and felt the biker slide in deep. He shivered, unable to stop himself, and matched the biker’s rhythm, slamming back with his thrusts, feeling his entire body jiggle, especially his ass, fuck, this guy was fuckin’ with some goddamn force, just how he liked it! He was getting close, he could feel it, feel the biker trying to hold back, but he clamped down, dragging him over the edge, feeling the cock explode deep in his guts, and it was like a wave crashing into him, his own balls exploding their load on the sheets–

He kept humping the bed, sheets tangled around his legs and gut. He could feel how wet his sheets were, but fuck, what a dream! He was sweating hard, muscles quivering and aching like he’d just tried to run a mile or something. Had…had it even been a dream? Like that last one, before this. Still, where that one had been terrifying, this one had been so incredibly satisfying. He shuddered, the last bit of cum seeping out of him, and he…he needed to feel that again. He grabbed one of his dildos (he always had one on his nightstand for easy access) and slipped it inside his hole with a quiver and a moan. It wouldn’t be enough to get him off–no toy had ever been able to replace a real cock for him–but it would at least let him calm down, his hole milking the latex rod like a baby sucking a pacifier. He wrangled the sheets back on top of him, kneaded his soft gut for a few minutes, and drifted back off to sleep, snoring away.

Requested by Patchbear

Phil felt terrible after missing the first wrestling practice of the year, but he hadn’t anticipated getting sick the first week on campus. At least the new wrestling coach at the college was less of a hardass than Mr. Stevens, who’d retired somewhat unexpectedly over the summer. The new coach, Mr. Wick, had just told him to feel better, and come to the second practice a few days later, if he felt up to it–and added that he was excited to see what Phil, as one of the stars of the team, thought of some of the changes Mr. Wick had in mind for the program.

Luckily he got over the fever quickly, and the next day he felt good enough to go to his classes at least–but he had the strangest run in with someone, around noon, as he was heading to the Student Union for lunch. Some strange guy–fat, hairy, and reeking of musk and who knew what else, spotted him and charged over, tackling Phil to the grass, laughing and snorting, asking where the hell he’d been the night before. Phil had no fucking clue who the guy was, and he crawled his way free and took off, the pig just laughing and snorting on the grass.

The next night he headed to the gym a bit early, so he could get himself warmed up properly before practice started. He was in the locker room when an older man, quite fat and out of shape, who he assumed was a janitor or something came up and clapped him on the back. “Phil! There you are. Glad you’re feeling better!”

This…this guy was Mr. Wick? What the fuck was the school thinking, hiring someone like this? This close to him, the unwashed stench rolling off him was horrific, and Phil shoved him away. “Oh…uh, yeah. I’m feeling better. Sorry…I…I don’t want you getting sick if I’m still infectious.”

“I’m sure you’re fine. You’re early! Come on, get your singlet on, and let’s spar a bit. I’ll get you caught up with the rest of the guys in no time.”

Disgusted, Phil never the less got dressed in his singlet and found Mr. Wick in the gym in a singlet of his own. He suggested they spar a bit, so he could get a better idea of Phil’s skill level, and see if he was as legendary as he’d heard. Phil chuckled to himself–the guy might outweigh him, but he had a feeling the hardest part would be getting close enough to the fucker’s stench to pin him.

It didn’t quite go as Phil imagined it. Mr. Wick, for all of his flab, was surprisingly adept, and he pinned Phil over and over again…and Phil found himself…enjoying it. Feeling the weight of the man pressing down on him, feeling his stench overwhelm him, overwhelming his mind, making…making him think all these filthy, disgusting thoughts, grinding his ass into his coach’s crotch, his body inflating with fat, and finally Mr. Wick ripped away the ass of his singlet and slammed his cock into Phil’s hole, listening to his newest wrestling pig squeal with pleasure. Still, Phil Robertson wasn’t going to be the best wrestler on the team–no, he was going to be a lot more interested in getting pinned and fucked–but he’d sure he having a lot more fun this year, as one of his filthy, disgusting wrestling pig squad.