October 19, 2014

It was just one of those chat services—one of those fads that was a flash in the pan a few years ago—but Derek had always found them a bit fascinating. Sure, most of the time it was just dudes jacking off, but if you just kept at it, sometimes you stumbled on someone interesting. He’d made a number of good friends this way, all over the world—it was a good way of getting out of this small college town he lived in. Aside from the college, it was just a blue collar place full of grubby workers employed at the various factories outside of town, and he couldn’t wait to graduate and get the hell out for good.

It had been a mistake to stay here for the summer, because once the college cleared out, he was all alone, and so his internet contacts had proved more important than usual. But he’d found an apartment he’d liked, and without a subletter, his choice was to either find something in the fall when class started, or stick it out. At least his job bar-backing at a local pup paid the bills, but it was his night off and with nothing to do, he was jumping through various cock jackers online, until the “Next” button suddenly stopped functioning.

He was trapped looking at some nasty fucker, shaved head, wearing some grubby coveralls, groping his cock and smoking a cigar, nose billowing out smoke. Without seeing him type anything on the keyboard behind him, a cryptic message appeared in the chat box, followed by two more.

» Do’t fthen hems fr y

» Y’reon kn it,prmis

» Ben pigste bs

And then, the screen went blank, and the feed moved onto the next cock, but Derek was so weirded out he closed the window and just tried his best to forget about what he’d seen, and go to bed. Out his bedroom window, however, he thought he saw someone across the street, just outside the street lamp light, but when he got a better look, all he saw was a dissipating haze of smoke.


For the next few days, Derek was certain he was being followed. He hadn’t gone on the chat site since, but every time he walked to and from work, especially coming home in the early hours of the night, he would walk as fast as he could, sometimes breaking into a jog, just to avoid his imagination.

The bar he worked at disregarded the state’s no smoking policy—and so it was a common hang out for various roughnecks, many of whom smoked cigars there. They had all largely ignored him, but now he kept noticing them staring at him, often unabashedly. Some even looked at him…like they wanted to fuck him. He’d had a suspicion that the bar catered to the small gay population of the town, but that was the first time he’d felt uncomfortable. Even the bartender—a smoker himself—was treating him different, but when Derek confronted him, he gave a series of excuses and hurried off to do something else.

Before long, he was certain that someone was tailing him everywhere he went. In the bar, he would see glimpses of a man in the shadows, smoking a cigar, face invisible through the haze, but by the time Derek had noticed, the space was suddenly empty. The man appeared in alleys as he walked home, follow him down the streets during the day. He called the police, but not only did they refuse to do anything about it, as soon as he’d told them what was happening, they simply ignored him when he called about the man. He became paranoid, quit his job, and locked himself in his apartment, and his attention turned to conspiracy.

In the chatlog of the site, he’d managed to retrieve the three strange messages the figure had sent him at the beginning of all of this insanity, and he began running them through every translation filter he could find. He asked paranormal experts, he posted on forums big and small, but no one could help him, get any traction of what was happening to him. And then, after a week of isolation, he smelled the smoke coming from his bedroom closet.

The man stepped out before Derek could bar him inside. He said nothing, grabbed Derek by the face and exhaled a huge amount of smoke directly into his lungs. Derek stumbled back, but his body suddenly was numb, and wouldn’t work properly. Paralyzed, he tumbled to the ground on his back, frozen, struggling for breath.

The man came over, holding his cigar in one hand, and he slipped it between Derek’s lips. Suddenly, he could breathe again, but it was the smoke he needed, not air. He needed the smoke in him, craved it, lived on it. His body was still frozen, but the man got down on his knees by his head, and they shared a long series of smoky kisses, passing it back and forth between them for hours, Derek’s terror slowly replaced by lust, and then even hints of love.

The man stayed with him for several weeks, and neither of them left the apartment. They had work to do, work to do with smoke, work to do on Derek. Pig work. Learning how to suck cock and take dick up his ass. Learning how good piss tasted. Learning to be a slob, ruining his body, giving him a heavy gut and aging him into his fifties, where he should be, who he wanted to be. There was a hole in Derek’s life when the man left, almost like he’d never even been there. The college’s new semester started up, but Derek was now a machinist at a factory outside of town, hanging out at the bar, sucking dick in the dim corners of the back rooms, occasionally certain he’d seen his master, the man he loved, the man the whole town loved, in the darkness, but all he ever found was wisps of sweet smoke he’d drink in hungrily.

He still loved his chat sites, but now he was just another masturbating pervert. He loved seeing people disgusted at him, at his body, at his thick, ugly cigars. He loved chatting with other filthy fuckers, bringing them to orgasm, talking about their favorite hook ups. He built a whole new circle of friends, sex addicts like him, until one day his computer froze, and a man appeared on the screen like a dim, fuzzy memory. He started typing:

» Don’t fight, when he comes for you

» You’re gonna fuckin love it, promise

» Being a pigs the best

October 15, 2014
Commission: Twenty Years Delayed

CAUTION: This is a nasty one.

“His name is Blake Kingston, bitch! He has to be here, you’re just not looking hard enough, ya dumb cunt!” Freddie said, leaning across the folding table and glaring at the middle aged woman seated in front of a pile of name tags. Above the table at the entrance of the high school gym was a banner that read “Treston High School Class of 1994 Reunion.” He leaned closer; she squirmed away from him as gracefully as she could, but couldn’t avoid the cloud of breath which seemed to be some horrid combination of toilet and ashtray.

“Sir, please don’t yell at me, I still have his nametag here. If he’s arrived already, he hasn’t picked it up. Now…if I can get your name, I can get your registration taken care of…and…and you can’t smoke in here.”

Freddie clenched his teeth down harder on his cigar. “You gonna take it from me?”

She made no further mention of it. He gave her his name when she asked again, and she startled, looked up at him. Freddie Williams? Sweet little shy chubby Freddie? She’d seen him at the last reunion, and he’d been so…normal. Still, she could recognize his eyes, through the plume of smoke, and wondered what in the hell had happened to turn him into…this thing. This leather clad, foul smelling, crude, hairy beast of a biker. Happy that she could feel pity instead of anger, she handed him his name tag with a smile, and waved him into the gym. Suspicious, Freddie took it and clipped it to his ratty leather vest, and lumbered into the gym he barely recognized. The school had been through a remodel in the last few years, and he felt almost no connection to the place anymore. He was only here to see Blake anyway—he’d promised he’d be here. Still, maybe Freddie had just arrived first. He hung around by the door, checking out everyone who came in. But the attendees stopped arriving at around seven, and angry that he’d been stood up, he scarfed down as much as he could from the buffet before someone told him to stop, and then started cruising his middle aged classmates.

Many of them, now almost in their forties, had started to fill out. More than a few had grown in beards. Unfortunately, most had wives and girlfriends in tow. Still, that didn’t mean much, right? Hell, he’d thought he was straight too, before he’d met Blake—both times, in fact. He’d taught him how to please a cock back in high school, and shown him again at the last reunion ten years later. He set his eyes on a few men who didn’t seem entirely disgusted by him. By this point, Freddie was good and drunk—the two drink limit didn’t apply when you had a flask of cheap whisky in your vest. He struck up conversations with a few guys, and eventually followed one of them to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, what drunken Freddie had taken to be sexual arousal was simply an attempt at being polite. In fact, the man had excused himself to the bathroom in an attempt to avoid further conversation. When Freddie clomped into the bathroom, came up to the man at the urinal and grabbed his cock from behind, he was less than pleased.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Come on man, I know yer fuckin’ horny. I got stood up tonight, at least give me a load a cum for the ride home, I’m fuckin’ thirsty.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Freddie leaned in closer, “I’ll be as disgusting as ya want. Drink yer piss, hell I even eat shit. Go on, take a shit, I’ll eat it out a the bowl while ya fuck my nasty asshole.”

“You’re fucking insane!” the man said, tried to get away, but Freddie pinned him up against the outside wall of the stall with his massively fat, four hundred pound body.

“Fuck you man, fuck you ‘n your fuckin’ attitude. I came in here for some fuckin’ cum, ‘n I’m not leavin’ without you fuckin’ one of my holes. So pick one, and feed this pig.”

The man tried to hit Freddie, but his fist just sank into Freddie’s fat body. When Freddie countered with a slap of his leather gloved hand, the man stood there, shocked, giving Freddie the opportunity to drop the man’s slacks, get down on his knees, and start sucking on his soft cock. Much to the man’s embarrassment, it didn’t stay soft for long, and he let off a moan. As disgusting as Freddie was, he knew what to do with his mouth. Figuring it would be better to just let the brute have his way, the man tried to cum as quickly as possible, shot a load down Freddie’s throat, and then zipped up and fled as quick as he could. Freddie savored the taste for a moment, gave a great big belch, and headed back to the gym. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a complete waste after all.

He scanned the crowd—still no sign of Blake. Where the fuck was he? Freddie heaved a sigh, and noticed someone across the floor staring at him, someone he hadn’t noticed earlier. He was too old to be a member of his class—short, with a round gut, bushy white beard and wire rimmed glasses, he had to be at least sixty, if not seventy. And something about him seemed…oddly familiar. Still, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be interested in a guy like him, so he steered clear, but as he hunted for another cock to suck, he realized the older man was never too far away, and being more than a little creepy. Still, what could a fat old man do to a pig like him? Freddie managed to scare another ex-jock classmate into a trip to the bathroom, and licking his lips, followed after a minute later. The older man waited a couple more, and then set off down the hall after them both.

Freddie was in the middle of trying to rip open the man’s pants when the older man stepped into the room, and said, “Nasty Slut Pig, trance out.”

Immediately, Freddie’s eyes glazed over, his limbs limp. The man stepped away, not at all sure what was happening, and ran out of the room as fast as he could.

The older man stepped up to Freddie and spoke to him for a couple of minutes. When Freddie shook himself awake, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he found himself compelled to leave the reunion with the older gentleman, and follow him on his hog back to the man’s house. None of this worried him in the least—and that worried him most of all.


“I know you don’t remember who I am,” the older man said as he handed Freddie a glass of bourbon, “Maybe in time, I can help you put some of those memories back together, but that will have to wait until I have you under better control. I’m happy the trigger worked for me as well as it works for Blake—hypnosis can be so…fickle at times.”

Freddie just stared at the bourbon, and knocked it back in a few chugs. He needed a drink badly. Why in the hell was he even here, and what did Blake have to do with this old man? “I don’t understand. Why am I here?”

“Because this is where you should have been, twenty years ago. You never showed up, and I never pursued you, because I was just happy you never reported me! Imagine my surprise when the issue was that you’d simply had that nasty concussion. Now, why don’t you go ahead and strip for me? I’ve only seen pictures, but Blake has been working so hard on you all these years now—I’d love to see the changes for myself.”

Before Freddie could process the request, his hands were already pulling off his clothes. Trying to catch up to himself, he found that he couldn’t quite control his body. A moment later, he was naked, his clothes strewn about, and the older man came up and started inspecting him. “Goodness, you are a fat pig, aren’t you? How much do you weigh now?”

“Uh…435, last I checked.”

“And your tattoos—absolutely filthy, I love them. Blake chose them well.”

Freddie stepped away from the man, “Alright, who the fuck are you, and how do you know Blake? This shit is gettin’ creepy.”

“Oh Freddie, the three of us have quite a bit of history together—it’s a shame you can’t remember the first part. I was your psychology teacher, Mr. Weylan. You and Blake were…well, you were an experiment—and a very successful one at that.”

The name rang a bell, but it wasn’t tied to any memories—his head started hurting, like it always did when he tried to think of the time before he got that concussion in that car accident just before graduation. He’d been lucky that all he’d suffered was some amnesia. But none of this made any sense at all. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“That’s quite alright—you’re just a dumb pig anyway, no reason for you to trouble yourself. But Blake, well, Blake has been a very naughty slave, trying to keep you a secret from me, and he really must be punished for it. Luckily you’re here now, and you can help me out. Why don’t you come downstairs and into the dungeon with me, and we can see how Blake is coming along.”

Fighting himself the whole way, Blake calmly followed Mr. Weylan down into the basement, where he saw Blake strapped into a chair against the wall, some strange helmet covering his face, pads on his nipples and his cock. Cum was splattered all over the floor in front of him. He was even larger than Freddie remembered—at the ten year reunion a decade earlier, Blake had strutted into the gym, muscle bound, wearing nothing but leather, reeking of sweat and cum. He remembered talking to Blake a lot, but couldn’t much of the conversation. In fact, he’d done a lot of listening, now that he thought about it.

Mr. Weylan walked up to a computer next to the chair, and examined it. “It looks like somewhere between ninety and ninety-five percent trained—certainly enough for a test drive, eh Freddie?”

Before Freddie could ask for an explanation, Mr. Weylan had shut down the program and pulled the helmet from Blake’s head. His friend looked around, trying to process the thoughts streaming through his mind, nostrils flaring, and he dove from the chair to his hands and knees, licking up all of his cum from the cement floor.

“Oh yes, very good Blake, but don’t you see who’s here? It’s Freddie—why don’t you show him some of what you’ve been learning.”

The eyes that turned to Freddie were nearly feral with lust. Blake sprung up and charged at him, sending them both crashing to the ground, Blake burying his tongue and nose in every nasty flap and fold of the pig’s fat body. Freddie tried to push him off and get away, but Blake was on top and much stronger. Seeing him struggle, Mr. Weylan called out, “Nasty Slut Pig, freeze,” and all of Freddie’s muscles tensed in place, allowing Blake to focus on licking his friend’s filthy body clean.

“Goodness, he is an eager little filth slave, eh Freddie?” Mr Weylan said, standing over them both, “I know Blake intended for you to be his bottom. Can you imagine, the two of you running off together? I think this will be much more interesting. Still, I bet Blake is hungry and very thirsty—he’s been down here for almost two days straight! Go on, and piss yourself Freddie.”

The strong scent of his piss streaming from his cock, flowing out from his gunt, attracted Blake down to his crotch, where he lapped up as much as he could.

“Good, now go ahead and shit too—pump out all that nasty crap for Blake to eat, pig.”

Freddie felt his ass loosen beyond his control, his shit flowing out onto the ground beneath him, smearing across his ass. Blake forcefully rolled him over and dove headlong into his brown crack, eating as much as he could, Freddie still frozen in place. He could see Mr. Weylan looming over him, his cock out, jacking off.

“Oh yes, this is going to be a lot of fun, I think. I have so many techniques now! Blake has done a fine job with what he had access to, those subliminals and those skype chats of yours. But now we can continue what we started all those years ago! Why, before long, you’re going to be the nastiest fucker ever—pissing and shitting yourself uncontrollably, dominating Blake here, forcing him to fatten up like you. Maybe we’ll even castrate him together—how does that sound? Make him a real hog. It’s what he fucking deserves, for what he tried to do, the fucker—fuck!”

Mr. Weyland’s cock shot out a load of cum which landed across the back of Freddie’s shaven head. He was terrified, but without any control over himself, all he could do was shake with fear.

“Goodness, I got a bit carried away there, I think. Blake, hold off for a moment, let Freddie here stand up.”

Blake reluctantly crawled off Freddie, and he stood up. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Go sit in the chair, Freddie. I’ve got to get your program loaded up.”

Freddie went and sat down in the chair where Blake had been—the seat had an open bottom, and he could smell Blake’s piss and shit in the bucket under the hole. He was terrified, and yet more turned on than he could even fathom. Mr. Weylan worked at the computer for a moment, Blake dragging out the bucket and scarfing down the contents while their old teacher came over and tightened the straps on Freddie’s limbs.

“Don’t worry, when you wake up in a few days, everything will make much more sense, I promise.” He set the helmet over Freddie’s head, and said something he couldn’t quite make out. Then, the visor exploded in a shock of color, Freddie’s mouth went slack, and his training, twenty years delayed, resumed.

October 12, 2014
Commission: Hey, Daddy

Commissioned by @hughmichelsen

Jerry’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw it was Simon, and sighed. On a Tuesday? Seriously? They both had work in the morning, and he wasn’t really in the mood for a hook up. And Simon…well, he was into some crazy stuff. He always wanted Jerry wearing his leather gear, but he’d never had much interest in the whole BDSM scene. The few pieces he had were from a halloween party a few years earlier, and he’d worn them only when Simon begged. Pain and humiliation always ended up turning his stomach more than turning him on, but they got Simon off big time. It was fun on occasion, he supposed, but he couldn’t handle it tonight. He let it go to voicemail, and went back to watching TV. Simon didn’t leave a message, but a moment later, he heard the chime of a text message. Curious, he opened it up.

»Hey Daddy, call me I know yr horny

Jerry felt his cock start to get hard, but seriously? Daddy? He was twenty-three—a year younger than Simon—and far closer to a twink than a daddy. But damn, if he wasn’t horny all of a sudden. He reached down his sweats and started stroking his cock, reading the message again and again, unable to help himself. After a moment, another message arrived.

»I know you’re reading these Daddy
»Tell me about that hot cock of yours I want it in me so bad

His thumbs were frozen over the phone keyboard. He wasn’t actually thinking about replying…was he? He was hard though. Fuck, why the hell not? He slipped his cock out of his sweats—he must be horny because it seemed bigger than usual—snapped a pic and sent it Simon’s way, and added a text.

»Hell yeah daddy’s hot

After he sent it, he blushed, realizing he’d actually called himself “Daddy.” Why was he even encouraging him in the first place?

»I love that big dick of yrs
»You should put it here

A pic arrived—Simon’s puckered asshole. Jerry’s earlier hesitation was forgotten—he was horny, and he could use a fuck, even if it was Simon. He redialed Simon, and after a couple of rings his friend picked up.

“Hey, Daddy,” he answered.

“Fuck…why are you calling me that?” Jerry asked, his heart pounding in his ears, “Look, whatever. You wanna come over?”

“I don’t know, daddy. What are you doing right now?”

“Don’t tease me, boy.” Jerry winced. Boy? Simon wasn’t a boy. What was he even saying?

“Heh, I can imagine you right now, lounging on the couch, smoking one of those thick big cigars of yours, drinking that whiskey you love. I can almost smell it on you over the phone.”

Now this was getting weird. Jerry wasn’t really into role play, and so he paused before he replied, taking a drag off his cigar. He was kind of drunk though—how much had he had? The fifth he’d bought earlier was about half empty—when the fuck had he drank all that? “Heh, you know what daddy likes, I’ll give you that, boy.”

“I bet you’re wearing that leather gear of yours too. Not that you wear anything that isn’t leather, right daddy?”

“Hell yeah boy, got my harness on, vest and chaps, and those big boots you like.” The words were rolling off his tongue, bypassing his head entirely, but what it the hell was he saying? He was telling the truth though, he had his boots up on the coffee table, one gloved hand wrapped around the shaft of his big cock, thinking about the boy’s ass. “Now, you comin’ over or not?”

“I bet those boots could use a shine. You want me to shine them for you, with my tongue, daddy?”

“Aww, fuck boy—you can suck on these until your tongue’s black as long as I can fuck that hole of yours.”

“I bet that harness looks good on you, cinched tight against those thick muscle of yours. I’ve never seen a daddy as built as you, especially one in his fifties. Makes you look so hot, that grey hair cropped short, your thick beard, and of course the hair all over your body. It shows off those tattoos of yours too, daddy.”

What was he talking about? Jerry was the same age as him—certainly not in his fifties. And yet, when he looked down at himself, everything Simon had described as plain as day. He ran a rough hand up his ridged abs to his slab pecs, tweaking one of his thick nipples. Inside his head, he was screaming. This was wrong, all of this was wrong. He didn’t know what was happening, but all he could do was give a low growl over the phone, “I’m tired of talkin’ boy, get your ass over here.”

Behind him, there was a knock on the door.

“I’m already here daddy, come and let me in.”

Jerry set down his phone, wondering what kind of game Simon was playing here. He took his booted feet off the table and stood up, but lost his balance, nearly falling over as tottered to one side. He couldn’t have drunk that much, could he? The world was spinning, but something else was wrong too—this body didn’t feel like his, it didn’t feel right at all. Nauseous and worried that he might throw up, he stumbled into the bathroom, but paused when he saw himself in the mirror, Muir cap on his head, his face coated with grey beard, his muscular chest heaving. If felt like two minds were trying to fit into his head at the same time. One of them, Daddy, was wondering what the hell they were doing in here, when there was some hot boypussy right outside for him to fuck, but the other, the real him (was it the real him? What was even real right now?) was trying to figure out what had happened. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t what he was supposed to look like, and yet, he looked exactly like Simon had described.

Simon. There was another, more insistent knock on the door. Simon had done something to him, but what? This was crazy, people couldn’t just…change like this! But what else could it be? That freak. He was gonna get it. Yeah, he was gonna pummel that boy good, and then plow that hole deep with his cock, fuck yeah. That’s what you get for messing with Daddy.

Growling, he stalked to the front door and flung it open. Simon stood there on the porch, shivering in the cold evening air, dressed in tight leather pants and a harness. “Fuck, what took you so long!” Simon said, “ I was waiting forever.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jerry said, grabbed Simon by the neck (fuck, did one of his hands actually reach around this boy’s whole neck?) and hauled him inside, before shoving him up against the wall, blowing a cloud of thick smoke into his face. “What the fuck did you do to me, boy?”

“Simon just stared at him, agape, “Holy fuck, it worked…it worked even better than I thought it would.”

“What worked, fucker?”

Simon smiled, “Oh come on Daddy, you don’t really wanna talk, do you? Let’s just fuck and have some fun.” He reached down and grabbed hold of Jerry’s cock. He glared at Simon, but when he plucked the cigar from his mouth and started kissing him, Jerry didn’t stop him. The boy’s mouth felt so soft and tasted sweet—he couldn’t wait to see how it felt around his cock. But this didn’t answer anything, Simon was just trying to distract him.

He pushed away from the boy and the wall, trying to get a hold of his thoughts. “No…no, first you tell me what you did. Tell me how to fix this.”

“Oh Jerry, you’re such a bore, did you know that?” Simon asked, and walked up to him, “A boring vanilla twink like all the rest, but this is such an improvement.”

“You did do something to me!”

“I wanted a daddy, and I just happened to have a hair of yours at my place for the spell. No hard feelings, Jerry, but I have a feeling you won’t mind much soon enough. In fact, once you cum in this hole of mine, the old you will be gone forever, and you’ll be my hot, rough, abusive daddy for the rest of your life.”

Jerry just stared at him, “No—no fucking way. This is insane.”

“Don’t mess with a witch, Jerry,” Simon said, turned around and bent over, “Now get over here and plow me, I need your seed.”

“You can’t just fuckin’ erase me! I have a job! People will notice I’m gone.”

“Oh the spell is much too complex to be tricked by that,” Simon said, “Once you shoot, reality will warp around you—no one will think anything’s amiss at all. Now, get over here, I’m done talking—it’s time to fuck.”

Jerry backed away, and Simon followed him across the room, laughing as he tried to get away. Finally, Jerry stumbled against the coffee table and tumbled onto the couch, and Simon leapt onto him, pinning him there, grabbing each of Jerry’s thick nipples and giving them a twist, grinding his ass against Jerry’s rigid shaft.

“You know what your problem is Daddy? You think too much. Good thing you’re just a dumb brute. Yeah, a violent, rough brute—you don’t need to think when you can solve your problems with those fists of yours.”

“No…no, fuckin’ shut up, boy!” Jerry shouted, but he could already feel the edges of his mind dulling, and in their place came a deep well of anger he’d never felt before.

“Yeah, just a stupid, muscle bound, aggressive daddy. That’s all you are now!”

“I said shut the fuck up!” Jerry screamed, grabbed Simon around the waist, sat up and threw him over his lap. He ripped open the back of Simon’s leather pants and started slamming his palm against his ass cheeks, “Don’t call me stupid! I ain’t smart, but I can still throw ya round the room if I gotta, boy! Now fuckin’ count ‘em out, bitch.”

Simon enjoyed the paddling a whole lot more than Jerry would have liked, but he’d have plenty of time to teach him some real discipline later. He finished up after twenty smacks, and he couldn’t resist anymore. He slid one thick finger into Simon’s ass, and then another one. “Oh Daddy, go on, taste that boy hole, I know you love the taste of boy butt.”

Simon crawled forward on the couch, and Jerry got down behind him, running his beard against the boy’s soft crack, probing deep with his tongue, getting the hole good and slick. When it was loose, he got up, lined the head of his cock up with the hole, and drove it in deep with one thrust. Simon groaned loudly, but Jerry’s simple mind could only focus on one thing—fucking. “Yeah, you’re gonna get it boy, this what you get for messin’ with Daddy!”

“Fuck yeah Daddy, pump me full of your seed!”

Through the fog of his mind, Jerry realized too late that Simon had tricked him into giving him exactly what he wanted. He tried to stop, but his body refused to obey him, no matter how hard he fought. His load was building and he exploded deep in Simon’s ass, and as he shot, he felt the final shreds of his old mind rip apart and scatter like ash on the wind…but that wasn’t the only thing coming apart. Looking around him, the world was bending and warping, even Simon beneath him. The spell was warping everything, and he pulled his cock free and stumbled through the mess of reality until everything finally came to rest.

Looking around, his apartment was gone. He didn’t live in an apartment anymore—he lived in a house—and he was in his basement. No, his dungeon. Yeah, his dungeon, where he trained his boys and pigs…yeah, that’s right. What had he been thinking about? He was certain there was something else he should be remembering, but he couldn’t think of what, and the sensation faded away quickly. He licked his bearded lips—a cigar, where was his cigar? He lit himself a new one from a humidor against the wall, and sighed a thick cloud of smoke.

“Oh…oh no, what the…what the fuck happened? This isn’t right…”

Jerry looked over his shoulder and saw his pig Simon standing in front of the full length mirrors that lined one side of the dungeon. He’d picked him up a few years ago—Simon had wanted to be one of his boys, but the fucker had a huge attitude problem. Jerry had decided to make him a pig instead—a hot, nasty muscle pig, and the work was showing nicely. At five foot seven, the two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and fat made him look like a thug—and the tattoos and piercings that covered his entire body helped too. The one thing he had liked about the pig was his masochism—he’d never met someone who liked pain as much as Simon. It showed on his body, which was covered with scars from heavy floggings, his nose bulbous from multiple breakings, his eyes puffy and black. His cock was locked up tight, in a cage lined with spikes. The ultimate torture for the pig—he loved pain so much, once he started getting hard he couldn’t stop himself—he’d broken the skin plenty of times, and Jerry had to take the cage off regularly to make sure he didn’t get an infection. But now, the pig was looking at himself in horror.

“Pig, what the fuck are ya doin’ standin’ up? You forget yer fuckin’ place?” He picked up a billy club as he passed a table and smacked it across Simon’s shoulder blades hard enough to knock him to his knees.

Simon looked up at him, terrified. “Jerry! Jerry, it;s me! Something went wrong, the spell was too strong!”

The club slammed into his mouth this time, hard enough to knock a tooth loose, but the pig ought to know better than to use any name other than master. He loos good with a few teeth missing anyway—Jerry planned on getting them all replaced with gold caps before selling the pig off to a new home. Still, they’d just had a pretty long session—maybe the pig just needed a rest. Of course, he couldn’t let this dumbshit go unpunished—he grabbed the pig by the chain collar and dragged him, gagging, across the dungeon floor to the isolation cell. “I think someone needs a few days in isolation, for all this crap.”

Simon protested, but Jerry tossed him inside and locked him in. Perfect darkness and perfect silence—give him a few days of that and he’ll remember his place. Daddy Jerry admired himself in the mirror for a moment—and went upstairs. As much fun as this Pig was, he was starting to get bored—almost time to sell him off. He had a few guys looking to be trained by Daddy—maybe he’d invite a few of them over and see what they had in them. With a chuckle, he turned off the dungeon lights—he couldn’t hear Simon screaming in the darkness, and wouldn’t have cared if he could have.

October 8, 2014
Commission: Making a Happy Pig

Commissioned by Anonymous


“Pipe or Cigar?”

Axel had one in each hand. Both of them were far larger than Rusty had been expecting for his first time. The cigar was at least a 60 gauge, and the pipe bowl looked large enough to hold a baby’s fist with wiggle room. “Those…those are both really big.”

“Smallest I got. Even if I had smaller, you wouldn’t be using them. Now choose, or I choose for you.”

Rusty looked from one to the other, and after a moment, took the pipe from Axel’s hand.

“Good boy, now let me show you how to get it lit. They’re a bit complicated, but it’ll feel perfectly natural for you soon enough.” Axel sat Rusty down on the couch, and they spent a few minutes talking about how to light a pipe. After a few false starts, Rusty finally managed to get it lit, though it almost went out after his first fit of coughing.

“Shit’s strong.”

“You’ll get used to it. Take less in, and don’t breathe too deep. I’ll be back.”

Axel went into the kitchen, and emerged after a few minutes with a case of cheap beer under one arm, which he set down on the table. He ripped open the cardboard and took a can out, popped the tab, and handed it to Rusty.

“Chug it.”

Rusty looked at the can. “Seriously?”

“Chug it, or leave. You asked for this, don’t forget.”

Rusty held the pipe in one hand, and chugged the beer slowly, Axel urging him on, getting a bit hard as he watched some run from the corner’s of Rusty’s lips down his chin and neck. Rusty wanted to be a pig, but he was only really husky at the moment. Axel, his friend, had offered to help him go all the way. Now, however, Rusty was starting to have second thoughts. After chugging five more beers, however, all he was really feeling was a heavy buzz. Once Axel stripped off his shirt, letting Rusty run his hands over his friend’s big, furry gut, he felt less nervous and more horny. The smoke had him giddy as well—he finished the first bowl and then packed a second on his own with Axel watching, puffing on a massive cigar. Naked together on the couch, they swapped smoke and finished the entire case of beer, before Axel helped Rusty stumble into the bedroom. He was too drunk to remember much of what happened. Axel made him keep smoking, as he fucked him doggy style on the bed, and then, when he’d finished, he sat Rusty up and started rubbing his cock. He was so drunk, it took Axel a while to get Rusty off, but he didn’t mind, he spent several minutes telling him how hot he looked with that pipe in his mouth, reeking of beer. Rusty finally let out a loud moan and shot his load, but as he did, he was struck by an odd sensation, like his head was caught in a vice for a moment, his vision squashed and then expansive, but then everything came clear again. He was too drunk, is all—he needed to sleep it off. Axel took the pipe from his slack mouth and tapped the ash out into the ashtray on the side table, and then helped Rusty under the covers for the night.


Rusty had never felt so hungover in his entire life. Still unsure of where he was, he rolled over, away from the morning light (or afternoon? He wasn’t sure at all) in the window towards the night stand. There was a beer can there—thankfully is was half full. Even warm and flat, it felt good when it hit his gut. Eyes shut, he rolled up on the edge of the bed, and got his pipe going by feel. It felt so familiar to him, which was strange. After all, he’d only learned how to smoke one the night before, but it ended up perfectly tamped with a flame and draw far more even than he’d managed the night before—at least he was starting to feel human again. He gave his gut a rub, feeling his cock jump at the sensation, and realized there was much more mass there than there should be.

He looked down, and saw that a bulbous beer gut had sprouted out from his midsection. It was tight and full, and the rest of him seemed to have filled out somewhat, but this wasn’t right. What in the hell had Axel done to him? He got up unsteadily. He might be sober but he felt drunk still. There was another can on the dresser with some beer in it; he guzzled that down too and let off a deep belch, before wandering down the hall towards the sounds of a busy kitchen.

Judging by the spread, it was brunch time. On the table were heaping mounds of eggs, pancakes, thick slabs of ham, a pile of bacon, but also fried chicken and steak, massive biscuits, and a thick white gravy for everything. There was only one chair, with a bucket beside it filled with ice and cans of beer.

“About time you got up,” Axel said from the stove. He was cooking naked, and Rusty just stared at his fat friend for a moment, admiring him. “Get eating—we don’t have all day to fill you up.”

“Wait though.” Rusty said, “Something…something’s different. Different than yesterday. I…my gut is bigger, and…I know how to smoke a pipe now.”

“I showed you how to smoke yesterday.”

“I know—that’s my point. I shouldn’t…know how to do it, from one day, right?”

Axel didn’t answer. He walked over to Rusty, grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the table, sat him down, popped open a beer and handed it to him. “Drink it.”

Rusty didn’t feel very comfortable drinking before noon, but found himself guzzling it back anyway. Axel opened a second, and then a third—he drank those down too. He was feeling better now, actually. He’d just needed his morning beers is all.

“Now, tuck in like a good pig,” Axel said, and started piling food on Rusty’s plate. He was famished—had they even eaten anything yesterday? It was all a blur of smoke and beer and fucking. He cleaned the first plate and filled up a second without needing to be told. Axel finished cooking the last of the meal, brought over a few sweet desserts, and then started toying with Rusty as he ate, telling him how good it feels to stuff himself, how much he liked being a fat pig, plying him with more and more beer. Whenever Rusty tried to stop, saying he was too full, Axel would encourage him to smoke and play with his gut and tits and trade smoke with him. After a few minutes later, Rusty would have find room for more. Rusty’s head was reeling. He was too drunk, he’d had too much to smoke. He couldn’t keep a handle on what was happening. Axel brought forward the cake he’d made, threw the silverware in the sink; Rusty dug in with his hands while Axel reached under his taut gut and started jacking his cock, urging him onward. Halfway through, he gave a spasm—shooting his load across the seat and onto the floor under the table. The world crunched together and apart again, but when his vision cleared, he was hungry again. With a final burst, he devoured the rest of the cake and only then sat back in the chair, smoking his pipe, drinking a victory beer, Axel rubbing and kneading his huge gut and man boobs which he had suddenly grown.

Rusty stared down at himself for several minutes, trying to piece what he was seeing together with his drunk mind, while Axel got a towel and wiped food off his huge body. He couldn’t be that big. It was impossible. He was too drunk, he was hallucinating, he was imagining it. But as he explored the soft flab with his own hands, he became increasingly convinced. It was real. It hadn’t been there when he’d sat down, but it was there now. Axel was telling him how hot he looked, how sexy his huge body was, but Rusty was disgusted with himself. He’d wanted to be bigger. He’d told Axel he’d wanted to be bigger, but this was too much, this was out of control. He stumbled up and pushed Axel away.

“No…no, I don’t know what’s going on, but this is fucked up, what are you doin’ to me?” he was slurring his words. His car was outside, but he couldn’t drive like this. Still, he had to get out, he had to get away. He stumbled towards the hallway, but Axel blocked him, and pushed him up against the wall, gut to gut, holding him there.

“Calm down man, it’s all fine. It really is.”

“This? This isn’t fine, this is crazy.”

“I know it’s fast, but you love it, I know you do. Just fuckin’ relax man, you’re too uptight.”

Rusty was mumbling panicked nonsense. Axel started rubbing his huge body, and he let out a sigh, feeling his cock start hardening again. After a minute, he was grinding back against Axel, unable to stop himself.

“See? I know you want this. You’re just too smart for your own good. You need to think less. Let me worry about things—all you need to think about is getting bigger, getting drunker, and doing everything I tell you to do.”

Rusty tried to protest, but couldn’t make his words say what he was thinking. Axel had his hand around his cock, and was milking him again, whispering things to him, telling him he was a good pig, but he’d be so much happier if he was dumb. Dumb and obedient and carefree. Too close, he was cumming again, the world spinning around him, his head in a vice. When he finally stopped spasming, his head felt so much thicker. He let off a loud belch, and laughed at himself. He looked at Axel, a bit confused.

‘What…what was I doin’ again? I forgot.”

“You were gonna blow me, you fat pig.”

That didn’t seem quite right, but Rusty got down on his knees, feeling his huge gut resting on the tile floor, and took Axel’s cock to the hilt, sucking on him for a few minutes until he came, and he drank down all the cum like a good pig. Yeah, he was a good pig, a happy pig.

Axel helped him up and pulled him into the living room, and sat him down on the couch. The sensation of all of his flab spilling out around him was both somehow very new, but also so familiar, like he’d been this way forever, but had simply forgotten.

“Now, I have a few scenes from my favorite videos I’d like us to watch, pig,” Axel said, and put in the DVD. “I think they’re going to clear some things up for you.”

The first porno scene started, every scene revolved around this fat pig being used by a variety of bears. He was tattooed everywhere, and Axel told Rusty how hot he’d be if he was a slut like that chub. If he too had tattoos all over his body, even had them in places where he’d never be able to hide them in public—graphic, sexual, humiliating tattoos that would show everyone that he was a complete pig at a single glance. The next scene had another fat bear, but this one had a body completely covered with fur, with a beard that reached down to the top of his massive apron. He was decked out in leather gear, and several bears took turns plowing his ass and mouth while the pig laid back in a sling. The third clip had a filthy looking fat chub sitting in a bathtub, while a long series of men pissed and came on him, the man rubbing it into his hairy body, revelling in the men’s filth. More clips came, and Rusty couldn’t tear his eyes away. When Axel wasn’t narrating them, he was taking trips to the kitchen, bringing Rusty more beer and snacks, filling his pipe, feeding him smoke from his own cigars, and making certain that Rusty came at least once during every single clip that came on the TV.

Hours passed, and by the end of the video, which had looped several times, Rusty was so drunk that he couldn’t stand up, and he was too heavy for Axel to lift. He’d passed out during the final clip, and was snoring heavily. Axel examined his work, and satisfied with the progress, went to bed—certain that he’d be up before the pig on Sunday morning, when they could seal the deal together.


Rusty woke up slowly, his head pounding. Fuck, he needed a beer, and he needed one now. He fumbled around next to him, feeling a pile of cans there, but none had anything in them. A smoke then. His pipe he could reach, and he filled it as quick as he could, taking a deep breath of harsh smoke, feeling it push the headache back a bit. He sat there for a few minutes, trying to figure out where he was and what was going on, but his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. All he really wanted was food, a fuck, and a beer. Then he finally managed to open his eyes, look down at his hairy, stinking, tattooed body, and let out a scream.

Axel stuck his head in from the kitchen, and saw Rusty was trying to claw his way out of his own body. He grabbed a beer, pushed it into the pig’s hand, and he drank it all back in a single gulp without even thinking about it. With the edge of terror blunted, he heaved himself up, pushing Axel away when he tried to help, and stumbled into the bathroom, flipping on the light so he could get a better look at himself.

He was huge. He must be topping 400 pounds, and every inch of his body, from the neck down, was covered in ink, all of it having something to do with sex. His head was shaved, but he’d grown in a beard which, if it wasn’t a filthy tangled mass clustered around his three chins, probably could have reached his belly button—or it could have, if his belly button wasn’t somewhere around his groin. He was taking in so much smoke he was getting light headed. Axel came in and told him to calm down—his presence was reassuring, and Rusty managed to keep a hold of himself, but barely.

“What…what have you done to me?”

“This is what you wanted, and you know it.”

“I…I didn’t…I mean…”

Axel turned Rusty’s head to the side, and gave him a long, smoky kiss.

“This is what you wanted, try not to worry about whether or not you should want it, and just enjoy yourself.”

Axel reached around and started probing Rusty’s ass with a couple of fingers, listening to him moan. He leaned over the counter and spread his fat, inked legs wide, letting Axel slide his dick into him. It fit perfectly inside him, and Rusty’s cock started leaking immediately.

“You’re mine, you know,” Axel said as he fucked the pig.

“Y—Yeah…yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

“You like being my slave—it’s all a fat, nasty pig like you could have ever wanted.”

“Fuck—fuck yeah, fuck me…fuck me, sir.”

“That’s right pig, I’m your sir.”

“Yes sir, oh fuck, yes sir!”

He was cumming. He was cumming, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a wide leather collar had appeared around his neck, and his worries had all disappeared with it. He was Axel’s pig—his master would take care of him. He didn’t have to worry about a thing. His master shot a load up his ass, and made him lick up the cum he’d shot across the front of the counter. While he was down there, his master fed him the morning piss he’d saved up as well, and then they went into the kitchen for breakfast. As he stuffed his face, a realization dawned to Rusty—he was happy. Truly happy, perhaps for the first time in his life. Axel saw the happiness on his pig’s bearded face, and smiled too.


October 5, 2014
Commission: Cory Finds His Coach

Commissioned by: @goodboymusclejock 

Cory watched the scrawny guy over at the free weights, bench pressing the unweighted bar, face red and straining, and worried the guy might hurt himself, he went over. “Do you need a spotter?”

The guy on the bench just kept going. Cory repeated himself, and the guy finally noticed him standing there, and a bit surprised, he lost control of the bar. Cory grabbed it and helped rack it back up.

“You really should be more careful—you should start with the machines until you have more muscle control.”

“I’m—I’m fine,” the guy said, “Just leave me alone.”

Cory insisted on spotting him through his reps on the bench, and then left the guy to his own devices. If he wanted to hurt himself, then Cory couldn’t do anything to stop him. However, Cory noticed the guy was at the gym every day after that, as well. Cory liked to stay fit, and so he went five days a week, but that wasn’t a schedule someone new to the gym should be able to keep up with. Even stranger, the guy was usually there when Cory arrived, and still on the floor after he left. One night, a week later, he hung around long enough to follow the guy into the locker room. He was covered in sweat and obviously exhausted, but in a week, Cory could already see that the guy’s body was growing a bit larger.

His suspicions were confirmed, when he saw the guy pull a pill bottle out of his bag. He took a capsule out and swallowed it down, and Cory stocked over. “You know, if you’re going to take steroids—which you shouldn’t—at least be smart enough to get the shots. Those pills will wreck your liver.”

The guy stared up at him. He was several inches shorter than Cory, but he slipped the bottle back into his bag. “They’re not steroids—and, and even if they were, just mind your own business.”

“Those things can kill you.”

The guy didn’t answer, he just left the locker room without changing. Cory shook his head, and figured there was nothing he could do about it.

Cory didn’t have much time to think on the stranger however—he was busy planning a month long business trip across Asia at work. He left the next week, and when he flew back into town a month later, he was happy to see that the scrawny guy had obviously abandoned his foolish plan, since he wasn’t at the gym when he got there.

There was, however, someone else new that Cory didn’t recognize. He was hanging around the free weights, primarily, a brutish looking guy, heavily muscled, with a hairy chest and a thick beard coating his chin and neck, and lank, greasy hair that kept falling in his face as he lifted. He was quite the nuisance, actually—he never wiped down his equipment, and so everything was coated with a sheen of his sweat. Still, something kept bothering Cory about him…something about the guy’s clothes. They were so small on him! In fact, later that week, he heard a loud rip of fabric across the gym, and saw that the guy had split open his shorts doing deadlifts. Even with everyone staring at him, he finished his reps, and then stared stupidly down at the shredded fabric around his feet, and the yellowed jockstrap he had on containing what looked like a huge package.

Cory was close by when it happened, and he found himself unable to look away. Sure, he was gay, but this guy was disgusting…right? He’d never really been interested in brutes like that before. The guy retreated from the floor and left the gym without any apparent embarrassment, but when Cory saw the ripped shorts of the ground, he realized that he had seen them before—they were the same one’s the scrawny guy had been wearing a month earlier!

That couldn’t be possible. No one, even on steroids, could grow that fast, or like that. But he had to know. He got a chance to confront him a few days later in the locker room, and he went up to the man as he got his bag from his locker. “What…what the hell are you taking?”

The brute just smirked, “I jus’ wanna bulk up man, is all,” he said, “Mind yer own business.”

This close to the brute, Cory felt his breath catch in his throat. That stench—when was the last time this guy had showered? He smelled…he smelled…Cory shivered. His cock was rock hard in his pants. The brute took a step closer. “Thanks for spottin’ me that first day though,” he said, “I didn’ know what I was doin’.”

“It…it was nothing,” Cory squeaked out. The brute lifted his arms up over his head in a stretch and then rested one arm high on the lockers, staring at Cory as he did. The bush of air in his armpit was sopping wet, and reeked. Cory couldn’t believe how tall he was—had he just remembered him differently? He’d been shorter before, but now he was taller, so much bigger than him now. The smell was so strong…so fucking nasty…

Cory stepped forward and buried his face in one of the brute’s hairy armpits, grinding his crotch against the man’s thick thigh. He came almost immediately, and the Brute shoved him down onto his knees, whipped his cock out, and after a couple of strokes unloaded his cum all over Cory’s face.

“Fuckin’ hot man…” the brute said, “Might need yer help a bit more often.”

He left Cory quivering on his knees in the locker room, trying to understand what had just happened. He wiped the cum up with his gym towel, and then started sucking on it, unable to help himself. He tried to shower when he got home, but he couldn’t bear the thought of washing off the stench of the brute’s cum. He jacked off all night long, towel pressed to his nose, imagining the scene over and over, and the next day, he was at the gym before the brute arrived, hungry for more. They met in the locker room, Cory immediately licking up the brute’s filthy body—he dragged Cory back into the shower, shoved him up against the tile wall, and wormed his cock into Cory’s ass dry. It hurt, but he needed it, he needed it so much. The brute came quick, and then pulled out, but it wasn’t enough. Cory followed him around all day in the gym, rubbing his body into the sweaty benches, losing himself in the brute’s stench, cumming twice in his own shorts just from the smell alone. They stayed at the gym all day, and when they went back into the locker room, the man pulled out the pill bottle, shook out a capsule, and held it out to Cory. “Take it.”

Cory just stared at it.

“Take it. You wanna be big like me? Stink like me? Take it, you’ll love it.”

“No…No, I can’t,” Cory said, “Look at you, this is crazy. Just a month…a month ago, you were…”

“I was weak,” the brute said, “Weak, ‘n clean ‘n smart. Now I’m big ‘n dumb ‘n filthy, it’s so fuckin’ hot…You’ll be so hot too, man.”

Cory stepped back.

“If you don’t take it, you don’t get my cock no more,” the brute said, groping himself through his shorts.

Cory whimpered.

“You don’t get to smell me no more. No more sweat, nothin’.”

Cory shook his head no, but watched the brute drop his shorts, and let his cock slip out of his filthy jock strap. It was half hard and leaking; he coated the pill in his precum, then pressed it against Cory’s lips. Shivering, he opened his mouth, letting the brute slide the pill in along with his finger. Cory swallowed the slick pill and then sucked the brute’s finger clean. It wasn’t enough, he pressed in closer, closer to the reeking pits, pressing their hot sweat together.

“I don’t even know your name,” Cory said.

“You can call me…Coach, Sport.”

Something was wrong with him. He was suddenly too hot, and sweating profusely. His body was shaking with energy, not only erotic, but overwhelming motion. He needed to work out, he needed to move and lift and shove and fuck! Coach shoved him up against the locker, they started making out, groping each other openly as men passed by, trying to ignore them, and then Cory dragged Coach into the sauna and fucked himself up and down on the rigid cock, feeling his legs start to burn from the exertion, desperate for the burn. He hadn’t worked out nearly enough, earlier, but when he tried to tell Coach that, the brute told him they were done for the day, and going home instead. He could barely contain himself as he followed Coach home to his apartment a few blocks from the gym, even though they sprinted all the way there, and the next morning, still wearing his workout clothes from the day before, rings around his eyes from not sleeping but desperate to work out, he accepted another pill from Coach without hesitation and they lifted together all day, pausing for the occasional fuck in the sauna, Cory feeling cum leak from his raw ass, sliming the leather seats of the benches that he would lick up, eager for Coach’s approval. However, close to ten hours later, when they were back in the locker room, Coach pressed two pills on him, and as much as Cory wanted to take them, he hesitated.

“This can’t be safe.”

Coach pulled him close, “Trust yer coach man, ya got lots a catchin’ up to do.”

“No—no, I can’t, I can’t do this. I missed work today, I can’t do this anymore.”

“You didn’t miss work man, you got work later tonight,” Coach put the two pills right in Cory’s mouth, “Need you good and energetic, you see. Everybody’s gonna wanna piece a yer hot ass.”

Cory felt the bitter pills dissolving in his mouth, but he didn’t spit them out. He swallowed. He raced his coach back to the apartment, and by the time they got there, time seemed to be moving too fast, he couldn’t quite keep up with what was going on. Coach stripped his work out clothes off of him and then started dragging out a bunch of leather gear from the closet. “Benn makin’ enough as a top, Sport, but the real money’s in bottomin’. Lucky we met, eh? You’re gonna be my dumb little muscle whore slave.”

Cory couldn’t quite seem to make his mouth work right to form anything other then a series of grunts and moans. His cock was so hard, he couldn’t keep his hands off of it. He let Coach put the leather gear on him, cinching the harness tight against his muscles, a thick plug in his ass, leather boots, a collar, a black hood. Coach said he looked so hot, and couldn’t resist giving him one fuck to loosen him up before they hit the clubs.

The night was a blur. Cory was never entirely sure where he was. Coach had him on a lead, and he soon found that it was as much needed to keep him focused and safe—protected from wandering astray. The only time Coach let him loose was on the dance floor—he ground his way from man to man, hot for all of them, his musk attracting them like flies. They all begged the Coach for the opportunity to fuck his slave, and at a hundred bucks for ass and fifty for head, there was a price everyone could afford. Cory knew this was wrong, knew he had been tricked, but his mind was running so slow—he couldn’t keep up with Coach, he couldn’t keep up with the parade of cocks rammed in his ass and throat. He couldn’t do anything beyond allow himself to be dragged all over town until the bars closed, when a few wealthy patrons joined them back at the apartment for an extended fuck session.

Cory woke around noon, and found the apartment empty—Coach was apparently at the gym already, and had left him to sleep off the night before. The double dose still had him reeling. His mind was shattered, and it took him an hour to pick up the pieces and figure out what was had happened. He stared at himself in the mirror. Was he already hairier? Already more muscular? Probably not, but how long until the pills started working on him like they had on Coach? How long until his mind dissolved, and all he could think about was fucking, sucking and lifting in between? He stank of sweat and musk and cum; he thought about showering, but ended up jacking off instead, his nose snorting in his own aroma. On the table, he found a scrawled note with two pills and a glass of water.

“Good job last night Sport. Got us enugh drug this morning to last a month. a few more nights like last night, and we can start buyin r own equipmnt. And rent a big apartment too. Move you in with me where you belong. Take yor pills n come to the gym. I’m waitin.”

Cory was shaking. He couldn’t take them, but he needed…he needed to feel that again. He needed that energy. He didn’t want to be a whore. He didn’t want to be some dumb, hairy, muscle bound brute. But Coach…but Coach was right…right? He’d done a good job last night. He’d enjoyed himself, even, as much as he hated admitting it. He picked up the pills in his hand, and stared at them for a moment, before swallowing them back with some water. Coach was probably getting impatient, waiting for him—he’d taken too long. By the time he’d sprinted to the gym, the world was a blur. All except for Coach, his Coach, waiting for him in the back. He smiled, and went to work out.

October 1, 2014
Commission: Portrait of a Happy Family

Commissioned by Scot158

Harvey gave a grumble, rolled over, and checked the clock. Ten in the morning—at least it was Saturday and he could sleep in. His friend Jack was going to come over around noon—apparently he had something he was desperate to show him on his computer or something, but fuck, why did he have such a headache this morning?

A cigar, he needed a cigar, of course. But he didn’t smoke cigars, what in the world was he thinking of that for? He sat up on the edge of the bed, pawed open the humidor on his bedside table with a hand that seemed far too large, fished out a cigar, fumbled with his zippo and got it lit, taking his first deep lungful of smoke for the weekend ahead. His head cleared quickly, and his earlier confusion about the cigar seemed misplaced. Hell, his dad had given him his first cigar when he’d grown his first pubic hair at the age of seven—he’d been an avid smoker for a decade now. He got up, wedged himself through the doorway of his room that seemed much too narrow (or was he too wide?) and headed for the bathroom for his morning piss. He couldn’t see his soft cock past his big, extremely hairy gut, but that changed when he got hard—all ten inches, fuck.

He started stroking himself over the toilet, reached up and started tugging on the thick ring piercing one of his nipples. His dad had given him a new ring each birthday, and last year had even let him get his first tattoo along with a heavy gauge PA. Oh man, his dad was so proud of him as he’d stroked his son’s pierced cock for the first time in the shop, leaned in and kissed him, their beards tangling, his dad feeding him his tobacco black spit as the artist watched them, stroking his own cock that Harvey would suck later on…

Harvey grunted and shot his load across the entire toilet. wondering what in the hell he’d just remembered. That hadn’t happened, had it? And yet, everything told him it was real, and why…why shouldn’t it be? He was probably just hungry. He flushed the toilet and headed downstairs, naked, to go eat some cereal. He poured himself one heaping bowl, devoured it, and with milk still in his beard, got up and made himself a second, and then a third, finishing off an entire box. Still hungry, he pawed through the kitchen, cracked half a dozen eggs in a bowl and started whipping them together for an omelette, when he heard the first thump on the stairs.

“What the hell was that?” was his first thought, but by the time the second thump hit, he remembered it was just his dad tromping down the stairs. But that couldn’t be his dad, could it? Those footsteps sounded like they belonged to a monster. He turned to the doorway by the stairs, waiting to see if his memories could be lying, but they weren’t. His father hit the first floor, ducked his way under the seven foot doorway, naked, but so covered with hair Harvey could only see the skin of his thirteen inch cock swinging between his legs. “Mornin’ son,” he said, scratching his balls.

“M—Mornin’ Pa…” Harvey said. Why was he breathing so shallow? His dad dribbled some black tobacco spit from his mouth, and he watched it run down into his black beard. Had he just licked his lips? Why had he done that?

“Saw what you did over the toilet, boy.”

Oh shit, had he forgotten to clean that up?

“I had to lick it up for you, not that I mind…” He tromped closer. Harvey could feel the floor shake with each step of his dad’s huge, wide feet. “Tasted good, but it got me all horny for my boy this morning…”

His dad came close, and suddenly Harvey could smell him. He was rank, as rank as he was. They smelled the same, fuck, they smelled so hot together. His dad leaned in, taking the cigar from his son’s mouth and kissed him, pushing tobacco spit into his son’s thirsty mouth, twisting each other’s nipples, their cocks growing stiff, jutting up between their bellies. With a growl, his dad spun Harvey around, bent him over the counter, lubed his cock up with some spit, and drove it into his son’s ass.

“Oh fuck, Pa…”

“Yeah, that’s my boy’s hot asshole, fuck…”

His dad’s huge hands wrapped around his hips, gripping him tightly, and he started driving all thirteen inches deep inside him. Harvey reached out and retrieved his cigar and kept smoking, reaching under, his cock hard again already, and started stroking. The doorbell rang.

“Oh fuck, that’s Jack…I gotta get that,” Harvey said, but his dad held him in place.

“I’m almost fuckin’ finished boy, hold on, and tighten down on your Pa’s fuckstick, aww fuck yeah, here it fuckin’ comes…”

His dad drove his cock in as deep as he could. Harvey could feel his dad pumping cum deep into his hole. The doorbell rang again, but his dad held him in place until the last few spasms finished, and then pulled out. “Alright, go get the door, son.”

Slightly embarrassed, but without really knowing why he felt that way (after all, his dad fucked him all the time—why would he be embarrassed about that?) he went to the front door, only realizing when it was open and he was staring at Jack in the doorway that he was still completely naked, his cock still hard and jutting out across the empty space between them. Jack’s jaw dropped when he saw it…but he’d seen it before, hadn’t he? Harvey and his dad were always naked in the house—Jack knew that. “Hey man, sorry it took me a sec to get the door, I was, uh…busy.”

“It actually worked, I can’t believe it!” Jack said, and pushed his way past Harvey, grabbed his hand, and dragged him to the stairs, and up to Harvey’s room, he pulled out his laptop and opened it up, revealing a strange screen which looked like some cross between a character generator and a 3D modelling program, and started explaining what it was. Harvey listened, but couldn’t believe it. A computer program that could alter reality? That wasn’t possible…was it? He had felt kind of strange all morning, but now that he thought about it, he was feeling less strange now than before. When he mentioned this to Jack, his friend showed him a timer counting down in the bottom corner, which had about half an hour left.

“It’s still processing the reality change. Hell, I can’t even remember what you looked like before anymore. When the timer finishes, this reality will be completely real to everyone, even you and me.”

“What?” Harvey said, “Well change me back!”

Jack furrowed his brow, “but this is what you wanted—you told me you’d had this fantasy forever.”

Harvey stared at him. Would Jack be lying to him? Hell, Jack could have just made all of that up. For all he knew, Jack might not have even been his friend before this morning, but that was paranoid, right? “Still…still, you should have asked me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, is all.”

Harvey looked at himself in the mirror on the wall. How could he have looked entirely different just the day before? It couldn’t be possible. Still…Jack seemed convinced. He was a bit angry though. It felt like he’d been a bit violated. He looked over at Jack, and wondered how he’d like it, to suddenly end up in some big bear body, smoking cigars all day long, covered…covered with fur…Harvey realized his cock was getting hard, and that gave him an idea…

“Give me the computer,” Harvey said.


“You changed me. It’s only fair that I get to change you back.”

“Hey, come on, that’s not—”

Harvey stepped up, and blew a thick cloud of smoke in Jack’s face, the head of his cock drooling precum on Jack’s pant leg. “I could always just take it from you, you know. I’m much, much bigger than you.”

“Look man, I’m sorry I didn’t ask—”

Harvey could sense Jack’s nervousness, and he could also see the tent growing in his friend’s pants. He liked how Harvey looked now, but Jack could still use some improvement. He eventually relented to the pressure, and let his friend look over the program, Harvey sat at the desk, the screen away from Jack so he couldn’t see what he was doing, and worked quickly. When he was satisfied, he gave everything a second look, and then hit submit. The change was instantaneous. One moment, Jack was on sitting on the edge of the bed, twiddling his thumbs, the next, Harvey’s obese big brother Jack was sitting there naked, body covered with fur, an unruly beard reaching down to his deep belly button, a cheek suddenly bulging out with a huge wad of chewing tobacco. Jack let out a belch as he sat there, and gave his huge gut a scratch. “You done yet, bro?”

He didn’t even realize anything had changed! Harvey looked down at the timer, and saw it had two hours to count down. Apparently, the program found this change a bit easier to process than changing him and his father had been. Well, their father now. He grinned. “Almost done…I gotta piss though.”

“Aww, I can take care of that bro,” Jack said, rubbing his gut, “Fuckin’ thirsty myself.”

Harvey got up from the chair, and realized he could smell the stench wafting off his slovenly brother. He never showered, and he stank of piss and sweat. He smelled…he smelled damn sexy actually. Harvey shook his head—he wasn’t supposed to think that, was he? He walked over, pointed his cock up at his big brother’s bearded mouth, and started pissing, arcing the piss up, soaking Jack’s face before pointing the stream into his mouth and watching him swallow it down. Fuck, he was so fucking sexy, he hoped he could be as nasty as his big brother some day.

Harvey shook his head again. He didn’t want to be like Jack! Jack was a slob—he was supposed to be…to be…He couldn’t remember. He finished pissing, and Jack licked his lips. “Thanks bro, your piss is fantastic.”

Harvey grinned, happy that his big brother was happy, stepped closer and gave Jack a hug, and started sucking the piss from his brother’s beard, and unable to stop himself, he started licking his big brother’s body clean. That was one of his favorite jobs, actually, keeping his brother and father clean. Who needs to shower when Harvey is so horny for their sweat and stink that he’ll lick them both clean every day?

Something was wrong with this. The program was changing him too, not just Jack, but it was happening too fast for him to do anything about it, and…and he didn’t really want to do anything about it. He kept licking, and when he finished Jack’s chest and gut, his brother laid down on the bed belly down, and let Harvey spread his fat ass and start licking out his nasty crack, drilling his tongue into his brother’s hole. Fuck, the taste of Jack’s ass got him so horny—he had to stop mid-cleaning to crawl forward, line his cock up with Jack’s hole and work it in for a fuck.

Jack gave a loud groan of pleasure as Harvey fucked him on their bed. Jack raised up, in the middle of the fuck, and looked at Harvey over his shoulder. “W—wait a minute…you already changed me, you fucker!”

“Oh shut up, and enjoy it,” Harvey said, and drove his dick as deep as it could go, “You love being a slob, just go with it.”

“Fuck, I fuckin’ reek.”

“You reek so fuckin’ good bro, don’t even worry about it—I’ll keep you clean.”

“You’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Heh, not as nasty as you are.”

Jack let off another belch and a groan, pushing back to meet his little brother’s thrusts. Harvey finally shot his load, and then got down and started sucking the cum from his brother’s ass, before he licked the rest of it clean. When he finished, Jack rolled back over, and his own twelve inch cock was thrusting up against his belly. “Well, start sucking bro, don’t just stare at it.”

Harvey had long since lost his gag reflex, and he could take both his brother’s and his father’s cocks to the hilt. Jack didn’t last long, and he came a with a series of shudders that made his flabby body shake wildly. He laid there, enjoying the afterglow, while his little brother got down and started licking his feet clean. They were so big! Definitely as big as their dad’s. Harvey got another cigar lit and toyed with the heat on Jack’s feet—the two hour timer passed, and neither of them noticed a thing, until Jack’s stomach gave a growl. “Fuck, I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Harvey said, and dodged his brother’s kick, laughing.

“Fuck you, I’m gonna go eat something. You coming?”

“I’ll come downstairs—I need to see if dad needs anything cleaned.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ slut, Harvey.”

Harvey stuck his tongue out at his big brother, “I learned from the best.”

Jack went down and assembled a platter of food for himself, while Harvey went to where his father was sitting on the couch, and started licking him clean too. Jack thought about watching his father and brother fuck, but then he remembered the computer upstairs, and with a grin, he crept upstairs, snacking all the way.

He came back downstairs an hour later, no longer naked. Instead, he had on a wide strap leather harness and some heavy biker boots, and a collar with a tag that read “Alpha” on it. Curious to see what his dad and brother might be up to, he found the living room empty. That made sense though—dad preferred to work in the dungeon, the sprawling basement beneath the house where the family spent most of their quality time.

Downstairs, his father—and his master—was standing behind Harvey, who was tied down on a wooden horse. His little brother was now quite a bit more muscled—his dad kept him on a strict diet and exercise regimen, to keep his slave son in peak physical shape for constant abuse. He was also covered head to toe in tattoos, his face and body riddled with piercings. Master was decked out in rubber today, and he had one gloved fist buried elbow deep in his youngest son’s ass. There was a puddle of cum underneath the horse—obviously the pressure on Harvey’ prostate had made him cum at least twice already.

“Do you need any help, sir?” Jack asked, and his dad looked over at him and smiled.

“Sure Jack—put a glove on. Daddy’s horny for this slave’s mouth, but I want to keep stretching his hole. Take over for me, would you?”

Jack was only too happy to pull on a rubber glove, lube it up, and slide it into his little brother’s wide open asshole. His dad stripped off his own gloves, and went around, pulling the gag from Harvey’s mouth and replacing it with his own huge cock. Harvey realized something else had changed, but he couldn’t quite pin down what it was, and by the time the family was through with their afternoon play session, the timer had expired, and none of them could remember anything ever being different at all. Of course, those were far from the last changes for the happy family of bears, but those will have to wait for another time.

September 29, 2014
Commission Slots Filled!

Thank you to everyone who bought one—and for those on the waiting list, I’ll try to get to you as well, depending on how these next couple of weeks go.

September 28, 2014

I am currently offering Emergency Commission slots! 2000-2500 word stories for $30 dollars. There are two spots left at the time of this writing, so send me an ask if an email at wesley_bracken@yahoo.com if you’re interested.

All the slots are filled! Thanks to everyone who bought one.


“I just think you’ll be happier, that’s all. Such an unhappy little boy,” the man ran his rubber gloved hand up Paul’s chest, past his neck, and grabbed his jaw. Paul shook and whimpered, the rubber making his cock hard, the tattoos shifting and spreading across his chest a bit further, before he regained control of himself. The rubber on his skin, it was so inviting. He wondered, in a brief fit, whether the master might have a suit of rubber he could wear. Except maybe his cock could be out, his nasty piggy cock, and he could grunt and snort and sweat…

His hands were unsecured, and he reached down to touch himself, running a hand along his own shaft, shivering uncontrollably, eyes rolling back in pleasure. The tattoos spread across his pecs, swirls of jagged barbs, and halted there. The master leaned in, ran his tongue up the side of Paul’s face, his huge, heavily waxed mustache coase on his skin.

“You’ll be such a good pig. A good, old, nasty pig just like the rest of us.”

Paul couldn’t stop himself. He was so horny. Maybe if he jacked off, maybe if he came, maybe the voice would stop. The voice was getting louder, shouting at him in his head, drowning out everything else. His free hand pulled on his nipple, feeling the piercing there. So sensitive, he was leaking. He snorted through his nose, shook his head, and yanked his hands away, trying to pull back from the master, but the old man pulled the chain connected to his head harness tight, keeping him in place.

“You are a fighter though, I’ll give you that. I like fight in a pig. Gives ‘em will. Keeps everyone in line, once you realize what’s inside you. What is inside you, boy? Do you know? Have you ever explored yourself?”

Holding the chain tight, his jaw yanked up towards the ceiling, the master reached down and began probing Paul’s asshole with a thick, gloved hand. He whimpered, one hand creeping back around the shaft of his cock. Horny, so horny still. Such…such a horny pig…yeah…

The master licked his finger wet, and slid it in. It wasn’t wet enough, and it hurt, but there was…something in there. Something deep in there, something nice. Paul let out a groan of pleasure, eyes crossed and dulling, his cock growing in his hand. Such a big piggy cock, eight fuckin’ inches, yeah. But still, his hole, his fuckin’ piggy hole, two fingers, now three, but it was still deeper, the master had to go deeper, but how could he tell him? He rocked back on his heels, trying to push against the master’s hand, tell him what he wanted. The scruffy beard he had was pulling in, as a grey handlebar sprouted around his mouth, growing long. His hair turning grey, a mohawk pushing up against the strap securing his head. Gauges in his ears. Such a good pig.

It took master’s whole hand in his ass to find it, his pleasure, his joy, his pigness. Paul grunted and snorted as the master fisted his hole, jacking his cock, cumming over and over again, spraying his cum across the floor. It smelled delicious, and when the master pulled out his fist and saw Paul’s dim piggy eyes looking back at him hungrily, he knew he was ready. He yanked against the straps as the master freed him, but only so he could get to the cum on the floor. He licked it up, and then began licking the master’s boots. His pigcock was hard again already, always hard, always ready.

The master introduced him to the rest of the hogs. One was in the sling, getting pounded by another, whose fat tit was being suckled. Paul stepped up behind the fucker and drove his hard cock right in his ass, the master making him lick the slime of his own hole off his gloved hands. “Such good pigs you all are. Now play nice, Paul. I’m off to the bar. I wonder if that friend of yours we left behind is still there. What was his name, Jerry? Do you think Jerry has a pig in him, Paul?

Paul nodded, but he hadn’t actually understood what the master said. It was best to be agreeable.

“I think so too. Now, I’ll be back you old pigs. Keep on fucking, and we can all play when I get back.”

3:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zv8K1v1RvITYx
Filed under: pig age progression 
September 28, 2014
Five Emergency Commission Spots

Well God damn it.

Financial troubles are a foot for me, and so I’m going to be opening up five slots for short stories of 2000-2500 words for $30 each. No topic too strange, no fetish too odd, you all know the drill. The first five people who respond will get these slots—and depending on how the month goes (hopefully better than right now) I may open up some more slots in a week or two. If you had something longer in mind, we can maybe work something out as well.

Send me as ask (non-anonymous please) or a fanmail, with your email address, and I’ll save you a spot. Payment is upfront (the turn around on the stories will be quick, about a week tops) through paypal. If you could help out, it’s much appreciated! Thanks.

September 24, 2014

Jack walked up the aisle of the airplane, and finally found his seat—in the aisle like he preferred—at his height, having the extra room to stretch his legs was a necessity. The plane ended up being lightly packed—he did have someone sitting in the row with him, an older gentleman in a suit and vest, who slipped past him and sat down at the window. It was only after they’d taken off that Jack noticed the older man looking at him.

“Could you not stare at me please? You’re creeping me out.”

“Oh!” the man said, blushing a bit, “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized…I was just wondering how long you’ve been growing your hair out—it’s quite long.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Great, a faggot, probably. “A while.”

“Yes, it must have been a while. And goodness, you are a big man aren’t you? Why, I suppose the reason I was staring is because you look like a real life Samson! Sorry, I know that’s a bit rude. My name is Bart, by the way.”

“Look, that’s fine, but can you just, not look at me please?”

“You see,” Bart continued, as though Jack hadn’t said anything, “I’ve been doing some research lately on the Samson myth—did you know, that in many cultures, the length of one’s hair could determine everything from caste to social rank? Simply fascinating! Why, there’s evidence from Mesopotamia that…”

It was too late—apparently the man wasn’t a faggot at all. Worse—an intellectual. Still, Jack found his voice easy enough to ignore, and he laid the seat back, closed his eyes, and soon enough he was falling asleep.


A jungle. He was searching for someone, a princess? Yeah, a princess. Some hot princess who’d been captured, and he was going to save her and fuck her brains out, yeah. And he was a prince, a warrior…no, he was more than all of those things, he was someone…someone in particular, he was…Samson. Yeah, Samson the strong, the great. He paused and looked down at his bronzed body, naked aside from a loin cloth, his nine inch cock hanging down below the front flap, letting everyone who he’d encounter know that he was meant to be in charge. To be an alpha—a leader. He could feel his braided hair, longer than he could remember, running down against his muscular back, his beard knotted and reaching down nearly to his navel, both of them testaments to his power, his virility and strength as a man. No, it was more than that, they were the source of his power. It was the hair itself that granted him authority, that made him an alpha, that made him a man.

He was moving through the jungle, climbing up now, his body sweating in the humid heat. The trees began to thin out, and he arrived at a plateau, covered with grassland—there, in the center, was where he would find the princess. She had been taken by a man…no, by a wizard. Yes, a cruel, evil, weak wizard. He would defeat the wizard, he would win the princess for himself. He pressed onward, and soon he came to a small camp. By the fire, a cage with the princess inside, and between him and the cage, the wizard.

He was much smaller than Samson—but then Samson was larger than everyone. No one could challenge Samson—he would be king. And the wizard was old and frail and feeble. Why was he confronting him? Didn’t he know to be afraid? And yet, there was something wrong, something very wrong. He was frozen—the wizard had done something to him, and he couldn’t move. He could hear the wizard saying something, hear him speaking, mumbling and Samson could feel his hands moving against his will. He drew his knife, the knife meant to kill the wizard, the knife that could cut anything, even the strongest steel, and with his other hand, Samson grasped his braid. He begged, he fought his own hand, and yet his knife, with a single slice, cut the hair from his head, the braid falling to the ground, and unable to believe what he’d just done, he cut the beard from his face.

Defeated—he had been defeated. He was no longer free—somehow the princess had disappeared, and now he was in the cage, now he was the captive. Weak, powerless, without a will of his own. Helpless to obey, a slave, a foggot—worse than a woman. Yes, a faggot now. He could feel the lust rising in his throat, the wizard approaching the bars of the cage, revealing his cock—no, not his cock—he had some how stolen Samson’s nine inch beast—feeling between his legs, he felt his own shrivelled cock, unable to get hard or even feel pleasure. And old man’s cock now, a faggot’s cock. The wizard—he had a cock that was worthy of worship. The head slipped between the bars, and Samson suckled at it, the cum slaking his faggot thirst. More men were surrounding the cage now, more men than he could service in a thousand lifetimes, but he had to serve. That was his purpose, his only desire. To serve. To serve. To serve. To serve…


He was in the bathroom of the airplane, a battery powered razor in his hand. He watched his body shave the hair from his head and face—he threw it into the trash, and returned to his seat, weak—a faggot.

“How is my Samson?” Bart asked when he returned and sat down.

“I’m no longer a Samson any more sir, I’m now a faggot, meant to serve.”

“I see. Well faggot, you’d best get busy then,” Bart said, pulling his cock out. Licking his lips, Jack leaned over and sucked down his old cock.


His plane had landed earlier that day, and he’d parted ways with Bart after one last fuck in the airport bathroom stall. Now, Jack had found the place Bart had told him of, a haven for faggots like him, who were destined to serve. He went inside—the owner was expecting him, and told him to strip down—he wouldn’t be needing his clothing anymore. All he would wear is a pair of old boots, to guard against the filthy floor, and the owner led him to his new home, a small three foot by three foot cubicle, with several holes. Cocks would be shoved through. He would serve them. The cage of his servitude, a multitude of men he’d never be able to fully satisfy. But it was no longer his fear—it was his fantasy. His true dream.

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