Date: Mon, 2 Nov 2020 21:30:00 -0500
From: Jeff Hamby <jeffhamby1025@gmail.com>
Subject: The Cockpig 3

This story is an original work. It should not be reposted or reproduced in
whole or in part without the author's consent.  Copyright 2020 by Jeff
Hamby.  All rights reserved.

Warning: This story contains sexual acts between adult males
If you do not enjoy this type of material, or if it is illegal in
your country or place of residence, please stop reading immediately. This
story is not in any way an accurate depiction of reality, and any relation
to real persons or acts are unintentional. This story is fiction.


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Special thanks to J.H. for his inspiration



The Cockpig


Chapter 3


Let me tell you a basic fact about faggots: they live in constant
fear. That fear begins the first time they realize, secretly, deep down in
their hearts, that they are inferior. When they first realize they are
different from real men. It's the fear of being found out, of being
recognized as an inferior. Fear of their own desires, that need for cock
burning inside them. Fear of being exposed for what they really are. But
more than that: it's fear of their own need to be dominated, controlled,
used, degraded. They don't just want to worship men's cocks -- they need
to, on a deep primal level. It becomes their main motivation and
drive. That's what sets a true cockpig apart from real men: the inborn need
to serve and obey their betters, no matter how degrading the experience or
rough the treatment. They recognize that need in themselves early on. Even
if they can't admit to it anyone, they know that need is there, that
craving that won't go away. They think about it all the time, hoping for a
man to use them, wishing and praying for the abuse they need, while at the
same time ashamed of their own desires.

Some people say I'm cruel, that I'm abusive to the cockpig or other faggots
I've used, but that's not true. I've never forced anyone to do
anything. Trust me, every disgusting act and degradation the cockpig has
been subjected to, it participated in willingly. That's the key; that's the
mark of a true subhuman cockpig, you see. To it, real abuse would be
denying it the chance to serve, to grovel, to debase itself for my
amusement or the amusement of my friends.

That first night the faggot slept on my floor, I heard him toss and turn
throughout the night, trying to get comfortable, trying to find some
position where the hard floor wasn't making his sore ass and legs hurt
more. I knew he would have a hard time sleeping, especially with those
welts on his ass and his freshly fucked hole damn near turned
inside-out. Good. I wanted the fag tired. I wanted him to sleep poorly, so
that his exhaustion would work in my favor. The brain is more malleable
when sleep deprived, as well as more suggestible. Training a faggot means
reshaping his thoughts, reforming his self-image into what I want it to
be. An image that better reflects on the outside what the faggot feels
inside. But that requires breaking through a lot of mental barriers and
societal programming. Lack of sleep is an excellent tool for training
faggots.

The fag was already awake when I got up, lying there on the floor with his
eyes open, his pathetic little drain straining against the chastity
cage. He looked up at me with a look that was a combination of adoration
and fear. That's exactly where I wanted him mentally. After I threw on some
shorts, I grabbed a leash and attached it to the faggot's collar.

"Heel!" I ordered, and started walking downstairs. The fag quickly started
crawling along behind me, doing his best to keep up. At least he didn't do
something stupid like try to stand up and walk like a person. That would
have been a huge mistake. I led the fag out the back door into the
yard. It's a a big backyard, and I put up a privacy fence specifically so I
could use bitches outside. It's great training for fags; it reinforces that
their status isn't just "bedroom play" but a way of life, regardless of
locale.

I needed to piss. He'd never drank a man's piss before. I'd made him drink
a glass of his own piss on Skype one night, just to test his obedience. It
took him a while to choke it down, but he drank it all. Drinking straight
from a man's cock is a different experience, however, and morning piss is
the strongest and nastiest. I expected a mess, but it was an important test
for the faggot.

Once outside, I made the bitch kneel in front of me with his mouth wide
open. Apparently, he was expecting to suck my cock, but I held it just
outside his mouth. When I started pissing, I could see the fear in his eyes
increase. My morning piss was dark yellow and quickly filled the fag's
mouth. I stopped my flow and ordered him to swallow it. He did, and then
started to cough and choke, the taste making his gag reflex kick
in. Good. I wanted the bitch to suffer through this, to hate every second,
yet strive to obey regardless. That's what true obedience is all about:
hating something yet doing it anyway.

The fag ended up spilling about half my piss. Some he choked down, some ran
out of his mouth, some he almost swallowed, then retched back up. I finally
hosed the faggot down head to toe in piss. I wanted him to smell it, to
know he'd been marked with it. I wanted the scent and taste of it to linger
on his body and in his mouth, as a constant reminder of being used as my
urinal. When we were done, the look on his face was priceless: a
combination of relief that it was over, disgust at what he'd done, and
dissatisfaction with his own failure to swallow it all. That last one,
that's the look that convinced me this fag was worth my time to continue
training.

"Does it need to piss? Need to take a dump, fuckhole?" I asked, as he sat
there dripping with my urine. He nodded, not making eye contact with me. I
knew by now he probably had to piss pretty badly. Time for a new lesson. I
ordered the faggot to heel again and walked him on his leash to the back
part of the yard. When I stopped and turned around, I could see in his eyes
he'd figured out what was coming next, and it terrified him.

"All right, bitch. Do your business," I said, staring directly at him. He
immediately went into one of those full body blushes only gingers can
achieve, his pale skin turning almost as red as his hair from the
humiliation of being ordered to piss and shit in the yard on the end of a
leash, just like a dog. I made sure to keep staring at him while he
tried. Slaves have to learn they are allowed no privacy, no secrets. That's
another tough barrier to break down. This was the first step.

It took the faggot a while, but finally his full bladder overcame his
shame, and he pissed on the grass, squatting there in front of me like a
good bitch, the piss shooting out of his chastity cage. I took the
opportunity to remind him of why that little locked up nub of his was
called a drain and not a cock: this is all it was good for. He just nodded,
almost ready to cry from his own shame. When he was done, I asked if he
needed to shit, but he quickly shook his head no. He was lying, of
course. Just as well -- I had better training in mind for the cunt.

He was still covered in my piss, and frankly, I didn't want him dripping
all over my floors. I looped his leash over the handrail to the back
stairs, and left him there, naked and wet, to dry in the morning sun while
I went inside.

About an hour later, I returned to get the faggot. He was still right where
I'd left him. Even though he could easily have untied his leash, I'm happy
to say the little fuckhole knew better. I led him back inside and ordered
him to make me breakfast. He set to work cooking my food. I knew by now he
had to be very hungry. I purposely hadn't fed him anything the evening
before except my cum. When my breakfast was ready, I had the faggot lick
and clean my feet while I enjoyed my bacon, eggs, and toast. I had a tasty
breakfast while he got to suck the dirt off my soles and from between my
toes. That was part of the message I wanted the fuckboy to get in his head:
I have comfort while he suffers. I was nice enough to leave some scraps of
everything on my plate when I was done eating. I got up and pulled a can of
tuna fish from the cabinet and opened it, then dumped it on my plate with
the rest of my breakfast scraps. I gave it a good stir, then spit in it a
couple of times for good measure. Once the slop was ready, I put it on the
floor and allowed the faggot to eat his breakfast. No hands, of
course. Animals don't eat that way.

I wish you could have seen it. That full body blush happened again. He was
groveling on the kitchen floor, trying to eat this nasty concoction with
just his mouth, getting it all over his face. The smell of my piss was
still very strong, and I know it filled his nostrils and flavored his food,
too. Good. This was just a start, not to mention one of the best meals he
was likely to get in my house. Perhaps I could even move the faggot up to
eating from a dog bowl before the end of the weekend at this rate.

So far that morning, the pussyboy had failed two tests: drinking all my
piss, and shitting outside on his leash. I had fully expected he would fail
those. Those tests were more about measuring his obedience and determining
what mental barriers I needed to break down as part of his
training. However, an essential part of training a faggot is never allowing
any failure to perform as ordered to go unpunished. Otherwise, you just get
more failures, and eventually disobedience as well. No, fags need strict
control and discipline at all times, not to mention swift and certain
consequences.

I filled a large glass with water and ordered the faggot to chug it. He
drank it down while I went to the bathroom. I keep some fast-acting
laxative suppositories tucked away in the medicine cabinet for faggot
training like this, as well as some Viagra. I grabbed two of the
suppositories (twice the usual dose) and one of the Viagra pills. By the
time I returned to the kitchen, the faggot had finished his water. I gave
him another large glass of water, followed by another. I wanted him full of
water. When he'd finished the third glass, I ordered him to put his head
down on the ground with his ass in the air. I took a moment to admire the
pretty welts my belt had left all over his beautiful little ass, then
slowly inserted both the suppositories up his hole. Once they were in, I
gave the fag another glass of water, and told him to swallow the pill,
without telling him what it was.

Those suppositories don't take long to work. After the fag finished his
last glass of water, I grabbed his leash and led him downstairs to the
basement. I have a dog cage down there. Nothing fancy, but it's sturdy, and
just about the right size for a fag. It has padlocks to make it secure. I
unlocked the pussyboy's chastity cage and took it off. I wanted his little
dicklet on full display. He gasped as his little drain was able to fully
expand for the first time in over a month. Then I led the faggot inside the
cage. I attached a short chain to his collar and padlocked it to the top of
the cage, then did the same with his wrist cuffs. The result was to keep
the pussyboy in a kneeling position, unable to sit down, but able to shift
from side to side and turn a little. He was also unable to touch any part
of his body. Then I padlocked him into the cage and left him there.

I didn't have long to wait. I have a camera trained on the cage so I can
keep an eye on any slave locked inside. It took 20 minutes before the fag
started feeling the effects I wanted. The Viagra must have kicked in
first. I could see his little nub get fully hard and start throbbing and
bouncing up and down with his heartbeat. The pussyboy was still incredibly
horny, and he began trying to rub his drain against his leg to try and get
some pleasure, hoping to achieve only his second orgasm in the month since
he'd been locked up. The moment the laxatives took effect, though, was
immediately evident from the look on the pig's face. He suddenly realized
what was about to happen, and that he wouldn't be able to stop it. He
tried, I'll give him credit. He started begging out loud for me to come
back, for me to let him out, pleading for release he knew wouldn't
come. Finally, the medicine overruled both his will and clenched muscles,
and he had no choice -- he shit himself. Probably for the first time since
he was a baby. It started slowly at first, and he fought against it, but
once it started there was no stopping it. I could see from the look on his
face his relief was outweighed by his deep shame at what he had done. Once
his bowels were finally empty, though, the reality of his situation set
in. I could watch the recognition of it dawning on his face, which by then
was already streaked with tears. He realized he was stuck there, sitting in
his own mess, for as long as I left him like that. Even worse, when I
returned, I'd see him that way, covered in his own shit, with his little
nub still hard as steel, no matter how disgusted he was nor how much he
willed it to go down. He appeared to finally realize that this was so much
worse than shitting in the yard like a dog would have been.

Once all that water went through him, he had no choice but to piss himself,
too. Ever try pissing with a hardon? It's not easy, but a full bladder will
have its way. Of course, that meant the pussyboy was pissing all over
himself, simply adding to the cage already filled with his own filth.

I left him like that for six hours.

Six hours, sitting there in his own waste. His nose filled with the stench
of my piss as well as his own piss and shit. The smell a constant reminder
of his lowly status, a reminder that he wasn't able to control anything,
not even his own bladder or bowels. His predicament was because I chose it;
his body responded to my will, not his own. I left him there to think about
the consequences of not performing up to my expectations. I wanted him to
fully grasp that what happened to him was my decision, not his, and that I
would allow him no privacy, no dignity, no choices.

When I finally returned to let him out, he was broken. I could see it in
his eyes. Something fundamental had changed in his brain, as he pondered
and finally grasped the full import of his situation there in the cage. He
cried when I came down to let him out; tears of shame, and also tears of
submission. Not unusual, really. The faggot had all that pent up stress and
fear, built up over all those years of pretending to be something he
wasn't, trying to act like a human and a man, and that had all fallen away
as he sat there, kneeling in his own waste, helpless to do anything about
it. It was cathartic for him, destroying those inhibitions that would have
prevented him from fully serving any real man that chose to use him. I let
him sob and blush while I stared at him, making sure he knew I saw him for
exactly what he was: a subhuman pig in a cage, covered in piss and shit,
still sporting an erection. Yeah, even after the Viagra wore off, despite
the disgusting state of his cage, the humiliation of being seen like that
combined with a very full pair of balls made his little drain stand up and
throb, merely adding to his embarrassment. It was possibly the thing he was
most ashamed of, the piece de resistance.

I left him locked up while I went outside and got a bucket and filled it
with water, then brought it back and set it down next to the cage, along
with an old sponge I used for washing my car. I unlocked him and released
him from the cage.

"Clean up your cage, pig. No one wants a faggot covered in its own shit," I
sneered. I reached out and slapped the little nub between his legs nice and
hard. He squealed and bent over from the pain, but I noticed his drain
didn't go soft: if anything, it just got harder. I could tell he hated the
pain but hated the fact that it turned him on even more. He was ashamed of
his desires and needs, like most faggots. All I was doing was exploiting
that shame, along with his need for abuse.

I stood by and watched while he cleaned his shit and piss out of the
cage. Made him scrub it good from top to bottom, even the parts that
weren't soiled. He had to go outside several times to change the water and
rinse out the sponge, but I didn't allow him to clean himself up
first. That came last. I wanted him walking around with the evidence of his
complete lack of control present on his body for as long as possible. The
stench was terrible, but trust me, it was worth it. This little episode was
a lesson the faggot would never forget and went a long way towards
stripping away the veneer of humanity he was clinging to. It was an
essential part of transforming the faggot into the cockpig it is today.

Once the cage was completely clean to my satisfaction, I ordered to
pussyboy outside, and put him in the 'present' position: standing, legs
spread wide, hands locked behind his head, eyes down. I used the hose to
wash him down, the same way I would clean off any other dirty object I
owned. I think the comparison was pretty clear to him as well. Such things
help to reshape a fag's mind, and act as a reminder to the pussyboy he
isn't a person, but something lesser: property.

I hosed him off good, then leashed him up and left him tied to the railing
again to drip dry. Meanwhile, I went inside and prepared a nice large
enema. Had make sure the bitch was clean inside as well as out. I also
grabbed a butt plug. Not too long, but fat enough that the fuckboy's tight
little hole would be securely plugged.

Once he was dry, I led the pussyboy back inside and bent him over the
tub. He'd never had anyone give him an enema before, and I could tell he
was scared when he saw the bag. It's a big bag, more than enough to fill
the faggot up. I drained it all into his hole, then plugged him with the
butt plug. Nice and secure, with all that water churning in his guts. I
pulled out my cock and sat on the toilet, putting the faggot on his knees,
sucking on my tool. He was working on getting it down his throat when the
first cramp hit him deep inside. I could see it on his face the moment it
hit, and I laughed.

"What's the matter, pig? Guts churning again? Need to release that enema?"
I asked. He nodded vigorously, my cock still in his mouth. "Well, faggot,
do you think that's more important than pleasing my cock and making me
cum?" He slowly shook his head. "Exactly, bitch. Make me cum and the toilet
is yours. I'll pull the plug and it can empty its guts. Make a mess on my
floor and it will lick the floor clean, understand me, faggot?"

The pussyboy nodded. I could tell the cramps were increasing. But I also
knew he would do absolutely anything to avoid soiling himself twice in one
day. From the looks of the way he was clenching his ass cheeks, I surprised
he didn't crush the plug with his hole. He began sucking me for all he was
worth, ramming my cock down his throat, playing with my balls, using his
tongue like a pro. You'd hardly think this was only his second day as a
cocksucker. As the cramps increased, he began groaning and even squealing
around my cock, sending wonderful vibrations all the way up my spine. I
pulled my cock out of his mouth and smacked him with it several times,
watching him desperately try to get it back in his throat so he could make
me cum. This was exactly how I wanted him -- desperate to please me,
desperate for my orgasm, with absolutely no thought of his own useless
nub. His little drain was as hard as steel, slapping up against his belly
as he bobbed on my cock. It was leaking some of that pent-up cum in his
balls, leaving a pool of precum all over the floor. I made the faggot stop
sucking me and lick it up. I've never seen a faggot lick faster than he
did. I could actually hear his guts churning once he got back on my cock.

It wasn't his mouth that made me cum as much as his desperation, his
pathetic need to please me. I grabbed his head and shoved my cock all the
way down his throat and blasted my load straight into his belly. I held him
down on my rod while he sucked out the last drops, knowing that his guts
were reaching emergency status. I wanted the message to be crystal clear to
him: 'My pleasure is all that matters; your suffering is of no importance.'
Once that was burned into his brain daily in dozens of different ways, it
would help complete his transformation into true property. This was just
the start.

Finally, I pulled my cock out of the fag's throat and stood up. Like a dog
waiting on a treat, he stared up at me, pleading, begging, whining for me
to pull the plug out of his hole. I made him bend over the side of the tub
with his ass in the air, then grabbed the plug and pulled it out with one
swift motion. The faggot yelled, then clenched his ass cheeks with his
hands. As much fun as this was to watch, I finally allowed him to sit on
the toilet and void his bowels. Of course, I stood there and watched him
while he did it, to reinforce that he didn't deserve privacy. Once the fag
was done, I made him stand up so I could inspect the toilet to see how
clean his ass was.

"Hmm...looks to me like it's not quite clean in there faggot. So, should I
give it another bag, or just fuck it and let it lick any mess off my cock
when I'm done?"

He couldn't even look at me. "Please, Sir..."

"Well, fuckhole, which one you are begging for? Speak up, cumdump!"

"Please Sir, another bag, Sir," the faggot pleaded.

That one had to be hard for him. But that's how those walls and barriers
are broken down, how they are chipped away one step at a time until the
transformation is complete.

I filled the bag again, then emptied it into the pig's guts and replugged
his hole. I grabbed his leash and led him outside, then put him on his
knees to wait until I was ready to unplug him. He knelt there in the grass
while I puttered around the garage, giving the cramps time to work their
magic on his brain.

After about ten minutes (which probably felt a lot longer to the little
cunt) I grabbed his leash and led him on hands and knees to the back of the
yard, to the same spot where he'd pissed earlier. Time for a replay. When I
asked if he needed to shit, he nodded his head vigorously, desperate for
the cramps to stop. I reached around and again pulled the plug in one swift
motion. He knew better by now than to release without permission, but I
made him wait a minute or two, just enjoying listening to the little
whining sounds he made. Finally, I snapped my fingers and gave him
permission, and he squatted and released his bowels right there on the lawn
like a good little animal. The relief he was obviously experiencing was
mixed with the humiliation of shitting outdoors like a dog, while someone -
a real man, a human - watched. But he did it. And as he did, another
barrier fell, another piece of his humanity was gone for good.

And his transformation from faggot to cockpig continued.

*************************************************************************

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Please contact me at jeffhamby1025@gmail.com