Father’s Rules (Part 5)

***Warning*** Darkness ahead.

The list began growing longer all over again. His dad would still bring home men, but now instead of just watching, Blake was forced to serve them and his dad sexually all night long. To further his sexual education, his daily routine of masturbation began incorporating any number of toys–at first, just dildos, but then also clamps, stretchers, pumpers–before long Blake was compelled to fuck his hole regularly as he masturbated, and had to wear a buttplug at work and the gym. His father forced him to have his nipples and cock pierced, and they were pumped and stretched as well. He fought, of course. He fought hard, but there was nothing he could do, except watch himself grow older and older in the mirror, his hair picking up strands, and then streaks of grey–though grey was a bit of a misnomer. He smoked so much, that they were really just yellow. His face grew wrinkled, his eyesight failing and forcing him to wear glasses. Eventually, one day–either from exhuatsion or simply terror at his own age, he decided to give in.

He worshiped his dad happily, cleaning his entire body every chance he could get. He would offer up any of his holes to any man his father took a liking to, and happily submit to any kind of sex. Slowly, he even began to forget that there was ever a time when he wasn’t his dad’s personal whore. Reality, thankfully, shifted with him. He went from being his father’s son to his brother. He hoped that would be enough for his father, he hoped that, maybe, he would let things slide, let the list die, so he could be free–instead, Saul saw his son’s new eagerness as an excuse to double down and force him to go even further.

He established a cum quota on the list–the number of loads Blake would have to swallow or take in his ass–raw–every day. The number began at a manageable five, but soon escalated to a nearly impossible fifty. Blake was forced to spend nearly every moment of his day seeking out men to service sexually–and he soon became a regular feature of local gloryholes, bathhouses and gay saunas, where he would occasionally collect enough loads to satisfy his father’s demands, but often his failure would simply mean disobedience, and he continued aging. He hoped that when he grew older than his own father, the list’s power would wane–but it made no difference, as he became his father’s older brother, resting in his upper fifties, once he realized how low he had to go in order to meet his father’s arbitrary quota.

His desperation had rooted out any remaining desire to disobey–he became meek and desperate to please, one eye always on the list, hoping it would finally shrink to nothing, but there was always something else–a new commandment that he drink ten loads of piss a day. Another, forcing him to eat his own cigar butts, as well as any cigarette or cigar butts he found, not to mention he would happily serve as a spittoon for anyone who asked. His nicotine addiction became crippling in short measure–before too long, simply smoking his cigars wasn’t enough for him–he would have to smoke and chew at the same time, swallowing his own foul spit, just to keep the tremors at bay, but finally, his father seemed pleased. He encouraged him, told him that his son had finally become a real man, and the praise…the praise made him so happy, it disgusted him. But the list waned, it waned slowly, but he held out hope that the end was finally in sight.

In those rare times when he was home alone, he would often just stand in the bathroom, staring at himself, trying to hold onto some bit of his past, trying to remember who he’d been. It had been a little over a year now. A whole year, and he was older than his father, his thick, tangled beard reaching down the length of his belly, his hair–what remained, at least, now that he was balding severely–reaching halfway down his back. He reeked all the time–like he hadn’t showered in ages, like a full ashtray someone had pissed in. His teeth had started rotting out of his months ago, and he’d gone into the dentist to get a full set of dentures. Saul and his friends appreciated it–he loved the feel of his “brother’s” gums around his cock, much more than teeth. All of his clothes were soaked with piss, cum, tobacco spit, ash and sweat–no one at work could get within a few feet without facing his stench. Yet, every time, in front of the mirror, cigar permanently clamped in his jaw, a huge wad of tobacco also pushing out his cheek, he would end up jacking off. He would jack off, staring at himself, because a part of him, a part of him growing larger every day, liked it. Liked how much he reeked, liked the feel of the dildo thrusting in and out of his loose hole, loved licking the cum from his gritty, filthy hands after he shot his load. Loved that he was a perverse, nasty old bear, constantly hungry for cum and piss and smoke. Despairing, he’d leave the bathroom, until even that despair abandoned him too. Until that became a routine too–after his father caught him–forced him to enjoy his new body, to feel confident in his perversity.

The list was almost empty again. Saul seemed to have forgotten about it, mostly–that, or Blake had finally become the disgusting pervert he’d always wanted, and had no more desire to change him. Just as Blake had suspected, it had been his father all along. Saul had given up pretending, at this point. He lorded it over him, that he could do whatever he wanted to him, and Blake couldn’t do anything to stop him. Hell, Blake didn’t want to stop him. He liked this. He liked being his father’s–no, not his father. He didn’t think of him as a father anymore, not really. His brother’s pig. His younger brother’s filthy sex pig. But then, his father brought home Anthony.

Father’s Rules (Part 4)

It wasn’t often that Saul didn’t manage to bring someone home–his standards were relatively low–or, he preferred his standards low. Blake was beginning to suspect it was a matter of choice more than anything. Hell, he’d watched his dad have sex with who knew how many men. Some of them he was certain were hobos he’d picked up off the streets. He was drawn to their desperation, it gave Saul a certain level of control over them that he couldn’t otherwise get, a form of control Blake was well acquainted with. He came home, and Blake sensed that he shouldn’t be there. He tried to excuse himself for a late night trip to the gym, but Saul grabbed his wrist and pulled him over the the couch, where he suggested he help his dad out with a blowjob first. Blake told him there was no way he would ever suck his dad’s cock, not after what he’d done to him. Saul slapped him. Blake tried to punch him, but couldn’t–as always. They fought for a moment, but Blake couldn’t keep him from the list, where his dad wrote:

My son must have sex with me whenever I want.

Blake tried to fight it, but his body is no longer interested in what he might think. His dad yanked down his filthy underwear and rammed his cock in his ass, Blake begging him to be gentler, but Saul just spanked his ass, telling him to fucking enjoy it, that this is how real men fuck. He came quickly, and stumbled off to his room where he passed out, Blake sobbing himself to sleep on the couch, staring at the list. He’d been close–so damn close…

Saul woke him up with his cock at five-thirty. Blake sucked him off. They went to work, together, Saul making him blow him in the truck on their mutual cigar and lunch break, and then came home. Blake had said nothing to him all day, and Saul tried to apologize, tried to tell his son that the list had made him do it. Blake exploded, calling his dad a rapist, calling him a pervert, and he stormed out, spending the rest of the afternoon and evening at the gym, trying to lift away his frustration, and he considered simply staying away entirely, and not going back. He didn’t have to go back there, he could just leave, but something…something dragged his feet back home…where he found his father, once again drunk off his ass, sitting on the couch, naked. Blake found himself sinking to his knees and licking his father’s filthy body clean, from his stinking pits and crusty feet, to his sweaty balls and ripe asscrack. Only then, could he finally beg his father to fuck his fat, nasty pighole. Saul was only too happy to oblige him, and it hurt, but not as much as the night before. In fact, Blake realized he’d soon be used to this, just like he’d gotten used to everything else. It was only afterward that he noticed the list had grown longer, again.

My son must worship and clean my body every day.

My son must beg for me to have sex with him at least three times a day.

Saul came up behind him, stinking of smoke and booze, and ran his hands over his son’s body, “You think I’m a pervert, son? Maybe so, but you’ll be a pervert soon enough too, begging me to fuck you every day, obsessed with my body. And last I checked, you can’t rape the very, very willing.”

“You sick fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No Blake–the question is what’s wrong with you! I think I’ve neglected a very important part of your education, Blake. I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced and educated in the ways of sex, and who better to show you then your father? I thought I was sparing you, by keeping this distance between us, but you haven’t really learned anything, have you? No, you’re still the same prick, you just look hotter. Well don’t worry–we’ll have you singing a different tune here soon. You’ll be a perfect fucking pigson.”

He shoved Blake against the wall, and Blake could smell him, smell them both. Smell the musk between them, the smoke from both of their cigars, the booze and coffee on their breath, and his cock…his fucking cock was getting hard. When Saul leaned in and kissed him, pushing smoke into his lungs, he tried to push him away, but his efforts grew weaker until he was kissing him back, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Their lips parted–Blake was panting, Saul at ease with a smirk.

“P-Please…” Blake said.

“Please what, son?”

He meant to ask him to stop–he really did. But what came out was Blake begging his father to fuck his face, his knees buckling, Saul only too happy to use his son’s throat. Blake tried to resist, but his hand found his way into his filthy briefs and started jacking his own cock, cumming even before his father did.

“I don’t think you’re going to be sleeping on the couch anymore, do you?”

Blake didn’t respond, and he tried to hold out for the whole night, but when he woke up to smoke a cigar, the longing in him was undeniable, and he climbed into bed with his father, asking him to for a midnight fuck while they smoked. So close–he’d been so damn close, but things were only going to get worse, Blake realized–or, from a different perspective, better–he thought, as his father wrapped him in his burly arms, cock still lodged in his ass, and they drifted to sleep.

Father’s Rules (Part 3)

Blake woke up, hungover, at six in the morning like always, only to discover more rules had been added to the list while he was asleep:

My son must masturbate to the smell of his own pits, his dirty underwear, and his father’s dirty underwear.

My son never showers, brushes his teeth, or cuts his hair or his beard.

His father had already left for work, and he spent the whole day fighting the new rules–trying to trick himself into getting wet and cleaning himself, but the best he could do was wash his hands–without soap. He was disgusted with himself, but he couldn’t stop from smelling himself, couldn’t stop smelling his dad’s underwear as he jacked off madly, soon falling back into his routine of smoking, drinking, eating and jacking off. He had to do something, he had to. He held out for about a week, but finally, he broke down sobbing one morning, begging his father not to leave him alone in the apartment, that he couldn’t take this anymore.

“I tried to be reasonable.”

“I know, but please, I’m sorry. Whatever you want. I’ll do anything, just…just make it so I don’t have to smell myself, please, I fucking reek…but I’m starting to like it dad, I’m starting to fucking like it!”

Blake looked up at his dad, but Saul was looking away from him. Why couldn’t he look at him? Finally, he responded. “I can’t. I can’t erase the rules I made. That’s not how it works.”

Blake just stared at him. “W-What?”

“The list is educating you, Blake. The rules don’t disappear until you follow them without even thinking about them. Until you don’t even realize you’re following them. Until you want to follow them. Do you remember that first rule I made? About you masturbating?”

Blake nodded.

“Go look for it.”

It wasn’t on the list. It should have been at the top, but he’d become so used to spending almost his entire day jacking off…he hadn’t even noticed when it had disappeared. “How…how long has it been gone?”

“Probably two weeks now.”

“You mean…you mean I’ve been jacking off this much on my own…for two fucking weeks?”

“You’re going to be jacking off like that for the rest of your life son, trust me. You couldn’t do it less if you tried. Look at those fucking balls on you, I mean, they’re fucking huge. You’re made to pump cum out now, son, you don’t have a choice anymore.” Saul looked away again, “Look, the list…the list wants me to punish you, Blake. To be honest..I don’t remember writing those last two rules, I just don’t. But I thought…I thought about them and they just…appeared on the list. I don’t know what it’ll do if you keep fighting me. Please, for your own sake, just…let’s figure out what to do together, alright? You’re already thirty or so…if you aren’t careful, you’re going to be as old as me before too much longer.”

Blake didn’t want to believe him, but did he have much of a choice? Even if his dad was lying to him and had written those rules…if Blake didn’t obey, something worse was bound to happen, regardless whether it was his dad doing it sadistically, or the list itself forcing his hand.

“I should never have done this to you, I know that. But if you just…if you be good, it’ll be over soon enough. I promise. I figured it out when I was a kid, when my dad did this to me. I know you can get past it too.”

Together, they sat down and talked–for the first time, really. Saul suggested that, if he wanted to get out of the apartment, then the best thing he could do was get a job. Blake didn’t know what sort of job he could get, however, looking like he did–so his dad asked his bosses at the construction company he worked for, and they agreed to hire his son on a temporary basis, to see what he could do. It was hard work, for sure, but with his dad helping him–and with a few rules urging him on to be a hard worker and quelling some of his…nastier…urges while he was out in public, Blake was given a full time position after a few months. His dad helped him out with a few other rules as well–especially by requiring Blake to lift weights regularly at the local gym. It didn’t change the fact that he was well past obesity, but before too long, between the hard labor and the weightlifting, he’d gone from total pudge to a 400 hundred pound, chubby bull. He’d stopped aging as well, now that he was cooperating, and was holding stable at thirty-two years old.

Many times, Blake asked his father to make some rules that might help offset his earlier punishments. The guys at work complained about how bad he smelled, for one thing, and his hair and beard were simply unmanageable, and seemed to only be getting longer. He also wanted him to help him cut back on the cigars. The addiction had gone from constant to nearly crippling. He could barely last half an hour without smoking one, and he’d usually have to get up three or four times in the night just to satisfy his nicotine craving. His dad said that there was simply nothing he could do. The list refused to accept any rules that would reverse earlier changes–he could try to balance the equation with other rules as best he could, but there was only so much he could do.

Blake was becoming more and more certain that Saul wasn’t telling him the whole truth–and that the real reason he wouldn’t change him back was because he liked his new son better than his old one. Granted, Blake liked his dad better too, now that they had more common interests, but he still couldn’t forgive him for doing this to him. Still, he couldn’t deny that there was an attraction there. He’d been watching his dad fuck for so long, that he started to…admire him, and the way Saul would look at him sometimes…that worried him even more. Still, he watched the list grow shorter and shorter by the day, doing his best to follow the rules to the exact wording, feeling them become a second nature to him, so he could finally be free of the curse. But then, one night his dad went out to the bar, but didn’t get lucky with anyone–and returned home very drunk, and very, very horny.

Father’s Rules (Part 2)

Blake woke up at six o’ clock on the couch, right on the dot, like someone had thrown a switch. He looked up at saw his dad was up as well, dressed in his clothes for work, next to the list of rules on the wall.

“What, watching me sleep, pervert?” Blake said, sitting up.

“No, I was just waiting for you to wake up–no more sleeping in for you. Up at six o’ clock every morning, whether you like it or not. Now I have to get going to the site, but I wanted to make sure you saw your new rules.

Blake looked at the list, and saw a number of new entries had appeared:

My son will consume at least one pot of black coffee and at least 2000 calories between six A.M. and noon.

My son will consume at least one twelve pack of beer and 4000 calories between noon and midnight

My Son will consume at least six cigars a day.

“What the fuck? But what about school?”

“Both of us know you weren’t even going to school when you could go to school. No, I think you’ll be staying here for a while, where I can keep an eye on you, son.”

Blake tried to protest, but Saul just left the apartment, abandoning him to his rules. The first few days he fought–but his body wouldn’t let him disobey. His father had kept the house stocked with plenty of food–almost all of it fatty snack foods, and since he couldn’t count calories easily, he’d just eat until the hunger died away, usually jacking off as he did to get to fifteen ejaculations by the end of the day. He was a mess the first week. The second week he managed better, but by the third week, his father increased the numbers–two pots of coffee, 9000 calories a day, eighteen beers, and ten cigars. Almost every night, his father would bring home another man to fuck around with, and he’d managed to find a quite a few guys who didn’t mind Max watching them fuck, while he drank his beers and smoked his cigars, but he couldn’t keep doing this, he just couldn’t.

He got a knife from the kitchen and tried to attack his dad when he got home one evening, but the list wouldn’t let him harm Saul, he couldn’t even bring himself to try and land a blow on him. So Saul made a new rule that Blake had to eat all of his own cum. He lasted two days before he finally broke down, sobbing. He couldn’t live like this, he had to get out of the apartment. He felt sick all the time, his cock was chaffed, the smoke hurt his lungs, he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d do anything, anything Saul wanted him to do, if he could just go back to being a normal teenager again.

Saul didn’t do or say anything right away. Then, he laughed. “Teenager?” he asked, “Son, you haven’t been a teenager for quite a while now.”

Blake just looked at him, confused. Saul rolled his eyes. “It usually takes a few days for your head to catch up and fill in, but you’ll figure it out. Now, I’m fucking beat–I’m gonna go jack off if you wanna watch, and then I’m going to bed.”

Blake figured out what his dad was talking about the next day, when he finished taking one of his long beer pisses, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was a mess, of course. He eyes were bloodshot, and he’d gained quite a bit of weight from his binging. Too much weight, really. It had only been a month–he managed to dig an old scale out from under the sink, and sure enough, he’d gone from one hundred and fifty pounds to two hundred and sixty in less than a month. That didn’t make sense, did it? Then again, he hadn’t weighed one fifty since he was in high school, so–

He ran that thought back. Since he was in high school? He was still in high school…wasn’t he?

He knew the answer. He’d dropped out when he was sixteen–he was too lazy to do much of anything beyond smoke, drink, eat and jack off in his dad’s apartment. He looked at himself in the mirror, and he did look older–like he was probably around twenty seven or so, not sixteen. He freaked out–all he could think to do, however, was drink more beer and smoke more cigars, anything to calm him down until his dad got home from work, and Blake demanded answers.

“The more you fight it, the more you age, son. That’s how it works. And you become whatever the rules you’re following think you should be. You’re a fucking slob now, son. You stink–Have you even showered this week? You didn’t even notice the beard either I bet–hell, it almost reaches your chest–the same with that hair of yours.”

“No…no, this is insane.”

“No, this is your fucking punishment. But if you’re ready to grow up and be a man, then we can have a conversation about what your rules might be, but–”

“Fuck you!” Blake screamed, tried to punch him, but he only hit air, “I fucking hate you! I don’t fucking care what you do, fuck you!”

Saul scowled, “I’m trying to be patient. My dad wasn’t this patient with me, but I know how it feels. If you just cooperate…”

Saul could see Max wasn’t listening, so he shrugged, and went to bed; Max sat on the couch and did his best to keep his hand away from his cock, but he…he simply couldn’t. He was addicted to masturbation as he was to the cigars he was smoking and the cheap beer he was guzzling. What was this list doing to him? Hell, what was his dad doing to him? He was beginning to suspect this was less about punishment and more about his own father’s twisted imagination, but what could he do?

Master of Men (Part 3)

WARNING: Furry, Feral, and Mind Death

Craig turned back to him, and Paul screamed and snarled once more–but then continued to do so. Slowly he became aware that he was no longer doing it because he wanted to, but because he had no choice. This wasn’t him. Craig had done something to his mind, had broken in and changed him…but that wasn’t right. This rage he felt, he knew this rage. This was a rage he’d felt all his life, the rage that he’d used on his little brother whenever he’d beaten him into the dust, the rage that had pushed him into sports where he’d revelled in breaking other men and sending them from the field screaming, the rage that had propelled him to murder men he’d never met in foreign countries and cities he’d never bothered learning to pronounce. Craig had simply undone it’s chains, the chains he’d learned from society to channel his anger in acceptable directions, and now it felt like a beast was loose in his mind, rampaging around, bristling with hate and fear and loathing for everything beyond itself, including Paul. He realized too late that he had counted on those walls and chains to protect him from his own wrath as much as society had, the beast ripping through him, his memories, his thoughts and desires. It was eating his mind from the inside out, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The man named Paul was no match for his own beast, and he was devoured in a matter of minutes as the men watched, his eyes growing dull, the screams and howls becoming less human, the beast’s body changing before their eyes. His body grew hairier, and was soon coated with a thick pelt all over, including his face. It remained fat, but the rage poured itself into muscle, the animal growing taller and thicker, and its face. It was no longer a human face, with a powerful set of jaws lined with teeth, something between a wolf and a bear, and two thick horns bursting from his head, turning forward, points sharp and ready to gore. They expected it to tire at some point, but the transformation only seemed to give it more power, and it fought harder against the metal binding it in place, it’s paw like hands tipped with sharp black claws tensing and untensing, trying to leap at any of them. It could smell their fear, their hatred. Their blood.

“Fear not, my Men–it cannot get loose,” the Master said, coming close to the beast, which tried to twist it’s head and snap at him. “This is rage. This is false masculinity. This is the corruption of a man’s spirit, rendered flesh. This is not a miracle–this is shockingly common. The world is filled with men like him who have allowed their rage to consume their better selves. But I am the Master of Men–I possess the true power necessary to tame this beast. Bear witness.”

The metal retracted, and the men scooted back to the edge of the dias, suddenly aware of just how high up they were from the ground below. The beast shook, and pushed itself up, revealing just how large it had grown. It was easily eight feet tall, with a huge, bright red cock emerging from a sheath running up it’s furred torso. It flexed it’s body and howled, turning to Craig, the fat, pudgy, sweaty man unafraid and facing the beast. “Fuck…you. Fuck you and eat you and tear you apart!” it screeched at Craig. It charged at him, and he stepped to the side out of the beast’s way with a surprising amount of agility.

The beast charged again, and Craig continued dodging. The men noticed that the beast was favoring one leg over the other–the remains of Jason’s damaged knee, but they knew their Master was outmatched–and when the beast had consumed him, it would take them next. Craig seemed unworried, but the beast knew it could win. It could smell him, it could smell that musk, and…and…

And it felt fear. This was no simple man. This man did not smell like the others. The beast redoubled it’s efforts, growing more crazed, when the Master slammed one fist into it’s wounded knee, bringing forth a crazed howl as the beast crumpled to the floor in pain. Before it could react, the man had shoved the beast’s long tail to one side and plunged his cock deep into the beast’s ass. It screamed, but already it could tell that it was too late, that the man had beaten him, that this man would always beat him, had beaten him before in a hundred other lifetimes. Still it fought, trying to crawl away, but the man was gentle, petting it’s hair softly. “Accept your defeat beast, and rage no further–for I am Man, and I will tame you.”

Tame. That scent, that musk. it was so close now, and the more the beast smelled it, the quieter it’s howls became, the more it began pushing it’s hole back, allowing the man to penetrate deeper, the more it felt like it’s very nature was being slowly manipulated and transformed. Indeed, the awestruck men outside the circle watched at the beast’s form began to shift once more, it’s muscled body dissolving into fat once again as it shrunk in size, becoming as large as the Master, and then even smaller, no more than five feet tall at most. That gaping maw full of teeth had softened into a pig’s snout filled with short, stubby, harmless teeth, the horns on it’s head shorter and rounded at the tips, it’s clawed paws becoming clunky trotters. Now it was grunting and squealing loudly, rage forgotten in pleasure, and it’s short, stubby cock exploded with cum, the men watching it’s balls shrink in size, pulling up into it’s belly. The master continued fucking for another moment before cumming as well, and the men cheered, unable to believe the miracle they had just witnessed. The beast, now simply a pet, turned around, grunting softly, and began sucking it’s Master’s cock clean with it’s long tongue, looking up at him lovingly as a strand of metal curled up from the floor, wrapped it’s way around it’s neck and detached from the floor, leaving it with a thick metal collar.

“Men, let us celebrate my victory!” Craig shouted, and the men revelled, an orgy erupting on the dias, their new pet crawling among them, licking their bodies clean, sucking their cocks and begging to be fucked. It lasted for hours, until the men, exhausted, climbed back down from the dais and returned to their homes, and Master’s newest pet stood on it’s hooves and followed his Master down the stairs as best it could, but the path was treacherous, and it’s knee ached. Master could see this, and knelt next to his pet, holding it’s wounded knee in his hands, a dull light coursing beneath them as the pain dissolved. “Thank you,” Craig said, “Your sacrifice was great, for my Men, but you will be happy, I promise.”

His pet grunted it’s thanks. It knew. The rage had hurt so much, all it’s life. To be rid of it was enough for him to follow his Master anywhere, until the end of it’s days.

Master of Men (Part 2)

Craig opened a trapdoor in the floor of his garage, revealing a staircase which descended into the ground below. Paul followed him, no longer able to think of doing anything beyond following the stink of the older man’s sweat down into the depths. The stairs gave way to a ramp, the tunnel linked up with other tunnels, and soon they emerged into a broad, high ceiling cavern. In the center of the room was a dias poised a story and a half off the ground–it looked ancient, and far too well crafted to have been made by anything crude–rather, it seemed to have erupted from the ground as a fluid mass, before something froze it in place. Paul reacted instinctively, tugging back when he saw it, but Craig yanked the lead, and he followed him up a winding stair to the surface above.

The men of the neighborhood were already there, milling about, finding their places around the circle. Paul saw Jason there, limping, but he wouldn’t look at him. Unlike the other men, who all bore plain robes, he was naked aside from a solid ring of steel around his cock and balls. Paul wanted to cry for help, but his jaw was slack. He didn’t think he could even muster a single word. The surface of the dais was perfectly even, yet bore an intricate pattern of metal inlay, winding around the black rock, glinting in the torchlight. However, as soon as Craig stepped into the circle, the metal began to glow a dull red, the other men hurrying to the edge of the circle, where they knelt in a ring around them both.

He waited for them to settle, and for the cavern to return to silence, before booming out, “Welcome, my Men.”

“Glory to the Master of Men,” they replied, in unison.

“Today, my men, is a very special day! A day all of you know well, a day when we welcome a man into our midst, the day we elevate another to our height, a day when we add another to our service. Jason, come here, come, stand tall and be joyful! Today is your day, a day you have been working toward for such a long time.”

Jason stood, he limped into the circle, head bowed away from his brother, and stood on the other side of Craig.

“You have completed your duties, as an initiate, and you have provided a worthy sacrifice. Today, you will claim what you seek, the true manhood you desire. We shall witness your re-manning, and we shall welcome you into our midst.”

Craig waved his hand over the floor, and the metal shimmered, slithering up as though it were alive, before grasping Paul’s neck, ankles and wrists, tugging him down to his knees, and then all fours, holding him in place on the floor. He tried to fight against the enchantment addling his brain, but he couldn’t, just drool on the stone, as Craig turned to his brother.

“Your brother has failed to use his gifts. You shall make better use of them than he has. But the Beast in him will not give up easily–a true man must be firm of hand and strong of spirit. If you want to join us, you must take from him what he has abused.”

Craig stepped to the edge of the circle, leaving the two brother’s alone in the center of the platform. Jason stood still for a moment, and then walked around behind Paul, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I…I can’t…”

“Ja….son…” Paul managed to force from his slack mouth, but it dissolved into a moan, as his brother’s thick fingers slid into his sweaty hole, loosening him, and then he felt Jason’s cock push into him. It was hot, it was so hot, and he wanted to crawl away, but the metal held him tightly in place, as Jason fucked him. Craig began a chant; the men around them were soon following him, and floor began to glow a brighter red. Jason was panting, but he was close. The chant grew louder, and he groaned loudly, cumming into his brother’s hole, and Paul felt a searing force push it’s way into him from his brother, twisting him, destroying him. He fought it, he but it was so strong–it ripped his defenses to shreds. His body was gurgling, and his muscles began to fade as fat filled up the place they left behind, his barrel chest dissolving into a heavy gut and two pendulous moobs, and his knee. His right knee, it hurt–a desperate, searing pain. Is this what Jason had felt? Is this what he’d suffered with for so long?

The force ebbed, the tatters of himself settling within him, and Jason withdrew, standing up. Craig approached, “Welcome! Welcome, my newest Man!” he said. Paul couldn’t turn his head with the metal clamped around his neck, but Craig led him around his fat body, and he could see his brother–he was huge. At least seven feet tall, and packed solid with muscle, far more muscle than he could have simply stolen from Paul. He was sobbing. He was sobbing, and he fell to his knees before Craig, “Master…Master, thank you. It doesn’t hurt. The pain–”

“I know,” Craig said, caressing his bearded face, “I know, and you are a Man now. Your sacrifice was great–you should be proud.”

“I promise…I promise to serve you, to obey, anything, anything for you Master, anything, I swear, for what you’ve given me…” Jason tried to continue, but he dissolved into wrenching tears, and Paul could only watch. Craig stepped away, the men of the neighborhood came forward and helped Jason stand, bringing him back out of the circle. But what about him? What about his sacrifice? Paul was broken too–why should he be forced to carry Jason’s burdens as well as his own? How was that fair?

Craig walked back to him, and kneeled in front of Paul. His face was kind, and that only made Paul angrier. “You provided your brother with a great thing, you know. You should be proud.”

Anger. Anger greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life, greater than anything he’d felt in war welled in him, pushing Craig’s musk from him. He screamed and cursed at him, his body tensing, but the metal refused to give an inch. In that moment, he felt like all of the layers of himself were being stripped away, and he was simply an animal. Craig didn’t flinch, he waited until he stopped, heaving for breath, before standing up and turning to the men behind him. “All men are broken. All men are flawed, are deficient. They are prone to vice and sin. This man, is more than broken however. He was welcomed the Beast into his heart. It is not his fault–he has been trained to shurg off empathy and fellowship, to replace them with hatred and rage. This, my Men, is no man at all, but a beast in the guise of a man. But I am the Master, and I can free him of his self-imposed illusion. Bear witness to my miracles.”

“We are the men who witness,” the men reply.

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.