On my last two fitting 7XL shirts and about to size up. Check out my gains in this pic! I now look like my favourite children’s character don’t you think?
The college football team in a mountainside town that has a lot of dairy farms. The water source used for the cattle, pumped full of stimulants and hormones that promote milk production, libido, and fat production, is inadvertently mixed into the reservoir.
Nothing much happens at first. The football team has a winning streak; their coach keeps them hydrated with fresh water and encourages them to drink milk both as a proud member of the town but also for their bone strength on the field. For celebrations the coach takes the team to eat feasts at a burger joint that prides itself on local product. Each teammate is encouraged to eat at least two or three dripping double cheeseburgers and they even have eating contests between teammates.
The first change other than a bit of chub is the sensitive tits. One day, one of the teammates is flushed red as he’s changing, too tuned into how his chest is burning– one nudge is all it takes for a fat bead of milk to drip out.
The libido comes next. It becomes a habit and shame for that teammate to pump his pecs into the changing room toilets before changing, but as he comes out he starts noticing how his fellow boys have started to round out. Muscular but increasingly being coated in fat, with rounded pecs and swollen nipples just like him.
He gets ridiculously hard at the sight. He didn’t even think he was gay, but he can’t help it. He really can’t.
The shame of lactating and needing to milk himself in the stalls becomes a guilty pleasure after he realizes jerking off alone doesn’t bring him to the edge. What does is playing with his chest as he’s doing it. Now, when his chest gets too full, he’s immediately hard, and his body is already digesting everything from the active frenzy masturbating has turned into. He becomes hungry too.
He craves dairy. He drinks his own milk. He craves meat. He packs his bag with meat and cheese sandwiches. He craves grease. Those sandwiches are soon replaced with a bag full of burgers from that place down the road. A massive order, sometimes featuring breakfast. He’s thirsty after from the sweat and salt. He chugs water and moans when his stuffed belly bloats more.
His teammates have similar revelations. Two get together and become fuck buddies. Presumably the only ones that do at first. Groping leaking tits, ass, and other fat parts leave them moaning long and low, nearly moo-like over time. They drink from each other’s tits and cock. They feed each other and kiss. Makeout, even.
A third catches them and spurred on by each other’s presence, they have enough bravado to ask him to join them.
The team continue to pile on the weight. With more weight comes more appetite, more libido, more milking.
It’s an endless cycle. The whole team becomes in on it. They spend more time together outside of games (that aforementioned winning streak is long lost and burger feasts become a condolence event instead of a celebratory one… they now eat eight times as much as what they originally did; their coach pays out of pocket), they go back to each others dorms or homes and fuck and feed each other. Anything from two to the whole team. Roommates and parents alike are worried and astounded.
The whole team becomes a herd of boycows, ridiculously horny and milky and hungry. And the best part? Each and every one of them fucking love it. Any help that’s offered is rejected immediately.
Why would they want anything else other than this?
A month ago, I published Gainer Choices, my very first interactive erotica novel.
I'm really proud of it. It's a 140,000-word book with hundreds of choices and over 80 unique endings. I'm keeping it exclusive to Amazon, but I wanted to share an excerpt here.
I picked the shortest thread in the book. I made all the choices myself, so it doesn't capture the interactive experience. Still fun, though. I hope you like it...
***
You sip your rum and Coke and scan the room. There’s a ton of hot guys, but you’re not interested in any of them. They’re all standard-hot, but you’re hungry for someone special.
Then you see them. Two guys. Twins!
They’re gorgeous. Black hair. Broad shoulders. Piercing blue eyes.
Definitely the hottest guys in the room. But there’s something else that catches your eye. One of them has a muffin top jiggling out of his tight black shirt.
Two sexy twins—identical twins—but only one of them has a roll of fat hanging over his belt. The other is lean and ripped.
You don’t understand why, but the contrast drives you wild.
Both brothers glance in your direction. You can’t tell if they’re interested, or if they simply notice you staring. Either way, you’re going to introduce yourself.
The fatter one heads straight to the dance floor, while his brother goes to order drinks at the bar. Which one will you follow?
You follow the slim twin.
You follow the chubby twin.
***
There’s no doubt in your mind. You need to talk to the chubby one first. You can see his love handles jiggle seductively as he dances by himself. You have to grab them. You have to know what they feel like.
You strut onto the dance floor, making sure to keep your chest puffed out so he can see that you’re all muscle. He locks eyes with you, dancing closer.
He’s an amazing dancer, moving his hips like he’s on a stripper pole. So fluid. So flexible. Somehow, you take that as a sign that he was a natural athlete, that he was never supposed to get fat.
He meets you in the center of the dance floor, then grabs your hands and brings them up to his fat sides. He wants you to feel them. He wants you to squeeze. He knows you want that, too.
You grab on.
Under your hands, he twists around and twerks against you, his fattened ass grazing your crotch. “I’m Grady,” he says.
You introduce yourself, but you can’t tell if he hears you.
He turns to face you again, holding you close and grinding your hips. “My brother’s waiting for me at the bar. Wanna join us? Or should we keep dancing?”
You follow him to the bar.
You keep dancing.
***
“Let’s get hydrated,” you say as you slide your hands off his handles and give his soft ass a squeeze. You could keep dancing with this hottie for hours, but you decide to follow him to the bar. It’s probably out of curiosity.
As you walk together, Grady’s hand pinches your side. He’s sizing you up, trying to see if there’s any chub on your slim waist. There isn’t. You’re not sure if that disappoints him or turns him on.
“Fabian! I made a friend!”
His twin brother glances up at you. You know his name now. Fabian. It’s crazy how much he looks like Grady. Their faces are identical. Their hair is identical. Even their all-black outfits are identical. It’s obvious that they want people to notice the one thing that differentiates them.
And it worked on you. You’re fascinated by Grady’s juicy spare tire.
You sit next to Fabian, and Grady sits on your other side. You’re the meat in this twin sandwich. You can tell from their intense eyes that they both want you, that they’re both fighting over you.
Interesting…
“Tell us about yourself,” they both say at the same time. So you do. You talk about your job, and your recent single-hood, and your hobbies.
They both sip beers and listen. Grady touches your left thigh, squeezing into your muscle. It feels like both flirtation and inspection, like he’s still trying to understand your body. Not to be outdone, Fabian squeezes your right.
Your voice trails off. You can feel both their hands sliding further toward your crotch.
“We need you to be completely honest with us,” Fabian says. “Who do you think is hotter?”
You gulp. What a question.
You say they’re both equally hot, which makes Grady laugh. “We haven’t been equal in three months, since I started growing myself. Come on. We know you have a preference.”
You don’t know how to answer. Honestly, Fabian is more your type. He’s objectively more handsome, and his body looks like most of your exes. But you’re fascinated by Grady, especially since he just confessed to making himself fatter. What a strange, wonderful choice.
So what is your preference? How do you answer?
You think Fabian’s hotter.You think Grady’s hotter.
***
“Fabian,” you mutter.
You can’t lie. He’s everything you’d ever want in a man. (At least physically. You don’t know him on a personal level yet.) Grady’s chub intrigues you but only in comparison to his brother. It’s fascinating to see a model-handsome hottie choose to ruin his body. And yeah, you’d like to see more of him, but when it comes to the question of who’s hotter, there’s only one answer.
“Oh,” both twins say at the same time. They pull their hands away.
“Did I say something wrong?” you ask.
“No,” Grady says. “I guess we’re just looking for someone… different.”
They both stand.
You can’t let them leave. “Wait! I like you both. Just tell me what you’re looking for and I… I’ll be that person.” You know you sound desperate and whiny, but it seems to work. They both sit back down.
“Good,” Fabian says, as if you’d just passed a test. “What we’re looking for is a guy who’s interested in fat.”
“I… I am,” you mumble. It’s not a lie, per se. You are interested. Right?
Both hands start rubbing your thighs again.
“That’s what we thought,” Fabian continues. “We see potential in you. But you have to prove yourself first.” He nods toward the bartender.
The bartender nods back. A few seconds later, he slides a milkshake toward you.
You look back and forth. At Fabian, then Grady, then Fabian again. They want you to drink this. It’s another part of their test.
And you do. You don’t want to disappoint them.
The milkshake tastes funny. It’s sweet (strawberry-flavored) but there’s a chemical aftertaste that you don’t like. You swallow half of it before stopping.
“We want you to finish it,” Grady says. “Don’t you like it?”
You know the answer he wants, the answer they both want. So you chug the rest of it as fast as you can so your brain doesn’t register the taste. When you’re finished, the twins are both rubbing your stomach. That one shake has left you weirdly bloated. You’re not nauseous, though. Just pleasantly full.
“Okay?” you say. “Now what?”
Without saying anything, they kiss your cheeks. Then they stand and leave you there. You try to go after them, but you can’t get off the stool. You don’t feel drugged, just heavy and lethargic.
After they’re gone, the bartender takes your empty glass.
“What was that about?” you ask him.
He smiles. “You’ll find out soon. And you’ll definitely see them again. They like you.”
See what happens two weeks later.See what happens one year later.
***
You’re hunched over your computer, responding to emails, when your coworker Colby peeks into your cubicle.
“Um, quick question,” he says. “You didn’t happen to eat all the muffins in the break room?”
“No,” you say. “Just a couple.”
You don’t remember how many you ate, but it definitely wasn’t all the muffins.
Colby raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t believe you. “Are you okay? You seem kinda… off.”
You flush, worried that he knows you’re behind in your work. You’ve been taking more breaks and longer lunches lately. “I’m okay. Why?”
He uses his foot to nudge your trash can toward you. It’s filled with those paper liners that the muffins came in. There has to be at least seven in the trash. Seven muffins? That can’t be right. Especially since you had three or four more when you were in the break room.
You’re pretty embarrassed, though that embarrassment comes out as anger. You jump to your feet. “What does it matter to you? Most of this trash isn’t even from today. I’ve been bringing my own snacks. I’ll show you.”
You bend down to pick up the trash can and hear a loud riiiiip. Colby’s eyes widen.
Your hands shoot to your ass, feeling the vertical tear in your pants. Blushing horribly, you cover your backside and run into the bathroom.
Everything becomes clear when you see yourself. You haven’t been avoiding your reflection, but you haven’t really paid attention to it either.
You’re getting chubby. Your work shirt strains around your middle, with tiny slivers of skin visible between your buttons. Your hips look wider, too. You twist your body to survey the tear on your backside, but all that does is emphasize the new roll above your belt.
Yes, you’ve been snacking a lot. (And ordering more pizzas. And stopping for fast food on your drive home from work.) Ever since you had that milkshake, you’ve been hungry all the time. You didn’t know it was this bad, though.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door. It’s Colby. “Hey, man. Can I come in?”
What do you do?
You let him in.You tell him to go away.
***
“Come in,” you mutter.
Colby looks nervous when he walks inside. He can’t even look at you. His eyes are on the floor.
“I tore my pants,” you tell him. As if he doesn’t know!
“Yeah, um, I get it, okay? I’ve gone through some tough breakups, too. If you need someone to talk to…”
So he thinks you’re overeating because of a breakup? If only it were that simple.
You want to tell him the truth. Maybe he can help you figure this out. This newfound hunger isn’t going away. If anything, it’s just getting stronger.
You don’t really know Colby, though. He’s a nice guy (very cute), and you’ve worked with him on a couple projects, but you wouldn’t call him a friend.
“It’s not because of a breakup,” you say.
“Then what’s wrong?”
You gulp. Well? What do you say?
You tell him the truth.
You tell him that you don’t know what’s happening.
***
“I have no idea.”
Colby half-smiles. “Well, I think it suits you. You’re more substantial now.”
Huh. Not the reaction you expected.
He walks to the exit. He doesn’t leave, though. He clicks the lock and then comes back. He grabs your waist and lets his hands drift down your thickened ass. You feel his fingers reach into the tear in your pants.
“Wh-what’re you doing?”
He traces up your crack. “I’ve always liked a man with a good appetite.” He goes in for a kiss and stops centimeters from your lips. “You hungry, big guy?”
“Uh huh.”
He flicks your upper lip with his tongue. “You had a little chocolate. Right there.”
With his big, beautiful eyes staring into yours, you can’t see what he’s doing with his hands. But you can hear a zip. He just unbuttoned his work pants.
You step back.
For a small guy, his cock is enormous. And ready.
“How hungry are you?”
Hungry enough for saliva to flood your mouth. Hungry enough to drop to your knees and swallow his burning-hot shaft. Colby grabs the sides of your face as you feast. He’s more delicious than any muffin or milkshake. And when he blasts the back of your throat with his cream, you swallow it all.
Your constant hunger is gone. For now, anyway.
See what happens five months later.
***
You’re facedown and naked on the living room carpet, with dozens of chocolates scattered in front of you. You eat them like a vacuum.
Colby crouches behind you. His hands, slick with oil, play with your wobbling cheeks. The bigger you get down there, the longer he plays around before he gets to the good stuff.
“Ready yet?” you ask. “I’m runnin’ out of chocolates.”
He laughs. Slaps your ass. Then his hands spread you open and start loosening up your ring. Before Colby, you were a top. Exclusively. With your tall, muscular body, you absolutely dominated your small, slender exes.
Colby looks like most of your exes, but when you’re at home, he takes control. It feels so right when he’s inside you.
There are times you think he’s the reason you look the way you do. Well, you’re fat because of him. His constant feedings have added 53 pounds of pure softness.
But the fact that all your new fat is stuck to your ass and hips… It feels like Colby’s doing that, too. The way he’s always touching you there, worshiping you, pounding into you. Maybe if you had a less dominant boyfriend, you’d look like a more traditional fat guy. You’d have a bigger belly. You know it sounds crazy, but it’s like he’s willing your new pounds onto his favorite area.
You’re wide open and ready when he slides in. He grips your love handles and rides you like a cowboy.
The carpet tickles your bare skin. Waves roll through your fat. And the last of the chocolates disappear into your mouth.
He screams your name, but you can barely hear it over your piggish grunts.
The carpet goes damp under you. You shoot off seconds before he does. His stream, as always, lasts much longer. It fills you up. More satisfying than Thanksgiving dinner.
Despite doing very little work yourself, you’re left panting and sore. He pulls out with a wet thwop and curls up next to you on the (very stained) floor. “I love you.”
You’re too out-of-breath to respond, but he knows how you feel.
“Let’s go out tonight. Somewhere special.”
“The buffet?” you ask.
He has a mischievous smile. “Actually, I was thinking of a place where I can show you off.”
***
Colby holds the door open and you waddle in. You haven’t been back to the club as a fat guy. It feels weird to be surrounded by all these fit, horny guys. You used to be one of them, and now… Well, people are officially staring.
It doesn’t help that Colby told you to wear short-shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.
He holds your hand and leads you to the dance floor.
“Can you get me a snack first?” you ask.
He pinches your half-exposed cheek. “Course, big guy.”
Together, you approach the bar. As soon as you plop onto the stool, you’re flooded with memories from your short time with the twins. You haven’t thought about those guys in months.
Colby orders a platter of sliders and some beer. The bartender doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked on your moobs. “Uh, yeah. Right away.” He scurries off.
“I guess this place doesn’t get a lot of… guys like you,” Colby says. He rubs your soft, hairy thigh.
“Good thing there’s a lot of me to go around,” you joke. “Actually, I did meet one chubby guy the last time I was here.”
“Yeah? Who was that?” Colby says. “Actually, hold that thought. I gotta piss.” He kisses your cheek and rushes toward the bathroom.
You sit alone for a while. You can feel cold air on your lower back. You’re pretty sure that the top of your crack is exposed. Doesn’t matter.
The bartender comes back with your beer. You take a long sip, wondering whatever happened to those twins.
When Colby comes back, he surprises you by tracing his finger down your crack.
“Babe! Not in public.”
“About time you came back,” the guy says behind you. It isn’t Colby’s voice.
Before you can say anything, the fat twin slides onto the stool next to you. What’s his name again? Grady? He’s exactly the same size, and it excites you to realize that you’re so much fatter than him.
“Uh, hey. Surprised you recognized me.”
“I think I know why you’re here.”
“And why is that?”
“To beg for the antidote,” he says. “Well, it’s gonna cost ya.”
Suddenly, the thin twin appears on your other side. He has a smug smile.
“Antidote for what?” you ask.
That smile disappears. “For the… the milkshake, of course.”
You genuinely forgot that you drank a milkshake with them. Seems like it happened years ago.
“Um, what?” you say.
They both get frustrated. “The milkshake!” Grady says. “Your hunger!”
“I… have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The twins exchange a look. They’re acting like you’re the world’s biggest idiot.
“Don’t you realize why you’re eating all the time?” Grady says. “We put something in your milkshake. You were supposed to come back like a week or two later and beg us for the antidote.”
“Okay? Well, I didn’t come back.”
“And now you’re miserable, right?” Fabian asks. “All you think about is food. It’s taken over your life! Obviously.” He pokes your love handle.
“Let me get this straight,” you say. “You come here, trick guys into drinking a spiked milkshake, and then make money off of them?”
“Yeah,” the thin twin admits. “And out of every guy we’ve done it to, you’re the only one who never came back. We’ve been waiting.”
“I see. Well, no thanks. I’m good.”
Maybe things would’ve been different if you hadn’t met Colby. Maybe you would’ve tried harder to track them down. But your hunger doesn’t bother you. In fact, you love it.
“Don’t try to bargain with us,” Grady says. “It’s $5,000.”
“For what?”
“The antidote!” they scream in unison.
You have to laugh. These guys can’t wrap their brains around how much you love your new life and your new body.
“Are these guys bothering you?” Colby asks. You don’t know how much of the conversation he overheard.
“Yes,” you say.
Your boyfriend, who’s much smaller than either of the twins, grabs them by the collars and pulls them off their stools.
“But…” Fabian says.
Colby punches him in the neck.
Fabian falls backward, too surprised to fight back.
In seconds, they’re both gone.
“What was that about?” Colby asks.
You shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”
By now, your plate of sliders is sitting on the bar. You open your mouth and wait for Colby to feed you.
Byron rolled into town on a thundering Harley, his massive frame dwarfing the bike beneath him. Six-foot-six of solid muscle, skin like polished obsidian, he wore his leather cuts with the casual confidence of a man who'd seen hell and walked back out. To the locals at the diner, to the old women at the church bake sales, to the children who stared wide-eyed from across the street, he was gentle—soft-spoken, quick to laugh, a teddy bear wrapped in tattoos and scars.
But the three had heard about the new arrival. Marcus, Dwayne, and Tiny—though Tiny stood six-two and carried two hundred forty pounds of mean—they'd ruled this town for years. They'd beaten husbands in front of their wives, forced themselves on women who knew better than to report it to a sheriff who was cousin to Marcus's mother. They were untouchable. They were terrifying.
Until they weren't.
They cornered him in the locker room of Miller's Gym at nine on a Tuesday night. The place was nearly empty, just a few stragglers finishing their workouts. When those men wandered back to shower, they found the three blocking the entrance, eyes hard, and they turned around immediately. The sound of the door swinging shut echoed like a gunshot.
"Big man," Marcus sneered, stepping forward. The ringleader had a switchblade in his hand, clicking it open with practiced ease. "Think you can just roll in here and—"
Byron moved. Later, none of them could quite describe it—a blur of motion, the wet sound of fist meeting flesh, bodies hitting tile. Within thirty seconds, the three lay unconscious in a heap of limbs and blood.
When they woke, the world had changed.
They were naked, spread-eagled on the wooden benches, wrists and ankles bound with zip ties that cut into their skin. But that wasn't the horror. The horror was between their legs.
Their testicles had been bound. Tight. Surgical precision with coarse rope, the knots biting deep, the pressure building with every heartbeat. It felt like fire. Like their manhood was being slowly crushed in a vice of agony.
Byron sat before them on a folding metal chair, three wooden baseball bats leaning against his thigh like pool cues. He hadn't changed. Same jeans, same boots, same leather vest. He looked almost bored.
"One question," he said, his voice a deep rumble that filled the tiled room. "Lube. Or no lube."
Marcus spat blood onto the floor. "Fuck you," he gasped.
Byron nodded slowly. "No lube it is."
He stood, selected the first bat—thirty-three inches of ash wood—and walked around behind Marcus. The ringleader tried to thrash, tried to scream, but the bindings held. Byron didn't hurry. He positioned himself, gripped the bat with both hands like he was lining up a swing, and then—
The sound Marcus made wasn't human. It was the sound of an animal being slaughtered, high and broken and endless. The bat disappeared into him, a foot of polished wood forcing its way past resistance, tearing, filling him completely. Marcus's back arched, his eyes rolling white, spit foaming at his lips.
"Jesus Christ! Lube! LUBE!" Dwayne was screaming, tears streaming down his face, piss pooling on the bench beneath him. "Please, God, lube, we'll do anything, please—"
Byron withdrew the bat with a wet sound that made Tiny vomit onto his own chest. He walked to his bag, produced a bottle of petroleum jelly, tossed it onto the floor between the remaining two.
"Shoulda said so," he murmured.
He used the lube on them. It didn't help much. The bats went in just as deep, stretching them, breaking something inside that would never heal right. He monitored the depth carefully, marking the wood with a pocket knife, pushing deeper with each rotation, each hour that passed. Twelve inches became thirteen, fourteen. They screamed until their voices broke, until they were hoarse whispers begging for mercy that never came.
By morning, they were empty husks. Broken, bleeding, unable to walk, their minds shattered by pain and humiliation. Byron loaded them into a panel van naked, their bound genitals swollen to the size of grapefruits, blackening with each mile of the long drive into the mountains.
They arrived at a compound that didn't exist on maps. The air was thin. The nearest town was fifty miles of dirt road away.
The ropes never came off. Not completely. Over the weeks, the lack of blood flow completed what Byron had started—their testicles necrotized, turned black as rotten fruit, and eventually sloughed off in the shower stalls where they were kept. The pain was biblical. The hormonal collapse was worse.
Without testosterone, their bodies softened. Muscle turned to fat, bellies swelling, chests developing into heavy, sensitive breasts that jiggled when they moved. Their hips widened. Their prostates, constantly stimulated by the traffic that passed through, grew swollen and sensitive. Their sphincters lost all tone—permanently gaping, permanently ready, never closing completely no matter how they tried to clench.
The bikers came first. Then the truckers stopping off the interstate, following coordinates shared in private forums. Then anyone with cash and appetite. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, the three former terrors of the town serviced anyone who wanted them. They lived in a converted barn, chained to posts when not in use, fed enough to keep their bodies soft and available.
Marcus lasted three years before his heart gave out. Dwayne made it to five. Tiny was still there, somewhere in the mountains, his mind long gone, his body a commodity, his existence reduced to the only function he had left.
Byron had left town the morning after the locker room. No one asked where the three had gone. The women stopped flinching when they walked to their cars. The sheriff found other things to investigate.
Somewhere, on certain dark corners of the internet, you can still find the videos. The before and after. The transformation. A warning, written in flesh, about what happens when you mistake gentleness for weakness.
And somewhere, on a highway stretching between nowhere and nothing, a big black man on a Harley keeps riding, keeps watching, keeps waiting for the next town that needs a teddy bear with a baseball bat.
The athlete survived the hospital. The appetite survived too. His football scars remained as proof of the athlete he once was. The backside that earned him the nickname “Johnny Cake” somehow remained just as famous. One year later, the lean physique was gone, but the bakery was still open for business. Everything between those old football scars and that legendary butt grew far beyond expectations.
Porter was naked, masturbating in his warm studio apartment, when someone knocked at his door. He tried to ignore it, focusing on the boobs of the woman in the video on his phone, but another louder knock shook him out of his daze. He slipped on some clothes, quickly washed his hands in the kitchenette sink, then looked through the peep hole in his front door. He saw Mr. Jacobs, the apartment building's repairman, looking expectantly at the door and wearing no shirt.
Mr. Jacobs was a large and hairy man with a reddish goatee. Porter thought the man was in his late forties, over a decade older than him. Porter hadn't interacted with Jacobs much since he moved in almost a year ago, though the repairman had been over earlier that week to fix Porter's AC unit. He was an odd man, gruff yet friendly, as likely to joke with someone as he was to get irritated at them. Porter felt a bit uneasy with the middle aged man in his apartment the other day, as Mr. Jacobs kept staring at him while he thought Porter wasn't looking. Porter was told that a part needed to be ordered to finish the repairs, and he assumed that must be why Mr. Jacobs was at his door at 9:30 in the evening, though why the man's hairy chest was exposed, he had no clue.
Porter sighed and opened the door, greeting the man, "Hey Mr. Jacobs. Are you here to...mmmphhh!?"
Porter was stopped mid sentence at the large man lifted up his left arm and stuffed Porter's face directly into his armpit. Porter immediately tried to pull away, but Mr. Jacob's wrapped his other arm around the young man and pulled him deeper into an embrace. Porter felt his mind waver like a lit candle as the intense musk of the man assaulting him blew out the flame of his resolve. He fell limp in the man's arms as he was carried back into his own apartment, the door closing behind them. The dominant aura around Mr. Jacob's crushed any intention Porter might have of resisting whatever was coming next.
"You ain't gotta worry 'bout this, boy. Just been a minute since I last had me a pig in my building. Ya lived alone, and I saw a horny fucker deep in ya just waiting to get out and serve. I'm just here to let 'em out" Mr. Jacobs said as he set Porter down on a couch.
Mr. Jacobs pulled the pig off of him and took a nice long look at his handywork. Porter was unrecognizable, a hot little hog through and through, smiling up hungrily at the man who had accosted him moments ago. There wasi just one little thing he needed to check before breaking in the new pig.
"Stay on the couch and get on your knees, piggy!" Mr. Jacobs ordered, and the pig happily complied, offering his ass out to his visitor and looking out the window at the street down below.
Mr. Jacobs pulled down the pig's shorts and immediately reached out to grab his cock. Porter moaned as his genitals were fondled. Jacobs knew his pigs didn't need large hogs themselves, not while he was around, so he gently squeezed Porter's above average cock. It slowly compressed in size, any mass transferring to the balls. When he let go, Porter's cock was two and a half inches rock hard, adorned with a ballsack the size of a softball. Mr. Jacobs pulled away, but not before giving his pig a hearty slap on the ass. Porter moaned and squealed, in pain but mostly pleasure.
"There we go, now you are Papa's perfect piglet! What was your name again? Porker? Yeah, that's right, it was Porker, wasn't it?"
Porker moaned and nodded, his name rewritten in his head. He looked back at his Papa, his Sir. The now much larger repair man winked back as he pulled down his own underwear and lined up his cock between the pig's round hairy cheeks. Part of the magic Jacobs used to make his pigs ensured that they were always ready to take dick, so he had no issues as he slid into Porker's hole.
Papa Jacobs fucked his pig for well over an hour. Porker came at least twice, overwhelmed yet loving all of it. Each orgasm lasted a few minutes, nice and long like any proper hog. His sir deposited at least three large loads into his hole before departing, promising to be back tomorrow to actually fix his air conditioner and fuck his pig all over again. As Porker got back in bed, though his thoughts were now permanently much slower, he wondered what he was going to do about work, his family, his life. He lifted his arm to rub the back of his head in thought and he caught a whiff of his own hairy, sweaty pit. Though not as intense, it smelled exactly like his Papa's musk. His mind cleared and he quickly fell asleep smiling, knowing that Sir would help him take care of all of that later. He was just a dumb pig, after all.
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