Date: Mon, 2 Jan 2023 15:12:43 -0500 From: Jeff Hamby Subject: The Cockpig Chapter 8 This story is an original work. It should not be reposted or reproduced in whole or in part without the author's consent. Copyright 2023 by Jeff Hamby. All rights reserved. Warning: This story contains graphic 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 resemblance to real persons, places, businesses or acts is unintentional and coincidental. This story is fiction. If you enjoyed this story, please make a donation to keep Nifty in business! http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html The Cockpig Chapter 8 I've said it before, I'll say it again: transforming a faggot is a long, slow process. A psychological process, more than a physical one. Yeah, fucking and beatings are all well and good, but they are more of a means to an end, not the end itself. The end, the goal, of course, is to get the faggot to a point mentally where it can fully accept its purpose and role in life: as an object to serve real men. Everything I do when training a fag is in service of that goal, and designed to help reshape the faggot mentally and physically to be the best cum dump it can possibly be. Anything less is a disservice to the faggot, not to mention to the many alpha males that will use it over the years. Some people are shocked by my training methods. They call me cruel and sadistic. Well, to a point, they are right, I suppose. I am sadistic; I love to see a faggot's face twisting with pain, knowing it is suffering simply because I want it to suffer. Cruel? Sure, if I were doing the things I do to another person, it would absolutely be cruel. But faggots aren't people. Don't let the way they look fool you. They are a different species altogether. If you treat a person with cruelty, if you heap pain and abuse on them, they either fight back or crumple into a heap. But faggots? When you are cruel to a faggot, it blossoms. That cruelty and abuse triggers something deep in the fag's psyche which causes it to open up like a flower, allowing its inner cockpig to finally come forth. The crueler you are, the better the faggot will respond and the more obedient it will become. Eventually, of course, the faggot will realize it is addicted to the cruelty and suffering, that it needs that kind of treatment just to feel complete. Also, this: it isn't all about pain. As I said, pain can be a great training tool, and with some faggots, pain is your main tool, the key to unlocking that inner cockpig. But not always, and certainly not with my little ginger bitch. You have to really dig into the faggot's brain and find what it is most afraid of -- its deep, primal fear -- and then relentlessly exploit that fear until the dumb cunt learns to embrace it, learns to obey regardless of the fear or the pain. Once you do that, the bitch is yours to do with as you please. So, I'd made it a point early on in our chats, long before we actually met, to find out the faggot's fears so I could understand how best to manipulate that fear in order to properly control the cockpig. It wasn't hard to discover, either. This faggot wore its shame almost like a shirt. Hell, most of them do. My little ginger cunt was deep in the closet, and deathly afraid of other people discovering that it was a cock-worshiping faggot. Once I determined that, I was able to easily exploit that fear at every opportunity. Exposure. That was the ginger bitch's nightmare. So, of course, I made that a regular theme of its training. I'd been exposing it more and more ever since the first time we met, when I made it strip in the parking lot of the grocery store before I allowed it to get in my car. Then, I made it piss and shit outside in the yard, like an animal. Sure, my privacy fence meant it was unlikely to be seen by anyone else, but that doesn't really register in the pig's brain the first time you lead it outside on a leash, totally naked in the bright sunlight, and make it squat in the grass to do its business like a dog. The first time I did that, I thought the bitch was going to have a mental meltdown, that's how overpowering the shame and humiliation were for it. It was no different the tenth time I did it, either. The pig still blushed deep crimson from head to toe as I held the end of its leash and watched it use the bathroom on the grass like the good animal it was becoming. Imagine, for a moment, only being allowed to piss and shit with permission, and then only outside, in view of anyone looking, while a real man, fully clothed and supervising your most private bodily functions, holds a leash attached to a collar around your neck. Imagine how that would make you feel and you have a good idea of what it was doing to the cockpig's head. Now, imagine this happening twice a day, every day, along with the knowledge that this was what your life was going to be like forever. That's where the pig was at mentally. The little party with my buddies went a long way toward breaking down some of the barriers in the pig's mind. That was the entire purpose of the party, to ramp up the exposure by showing it off to new people, alpha males who were strangers to it, in a situation where it had no input in choosing who it would be shown to or who would use it. Now it was time for the next step in its training: full exposure to the world. No turning back. Ever. After the party, I let the faggot rest for the remainder of the evening. After all, having four horny alpha males abuse it for hours had taken its toll. It curled up in its cage, still reeking of our piss and cum, its hole still stretched from its performance with the horse dildo, not to mention being rough fucked by all of us. Late that night, before I went to bed, I checked on it, only to find it curled up like a puppy in its cage, deep asleep despite the pain. The welts on its body left by the belt and cane were still fiery red, its tits swollen and raw, with a trickle of cum dribbling out of its well-used ass while more cum was drying on its face. This is the point where experience in training fags really comes into play. A less experienced owner would continue pushing the pussyboy the next day, with little downtime to recover from the previous hard use. Yeah, there is a lot to be said for reinforcing training while the fag is weak and unstable, but I disagree with that approach. I prefer to let my property recover and heal. That makes its daily treatment, as harsh as it is, seem mild or even pleasant compared to the extremes of its use. I wanted it calmed down. I wanted it to recuperate. Both to increase its stamina, and to give me the pleasure of wrecking its mind all over again. ****** Today would be a big day for my cockpig. One it would remember for the rest of its life. I woke it up early as usual, allowing it to crawl slowly out of its cage to kiss my feet. I gave it a friendly little kick in the ass to get it moving, and admired the view as it crawled off to the kitchen to make my breakfast. After I was done eating, I put some leftovers and dry dog kibble in the faggot's bowl, then added my morning piss to give it some extra flavor. The cockpig turned up its nose at such a meal the first few days it lived with me; but, when it finally learned the only choice was to eat what I gave it or starve, it finally learned. By this point, it was hardly fazed by it, and started lapping up the nasty concoction like it was the most delicious thing in the world. When breakfast was over, I took the cockpig outside to do its business, then used the hose to wash it off. I tied its leash to the back deck so it could drip dry in the sun. "Big day today, cockpig," I told it. "Time to do a little remodeling." I walked off, chuckling to myself at the look of abject terror on its face, leaving it there to contemplate what was in store for it. The rest of the day I kept very low key, deliberately. I knew the pig's mind was probably working overtime, trying to figure out what I had in store for it, which was exactly what I wanted. I wanted it in a state of fearful anticipation. I wanted it to be scared shitless of what was going to be done to it, yet submit voluntarily and willingly despite its fear. Later on, when all was said and done, the faggot would know, deep down inside, that it was a willing participant in everything that happened to it. That fact alone would fuck with its mind as much or more than the remodeling would, and go a very long way towards completely and permanently reshaping its identity and self-image. That evening, after I finished eating dinner while the cockpig licked my balls, it was time to go. The cockpig's little brain must have been racing with thoughts about what was going to happen. It had cried several times, and was visibly shaking when I ordered it to put its ass in the air. I chose a long but rather thin butt plug which included a dog tail. That one was a favorite of mine, since it reached deep inside the pig, but didn't significantly stretch its hole, leaving it nice and tight in case I or some other man wanted a nice, tight fuck. The tail was especially embarrassing for the cockpig, since it served not only to make it look less human and more like a beast, but also because it immediately let everyone who saw it know the faggot had a plug up its ass. I dressed the bitch in a clean white jockstrap and a pair of flip flops, then attached a leash to its collar. The perfect look for taking the pussyboy out in public! The cockpig balked a bit when we got to the car. I opened the trunk for it as usual, but instead of climbing right in, it hesitated, trembling. The pussyboy was staring into the trunk of the car like it was staring into the abyss, as if it knew that, once it climbed in, it was doing more than just climbing into the trunk of a car -- it was stepping into an unknown and unknowable future, from which there was no turning back. Sure, I could have ordered it in, or even forced it in, but I didn't. That wouldn't have accomplished anything. Instead, I just stood there, silently staring at it, waiting on it to make one of the few choices left to it. I have no idea what was going on in its pathetic little faggy brain, but eventually, with tears rolling down its cheeks, it crawled into the trunk of the car and I slammed down the lid, leaving it in darkness to imagine what was about to happen. I live out in the suburbs, so it takes about half an hour to get into the city. That's half an hour the fag had to lie there in the dark and contemplate its future, both what the immediate future held, which was surely some public exposure due to the way it was dressed; and its more long-term future, of which tonight's events would be the start. I kept the radio turned off, so I could monitor the bitch. Sure enough, I heard it crying off and on, as it gradually began to accept its future, one completely devoid of any control, any choices, and any privacy. I was taking the faggot to meet my buddy, T.J. He's a good guy, T.J., but I have to admit: he's an angry man. He's had a hard life -- shitty parents, a number of failed relationships and careers, and a lot of bad luck along the way. He'd finally found a couple of things he was very good at, though. One was being a soldier. T.J. was active duty for a while, saw some combat, and remained in the active reserves. The other thing was tattooing and piercing. The man had an artistic flair and a great eye for color and design. He finally decided to open up his own place in Atlanta. He got a great deal on an old camera store that had been vacant for a number of years. By the time he signed the lease, he still hadn't bothered to look too closely at his neighbors, which meant it was about a week after he opened his new shop that he finally realized it was located next to one of the most notorious leather bars in the Southeast, which is how we finally met. T.J. is straight, or at least, mostly straight. He fucks lots of women, so you can figure it out for yourself. It wasn't long after he opened the shop that he began to attract a lot of the gays from next door, so many that he finally talked the bar owner into allowing him to open a connecting passage between the buildings. To supplement his business, T.J. expanded the shop to include leather and BDSM accessories. You remember I told you T.J. was an angry guy? Well, it didn't take him long to realize that all those submissive faggots stopping in to browse were perfect targets for some of his anger. Many of them even craved it and the abuse he provided, mostly in private, but sometimes in a more public setting. T.J. had no real liking for faggots, but, once he learned what they could be good for, he occasionally took advantage of the parade of pussyboys passing through his shop. And trust me, it was a parade at times. T.J. is average height -- about 5'7, just a little taller than my cockpig. He's muscular, but not overly so; he's done a lot of manual labor over the years. Just like my cockpig, he was a ginger, with bright red hair which he keeps military-short and even a freckle or two. Unlike the cockpig, though, T.J. has a massive cock, about nine inches long, cut, and quite thick, nestled in a bush of wiry red pubes. It was a real man's cock, and from what I'd seen over the few years we'd been friends, T.J. knew exactly how to use it, too. There was another reason, though, I decided to involve T.J. in my "remodeling", one which wouldn't become clear to the faggot until we arrived. It was around eight o'clock when I arrived at T.J.'s shop. He has a very small parking lot in the rear, but I avoided it. Instead, I found a spot on the street nearby, about two blocks away. It was just getting dark when I parked, with enough twilight left to make it easy to see. I parked, then sat there for a moment or two, letting the faggot in the trunk really sweat. It had to know whatever was about to happen would start any second. I wanted that suspense to build as much as possible. After a few minutes, I popped the trunk and got out, then ordered the fuckhole out of the trunk. Ever climbed in or out of a car trunk? It's awkward and tricky to do, even more so if your ass has a large plug in it with a tail sticking a foot out of your hole, a chastity cage and collar locked on your body, and nothing to protect you from the night except a jockstrap and some flipflops. The cockpig was trembling as it climbed out, occasionally closing its eyes to try and keep from crying out of sheer, intense humiliation. It wasn't a quiet street I'd parked on; we were on a residential side street directly off one of the main thoroughfares in Atlanta, so there were plenty of cars passing by, along with the occasional pedestrian and plenty of homeless folks scattered around the area. The fact that a lot of the passers-by were themselves gay and probably knew exactly what was going on, may or may not have occurred to the pig. If it did, it probably made the entire situation even worse, since now it was being looked down on and judged not just by regular suburban straight folks, but also by other gays, some of whom just stared in shock, while others openly sneered, laughed, or pointed at the faggot as I paraded it down the street with one end of its leash clipped to my belt, the way you'd lead any dog on a walk. At one point, when we approached an intersection with a "Don't Walk" sign, I stopped directly under a streetlight when had just come on to wait for the signal to change. I glanced at the cockpig behind me. It was blushing beet-red from at being paraded out in public like this, its shame on full display for the world to see. It was using its hands to try and cover its caged drain the best it could, all the while keeping its head bowed so it didn't have to make eye contact with anyone. I grabbed the handle of hair I'd left on its head, (what I called its fuck handle) and pulled its head up, then slapped it, hard, across the face, hard enough to leave a red handprint on its cheek. "Get those hands behind your back, asslicker," I ordered sternly. The little bitch quickly clasped its hands together behind it, revealing to the world its caged drain, barely concealed beneath the thin fabric of the jockstrap. The outline of the padlock and cage were clearly visible through the cotton material, and I could tell that, despite the agony of shame the cockpig was experiencing, the thing it hated the most was the fact that its caged nub was as rigid as the plastic prison would allow. From my perspective, the short walk to T.J.'s shop was uneventful; for the cockpig, it was a nightmare, especially the stares from passing motorists, some of whom decided to honk at the faggot in its slutty outfit. A few pedestrians stopped to stare, some even to laugh, while a few took out their phones to record the scene. One homeless guy began following the faggot and catcalling it, drawing even more attention to it. I'm sure my piggie wanted to melt into the sidewalk, but the dog leash attached to its collar forced it relentlessly forward, on toward whatever hellish experience I had planned for it. The small bell attached to the front door jangled to announce our arrival. The shop wasn't too busy this early, mostly because the bar next door wasn't busy yet; a lot of T.J.'s clientele were folks wandering over from the bar to get some ink or a new piercing, or just to browse the leather and toy collection. As always, it seemed a few were there mostly to browse T.J. -- they flirted with him relentlessly. A few, lucky or unlucky, depending on your viewpoint, flirted successfully now and then, only to experience first-hand what an angry alpha soldier with a big cock can do to a willing faggot. "Hey, man!" T.J. called out as soon as I walked in. "This the new piece of ass you were telling me about?" he asked, nodding toward the faggot. "Yeah, this is it," I said. "Time for some remodeling. I thought you'd enjoy the job." He laughed, then said, "Bring the cunt over here, then, and tell me what you want done to it. I'm sure I can oblige." I marched the cockpig over to T.J., who grabbed it by the hair and pulled its face up to look directly into his eyes, while he took the time to look it over head to toe. At one point, he stuck his finger into the faggot's mouth and pried it open. Of course, the bitch was trained enough that it immediately tried sucking his finger, but T.J. forced its mouth open further and began examining its teeth the way you would with a horse or some other piece of livestock. He also ran his thumb over the red handprint on the side of the faggot's face. "Looks like someone needed some additional correction," he smirked. "What can I say?" I replied. "It's at least learned that anything short of perfect obedience will be painful. Gotta keep the faggot in line." T.J. nodded, then slapped the pussyboy hard across his other cheek, leaving an almost-matching handprint on the other side of its face. Satisfied, he released the faggot and began walking around it. I snapped its leash. "Strip and present, bitch!" I ordered. The faggot immediately kicked off the flipflops and pulled off its jockstrap, then interlocked its hands behind its head and spread its legs, leaving its entire body open for any type of inspection T.J. wanted to do. It blushed again, being shown off and inspected like by a total stranger, in front of other strangers. Oh yeah, everyone in the shop had stopped what they were doing to stare at the cockpig and its predicament. Some were clearly wishing they were me or T.J., with an obedient slave at our command. No doubt a few were more envious of the cockpig, wishing T.J. were inspecting them the same way. T.J. was looking the bitch over good, walking around it, feeling its skin and pinching its nipples, giving the plug a nice hard tug, which elicited a grunt from the fag. He inspected it as thoroughly as a car he was thinking of buying. I could see it trying to watch T.J. everywhere he moved, partially in fear, partially in fascination. This was the moment I'd really been waiting for, the entire reason I'd chosen T.J. for this particular part of the cockpig's transformation. It wasn't just that T.J. had the technical skill I was looking for -- it was his appearance. He looked enough like the faggot he could have been an older brother to it. At thirty-two, he resembled a more mature version of my ginger fag, with one clear, obvious difference: he was a man. Almost the same height and weight, just slightly older, but still a world away from the pathetic piss-drinking creature in front of him. That's what the cockpig needed to experience, this juxtaposition of the two of them, face to face: one a man, a business owner, a respected member of the community and widely desired; the other a lowly faggot paraded naked down the street for all the world to see its shame, its ass plugged and a tail wagging behind it like a dog, its balls full, and its shriveled little dicklet locked away and transformed into nothing but a drain. Here, in real life in front of the bitch, was a direct comparison between what it should be and what it actually was, between that which is respected and honored, and that which is reviled, used, and spit on by normal folks. The faggot was left no doubt about which of those it was. Even if the comparison didn't register in its conscious brain, it would be forever stuck in its subconscious, eating away at any ego it had left, silently confirming what it already knew -- it was different, inferior, subhuman. When T.J. finished inspecting the fuckhole, he turned to me and asked, "So, what are you thinking about this time?" "I have some definite ideas," I told him, pulling out some designs I liked. "I'm thinking about these markings in these places, all in a nice thick, bold black for maximum visibility." T.J. took the drawings and looked them over with a critical, experienced eye. "Yeah, these are easily done. Except this big one, of course. That's going to take some time. You want them all today? Any piercings?" "Oh, absolutely! We can't forget some rings! I want its septum and tits pierced for sure. Get some nice size rings in there for me. I can work on stretching the holes later. Trust me, stretching this faggot's holes is a favorite hobby of mine!" We both laughed, while the cockpig stood there, completed naked except for its collar, leash and chastity cage, still in full present position. I noticed a few new tears leaking out of its eyes when I talked about the piercings. "So, I have to ask," T.J. said, "are we doing this in the back room, or out here? Out here, I'd guess." "Fuck yeah we're doing it out here. Might as well provide some entertainment for your customers!" We laughed again, then T.J. headed to the back room. A moment later, he was back, carrying a spanking bench. It wasn't fancy -- basically a study, wooden sawhorse with a top he'd padded, then attached some shackles for the ankles and wrists. It also had several eye bolts in various places that could be used for more elaborate bondage. Most customers just used a chair or table; T.J. kept this in the back for me and other "special" customers, as well as for his own amusement, of course. T.J. grabbed the bitch's leash and directed it into position on the bench, then secured its wrists and ankles near the bottom of the bench, leaving the pussyboy immobile and helpless. He'd positioned the bench just so, in order to give his customers the perfect view of the faggot. T.J. had apparently decided to handle the tattooing first and get it out of the way. He swiftly jerked the butt plug out of the faggot's ass so the tail wouldn't get in his way, instead shoving the plug in the pig's mouth to keep it quiet while he worked. As the faggot lay there sucking its own ass slime off the butt plug, T.J. started by giving it a "tramp stamp", right at the top of its ass cheeks. He inked SERVE on the left, OBEY on the right. I had him tattoo a circle between the two to separate them, but had him leave the circle unfilled. I had special plans the contents of the circle at a later date, when it became appropriate. After those were done, T.J. repositioned the fuckhole's legs to fully expose its asshole. I heard some murmurs of desire and appreciation from the folks watching as soon as the cockpig's asshole was fully exposed for all to see. One look at that well-trained little rosebud was enough to give half the crowd erections. The next tattoo was more involved. I wanted one to frame the faggot's hole, sort of a tribal-type design that covered the inner part of its ass cheeks and taint, pointing towards and accentuating its asshole, just like a target. It wasn't a complicated tattoo -- the purpose wasn't to decorate as much as focus attention right on the bitch's tight little hole. It was a long process putting it on, so I strolled next door for a drink and some conversation while T.J. worked. By the time I came back, T.J. had created a work of art. Anyone who saw the faggot bent over would immediately see the tattoo, immediately be drawn to the center of it like it was a bullseye, which was exactly what I intended. And who can resist the idea of hitting a bullseye? Regardless of whether they were hitting the hole with a cock, a dildo, a whip or a fist, the cockpig's hole was now an instant center of attention and lust-inspiring conversation piece for any man who saw it. Even better: T.J. had managed to ink the pig in such a way that, when it stood up, the tat was invisible. The only thing you could see was that perfect, pale ass, just waiting to be abused. T.J. untied the cockpig from the sawhorse and ordered it to sit up so he could tattoo the front. He placed the faggot back in a standing "present" position, which not only made it easier for him to work, but allowed the crowd which had gathered an entirely new view of the bitch. The crowd wasn't even pretending to browse anymore; they were gathered around in a loose circle, watching T.J. as he tattooed what was basically his younger doppelganger. First up -- some labels to ensure that anyone that met the faggot knew exactly what it was and what it was good for. I had T.J. ink the word SLAVE in the same bold, black block lettering right on the faggot's beltline, right above its drain. He positioned it so that part of it would be visible (and readable) any time the cunt was shirtless. Can't have a slave hiding its status, now can we? The last tattoo was the most involved. T.J. sat the pig in a chair, then got one of the members of the crowd to stand behind the faggot and hold its fuck handle to keep its head pulled back. I'd decided on a collar tattoo, right where the neck met the chest. On the front of the faggot would be its name: COCKPIG, plain and bold for the world to read; around the back, PLEASE USE ME, not just an instruction, but a plea from the faggot to the world for the kind of treatment it craved. When T.J. was done, it would sit just below the collar of a shirt...an item of clothing the faggot would almost never be allowed to wear. The end result was a permanent collar the cockpig would never be able to fully hide or fully remove -- it was marked for life with what it was, and what it needed so desperately. I went for another drink while T.J. worked on the collar. Ran into a few friends of mine in the bar, friends that hadn't seen the cockpig yet. I invited them back to the shop, and we arrived just as T.J. was finishing up with the tattooing. I stood back and surveyed his work. In just a couple of hours, my little ginger fag had been nicely transformed from an obedient bitch into what a true slave should look like. No one would ever mistake it for a man again, that was for sure! In fact, any man that saw it would immediately know he could use it any way he wanted, no permission required. "Damn man, that looks great!" I told T. J. "Now for some rings. Definitely the septum and tits, and I think a guiche as well. Oh, and I'd like a few studs in its tongue as well. Might as well improve its cock sucking while we are at it," I chuckled. "None of that's a problem, but more than one stud in its tongue will affect its speech, of course," T.J. warned me. "So? No one cares what a urinal has to say anyway, now do they?" This drew a laugh both from T.J. and a number of the folks watching, while also causing the faggot to experience another of those full-body blushes. As if its shame wasn't enough already, now everyone in the room knew it drank piss as well. "Oh yeah?" T.J. grinned. "Cause I've got to piss like a racehorse!" He started undoing his fly while I snapped my fingers and pointed to the ground. The bitch immediately knelt, and I pulled the butt plug out of its mouth just as T.J. was hauling out his big piece of meat. It was impressive, that's for sure: cut, long, thick as a Red Bull can, surrounded by bright red pubic hair. No one had to tell the faggot what to do -- as soon as it saw T.J.'s big cock, its mouth was wide open and its tongue hanging out. Just the sight of a man's cock was enough to turn the faggot into a drooling, desperate suck hole. T.J. used its fuck handle to position the fag's mouth right where he wanted it, then let out a long, relaxed sign as his dark yellow piss began to flow into the cockpig's throat. As he pissed, I heard audible sounds of both arousal and disbelief from guys in the crowd: arousal at the scene of a stud like T.J. draining his dick into the faggot, and disbelief that the pig could swallow fast enough to keep up with the flow. As soon as his bladder was empty, T.J. slowly pulled his cock out and slapped it against the side of the fag's face several times, knocking the last drops of piss off before he tucked it back in his pants. I slapped the cockpig on the side of its head, "Well, bitch? What do you say to the man?" It promptly bent over and began kissing and licking T.J.'s boots, "Thank You for Your piss, Sir," it said. "Let's get busy on those piercings," T.J. said to me. "Up, bitch!" Once the faggot was standing, T.J. reached behind the counter and grabbed a pair of handcuffs he keeps handy (for just such a situation, apparently) which he slapped on the pussyboy's wrists. I could see the faggot was trembling, the idea of having its body pierced obviously scared the shit out of it, but, of course, no one really cared. After all, this was what it was for, in the realest sense of the word -- being used and controlled by its betters. In short order, T.J. had pierced both of the faggot's tits, each piercing causing an agonized squeal from the faggot, just like it was a real pig! Those were tough for it, since the faggot's tits are connected directly to its drain. As scared as it was of the needle in T.J.'s hand, its imprisoned little drain was throbbing so hard I thought it would break through the cage. Next, I had him install three midline studs in the cockpig's tongue. Yeah, it would make it tougher for the faggot to talk and eat, but that was a small price to pay to make its blowjobs even more pleasurable for the men who used it, especially me. Then, the most painful of the piercings: a nice big ring through the septum of the fag's nose, the same way you'd ring an ox or some other form of livestock. Once that was done, the guiche in between its legs seem to barely register when T.J. shoved the needle through its delicate perineum. The rings weren't just for decoration -- they had practical uses, too. The most important one was this: as long as they were in place, the faggot would feel that metal in its body, as a part of its body, acting as a constant reminder of me and my power. I put that mental in the fag; each ring and stud was like an extension of my will and my ownership, to remind the cockpig of what it was and who owned it. T.J. had strapped the fag back down on the sawhorse to install the guiche. Once he was done, he stepped back to admire his work on the tats and piercings. I could see that the design he'd done around the bitch's hole was having the desired effect. T.J. was sporting a nice, big hardon in his pants, which he started rubbing through his jeans while looking at the pig lying there so helpless. I wanted to give him a go at the pussyboy, but we both knew he should have taken care of that before he did all the work. Now that he'd been freshly pierced and tattooed, the faggot would need some time to heal before being used again, even by me. I reassured T.J. he'd get his shot. I had something special planned for the near future. ****** Slaves don't get time off, but even a cockpig needs time to heal, especially after all the modifications I'd had done at once. Waiting on the piercings to heal was the worst part, but I didn't want to risk infection. It's very important to maintain your property and keep it in good working order at all times, both to preserve its value and to prevent you from having to deal with a sick slave. A sick slave unable to serve is the most useless thing on the planet. I gave the pussyboy a month to recover. Of course, that doesn't mean it was "off" during that time, just that I used it more carefully and more gently in some ways, leaving its tits untortured, letting its asshole recuperate, that sort of thing. The hardest part for me was not pulling on its brand-new rings, which is something I love to do. But I assured myself there was plenty of time for that later. Two other benefits of having to wait: it gave me time to make some preparations for the cockpig's big public debut, and it lulled the stupid faggot into a false sense of security, as if the worst part was over after everything at T.J.'s shop. I could actually see it growing more confident and comfortable each day it was on "light duty". Needless to say, the faggot was in for a serious surprise. I wanted this to be a special event, a night my little ginger pig would remember forever, so I made my preparations in advance. Fortunately, Bill, the owner of the leather bar next to T.J.'s shop, is a good friend of mine. When I told him what I had in mind, he was all for it. Finally, the day came, a Saturday; the cockpig was fully healed and had become very complacent, which would simply add to the shock and awe of what was about to happen to it. Once the evening rolled around, I packed some items I'd need into a bag and stored it in the car, then set about decorating the faggot to look enticing. First, a fresh buzz to its hair, leaving the fuck handle in place and securing it with some rubber bands to make it more functional for controlling the cunt. Next, I changed out the fag's chastity cage for one with rubber teeth lining the cage. They weren't big enough to injure the faggot's drain, but enough to be a source of constant torment, regardless of whether that useless little nub was hard or soft. I'd ordered a special jockstrap for the faggot, too. It was hot pink, just right for grabbing attention, but it was also made of thin mesh material, so that it was see-through. As a result, the faggot's drain and padlocked cage were clearly visible even when wearing it. The mesh left nothing to the imagination -- if possible, it made the bitch look more exposed that if it were actually naked. Other than the jockstrap, the only thing the faggot wore was a posture collar, one which was thick enough it had no choice but to hold its head up straight. No more of this ducking its head in shame, hoping normal people wouldn't recognize it. No, I wanted its face on display just as much as its ass was. Speaking of its ass, it was immaculate: perfectly hairless without a mark on it other than the ink. I wanted my fuckhole completely unmarked at the start of the evening. I even took a set of photos, front and back, for comparison purposes later on. The evening started mildly, giving no indication to the pig of what was coming. No butt plug, no leash, just his special jockstrap and collar and a normal little ride in the trunk of my car. It made me hard thinking of the cockpig in the trunk as I drove, lying there imagining what was in store for it, not knowing if it should be thrilled, terrified, or both. Once again, I made sure to park a few blocks away from the bar and shop, so that the faggot would be on parade as we walked. When I popped the trunk and let the cunt out, it could see the leash in my hand, and obviously expected me to attach it to the ring on the front of the posture collar. You should have seen the look of deep shock and humiliation when, instead of the collar, I clipped its leash to the ring through its nose, then clipped the other end of the leash to my belt. Rather than looking like a dog, now the cockpig looked like a real piece of livestock following its owner down the sidewalk. This time, of course, I decided to take the long way to T.J.'s shop, parading my fuckhole right down the side of one of the main thoroughfares in the city; taking my time, letting the pedestrians and people driving by get a good look at my young freak on a leash, my prized subhuman beast. This is where the posture collar really starting coming into play. It was obvious the faggot desperately wanted to hide its face, to stare only at the ground and not risk any eye contact with the general public, which was currently engaged in judging the little freak. The more we walked, the more there were catcalls from passers-by, not to mention honking from cars that saw us. One car slowed down right in the lane of traffic, with three passengers all hanging out the windows, recording the pussyboy on their phones while laughing their asses off. I just made it a point to walk a little faster than the cum dump, in order to make sure that the leash attached to its nose ring had maximum visibility to anyone looking. Even more than its own nudity, it was being leashed and permanently marked that were currently the main source of the bitch's humiliation. Even though our destination was the bar next door, I went directly to T.J.'s shop, which had the added effect of scaring the hell out of my pet faggot. It obviously assumed it was there for more modifications, an idea which visibly scared it. I could see the pussyboy trembling in fear, which was fine by me. I wanted it fearful and apprehensive. It was one way to guarantee perfect obedience, no matter what I told it to do. But T.J. wasn't doing any work on the faggot that night. We stopped off to pay off part of the debt for the faggot's previous modifications. You see, part of my deal with T.J. is he gets to use my pussyboys any time he wants in exchange for his professional services. Since he'd done so much work on the bitch during the previous visit, I elected to wait until it was fully healed to pay up, and this was the perfect opportunity to do so. Let me tell you, he wasn't wasting any time, either. When I walked in with the cum dump in tow, he already had the sawhorse bench out and ready, which just served to further convince the faggot it was in for more "remodeling". I barely had time to put down my bag and unleash the cunt before T.J. was guiding it towards the bench. Some of his cronies and regulars were standing around as well, obviously ready for a show. I was proud of the fact that, even though it was trembling in terror of what changes would be made to its body this time, the cockpig made no protest, but obediently bent over the bench when ordered to do so. T.J. strapped it down the way he wanted it, with its hole clearly exposed to the world. I don't know if the crowd that had assembled to watch was more interested in the cockpig or T.J., but there was an audible murmur of appreciation from the crowd when T.J. pulled out his thick piece of meat and began feeding it to the faggot. "Been wanting to test out that triple tongue piercing since I put it in," he grinned, sliding another inch of his cock down the pussyboy's throat. "Ah yeah, those studs feel great. Man, I'm jealous as shit!" he groaned with pleasure. "That throat is yours any time you wanna use it," I assured him. I always enjoy the sight of another man putting my property through its paces, and T.J. definitely knew what he was doing. He buried the fag's nose deep in his bright red pubes, using the fuck handle on its head to hold it in place, the entire length of his cock buried down the slave's throat. I could see the faggot's face turning red as it struggled to breathe, but it knew better than to try to pull away, to try to clear the cock obstructing its throat enough to gasp some air. What does that say about its training, that it knew, if the choice was suck cock or breathe, it better choose the cock? T.J. continued to pound the bitch's mouth, sawing his rod in and out, occasionally pulling it all the way out of the fag's mouth. A long trail of mucus and saliva stretched out each time he did so, creating a constant connection between this massive cock and the obedient cock sleeve in front of him. Each time he slapped the fag in the face with his erection, a loud, wet smack echoed through the shop. The crowd was mostly silent, enjoying the show, in awe of T.J.'s utter domination of the little cunt in front of him. Every time he shoved his tool back into the fag's mouth, I could see its throat visibly stretch to accommodate the sizable tube sliding halfway to its belly. The faggot was drooling and gagging from the assault on its throat when T.J. abruptly pulled his cock out and walked behind the fag. It was panting from the face fucking it received, gasping to try and get the air back in its lungs, when T.J. moved in behind it. He grabbed some lube from where he'd set it on the counter and began rubbing it on his erection, adding it to the faggot's throat mucus. I was right about one thing: the new tattoo framing the faggot's asshole really did act like a target. Just seeing its ass cheeks spread open on that bench, that tight pink hole winking at him as the cockpig readied itself, knowing the violation that was about to happen, was almost enough to make me cum. T.J. didn't need any further incentive or instruction; he drove his big cock home in one long stroke, all the way in balls-deep with just one powerful thrust. The faggot let out a piercing scream and a grunt, the sound of a fuckpig with a really big one up its ass. T.J. wasn't wasting time being subtle, either. He was pounding the faggot's ass even harder than he'd pounded its face, going for a bullseye with every thrust, even pulling all the way out of its hole just so he could ram it in again full length over and over. The show T.J. was putting on certainly had its effect on me. There was no point in letting the faggot be lazy and only use one of its holes, so I walked in front of it, unzipped, and shoved my cock down its throat, right where it belonged. T.J. had evidently enjoyed the triple tongue piercings, and now I knew exactly why. I hadn't fucked the faggot's mouth while the piercings healed, mostly because I knew this moment was coming, and I wanted to savor it. There is nothing a fun as being balls-deep in a cockpig's throat while another really big cock is ramming it from the back. From the muffled noises it was making, you'd think our cocks were meeting up deep inside the faggot, coring it out, leaving it feeling like it was being turned inside-out with each thrust. Finally, T.J. had more than he could stand. He let out a roar like a lion and rammed his cock into the fag's hole so hard the entire bench moved. Seeing him cumming set me off as well, meaning the cockpig was suddenly flooded with cum from both ends. I stood there for a moment letting it clean the residue off my cock before I stepped aside and zipped back up, allowing T.J. to insert his dick back into its mouth for a good, thorough cleaning as well. Most of the guys who'd been watching had their cocks out by now, either jacking off or getting busy with some of the other guys. A few crowded around the faggot, hoping to get a shot at its ass or mouth. I've always believed sharing is just neighborly, and the cockpig was a bit out of practice worshiping cock, having had all that downtime to heal. It would do it good to get some practice; so, when T.J. was done, I waved to the others that they were welcome to partake. There were only about six guys total that wanted to use the pig. The others were more interested in playing with each other, apparently. The six that were more serious lined up front or back and began taking turns in one hole or the other, fucking the bitch in both ends, adding their loads to its holes, or occasionally shooting on its face or ass. By the time all the men were satisfied, the faggot was panting from exhaustion, which made me smile, since I knew the evening was just getting started. I also had a special treat for T.J. later on, to show my appreciation for all he did for me. I left the faggot tied to the bench in T.J.'s shop while I found Bill, the bar owner. The crowd was just starting to come in, and Bill helped me get everything set up the way I wanted it. Most of the items I needed I'd brought in my bag. As soon as everything was in place, I went back to the shop to fetch my fuckpig and give it a big surprise. Before anything else though, I added a few items to the cockpig's attire. The first thing was a thin leather belt with metal rings all around it -a bondage belt. I strapped it on the faggot, giving me plenty of ways to restrain it as needed. Next, a set of leather wrist cuffs and matching ankle cuffs, all padlocked in place on the cockpig. Once I'd finished outfitting the pig and again clipped the leash through its nose ring, I led the pathetic cunt through the bar, where its near-total nudity and utter degradation attracted plenty of stares and catcalls from the patrons. Blushing deep red all over, the cum-covered slut followed me into the men's room. The bathroom at the bar isn't much -- two urinals, one stall without a door, and a sink. There was a space between the two urinals, designed to allow guys to piss with at least a minimum of privacy. Now, however, there was yellow "caution" tape over both urinals, with signs reading, "Out of Order" on both of them. In between both, at eye level on the wall, was another sign: "Urinals broken -- Use Faggot" in big block letters. Directly below the sign was something the cockpig couldn't help but remember, an old friend from its nightmares -- the horse dildo. Even here, it was huge and unreal. The very head of it was eight inches around, a real gut-wrecker, and it only got thicker from there. The 15-inch shaft was a terror to look at. I'd used the suction cup on the bottom to affix it to the bathroom's tile floor, then lubed it up nice and slick. I could see tears in the cockpig's eyes when I snapped my fingers and pointed, my order as clear as if I'd spoken aloud. Sobbing from shame, the ginger cunt positioned itself over the tip of the dildo and began to slowly lower itself down on to the painful knob at the top. Despite the good stretching its ass had just received from multiple cocks, this monster was too big to go in easily -- too girthy, and far, far too long. The faggot leaned its back against the wall between the two urinals for support, then slowly slid down the dildo about nine inches before it was panting and gasping from the pain of having its delicate ass stretched so far. As soon as it was settled with as much of the horse cock as it could take, I used some clips to connect its ankle cuffs and wrist cuffs to the rings on the bondage belt. Now, the faggot was truly stuck: unable to stand up to remove the massive horn of rubber buried in its guts; unable to use its hands to support it or relieve the pressure of the rubber cock pressing inside it, the fag had no choice but to squat there, impaled, until its leg muscles finally gave out and it slid even further down the cruel rubber invader. The final touch Bill and I had added was lost on my impaled pussyboy -- a color camera with sound in the corner of the ceiling, giving a nice side view of the faggot and everything done to it. Not only would this allow me and my friends to observe the pig's suffering, but the footage would be very entertaining to my friends around the world when I decided to share it. I examined the way the fuckhole was set up, and decided it needed one additional touch. I retrieved its leash and attached it to its nose ring again. The other end of the leash I loosely tied around the handle of one of the urinals. The posture collar it was wearing forced it to keep its head up and face showing; the leash pulled its nose up, leaving its mouth hanging open for use. A perfect urinal. Bill and I left the faggot there like that, skewered and helpless, while we retired to the office in T.J.'s shop. T.J. had a laptop set up, streaming the video from the camera in the bathroom. The three of us sat and watched the drama unfold. You see, the faggot had a terrible predicament: the dildo buried inside it was huge, far too big for it to take, as small as its body was. It was using all its strength and concentration to maintain its position, to keep from sliding any further down. But, in a battle with gravity, gravity will always win, so the pussyboy was constantly having to strain to lift itself a little off the rubber horn, to get even momentary relief from the pain in its guts. That alone was taking every ounce of its concentration and effort. Unfortunately for the pathetic bitch, there were other duties that it had to attend to. It had been struggling there like a bug pinned to a card for about four or five minutes when the first bar patron came walking in, an older man in full leather, holding a bottle of beer. He took one look at the cunt on the floor, then read the sign above its head and began to grin. Before the faggot could even react, he had his cock out and was pissing in its face, really hosing it down, some going in its mouth, some dripping down its body. The desperate little cunt, inside of trying to close its mouth or turn away like a normal person would have, instead opened its mouth wider, its programming taking over at that moment, and that programming told it that a man's piss belonged inside it, was an honor for it to drink, no matter how nasty. I could see the confusion and shock on its face, as its programming and innate need to be used fought against its more rational ego. The fuckhole swallowed every drop the man allowed it to have. And thanked him after he zipped up, too. Word must have spread quickly around the bar, because, after that, there was a steady parade of men into the toilet. All of them waited their turn to piss down the pussyboy's throat. A few even decided to fuck its face and feed it a load of cum. At first, I was keeping track of how many men used it, but I quickly lost count. Bladder after bladder of man piss was emptied into the bitch's mouth, which it had no choice but to swallow. A few guys even got creative. One decided to turn around and stick his asshole in the fag's face, rubbing his sweaty crack all over its mouth and nose while the pig tried its best to lick it clean. Other one, seeing this, decided to go a bit further. He dropped his pants and turned around, placing his asshole right on the cockpig's lips, then ripped a nasty fart right into its unprotected mouth and nose. He left, laughing like a hyena, while the pig squatted there, gasping and retching. The natural result of all this use was that the pussyboy was more focused on the cocks in front of it than the rubber one up its asshole. Its attention divided, it was ever-so-gradually sliding further and further down the giant dildo, taking more of more of the animal cock up inside it, well past its second sphincter and deep into its guts. It was a deeper violation than the faggot had ever experienced, and I could see its mind going into overload from all the combined sensations, including ever-present smell of the piss and cum which covered it. Man after man made use of it. They were all kinds -- young and old, attractive and ugly, big and little. Black, white, Hispanic and Asian, they all emptied their bladders and sometimes their balls on the helpless pussyboy skewered on the horse cock. It wasn't even a person to them at that point, but rather a convenient, obedient appliance, a toilet, just like the metal and porcelain versions on both sides of it. Then, of course, there was the betting. I think it was after the fifth guy pissed down the cunt's throat that the three of us watching began making bets on how long it would be before the fag had no choice but to piss on itself. If there was anything I knew the bitch would find more degrading than its current situation, it would be losing control of its bladder, one of the few bodily functions left under its control. Of course, I'd foreseen this, which is exactly why it was "installed" the way it was. There was a drain in the floor of the bathroom, so it wasn't like the men coming in would be forced to stand in the faggot's piss; that wouldn't have been acceptable at all. I knew that with the volume of urine it was being forced to swallow, plus that fat horse cock pressing against its bladder from the inside, the fuckhole was going to lose control of itself sooner rather than later. So, a game developed, with the three of us watching and shooting the shit, laying bets on which of the guys would add just enough piss to the fag's belly to send it over the edge and make it piss on itself. T.J. won the game, selecting a young frat-type guy that was obviously very drunk. He stumbled into the restroom, took one look at the pig on the floor, and started laughing hilariously. He was still laughing when he let loose a torrent of piss into the faggot's mouth, never letting his thick, uncut cock touch the lips of the pathetic subhuman urinal at his feet. As soon as he was done and walked off, the cockpig gave out a sad little cry and let loose its own torrent of recycled piss all over the floor. By the time we got bored of watching its torment, the fag's belly was swollen from all the piss and cum the men had so graciously given it. There was actually a small crowd that followed us into the bathroom when I finally decided to remove the pig. The stupid bitch had been squatting over the dildo when we'd first installed it; by the time I came to reclaim my portable toilet, it was kneeling on the hard tile floor in a small puddle of its own piss, crying. The massive rubber cock was deep inside it, penetrating it in places never before touched, making it feel like the giant horse dick was a part of its body, a foreign invader which would never leave. It took both me and T.J. to lift the cunt off the floor and get it off the dildo. The loud pop when the head of the dildo came out of its ass amused everyone watching. Of course, its legs were too weak for it to walk, so we practically carried the faggot out into the middle of the bar, dumping it in the center of the dance floor. The music stopped and the spotlights were quickly trained on the desperate, piss-covered cockpig lying there, the center of attention. T.J. left and came back quickly with the bondage bench at my request. Bill and I had discussed it, and we felt some public entertainment was in order. I helped T.J. get the fag attached to the bench again, making sure its hole was clearly visible to the crowd which had gathered on the dance floor to see the show. Imagine the sight of my little ginger faggot, its small, compact frame pushed to the limit, with its tight little hole now stretched to the point I probably could insert my fist without any lube. It was lying there completely and totally exposed -- hell you could even see inside its ass! Any thoughts of privacy or hiding what it was were long gone. This was the ultimate display, the cockpig at its weakest, at its most helpless. And best of all, that ass tattoo, marking its hole as a perfect target, ready to be hit or penetrated. It was enough to drive a man crazy with desire, even with its hole all stretched and gaping the way it was now. The contest was simple, and took advantage of the built-in target. Each man would stand a set distance behind the faggot with a whip or a belt. Each got one chance to hit the cockpig's asshole. A direct hit on the hole won an additional attempt. Three direct hits in a row won, but you were also out of the game. Bill was kind enough to supply a long single-tail bullwhip for the game, while T.J. took off his own thick leather belt, which both he and I preferred for beatings. The excitement in the crowd was palpable as Bill, by virtue of being the bar owner, lined up for the first crack at the fag's hole. He took aim carefully, the reared back and let the bullwhip fly! It struck the pussyboy's dilated asshole right on the outer rim, causing it to squeal like the pig it was and try to levitate off the sawhorse. The crowd cheered and applauded, while Bill took a small bow and lined up for his next shot. The next lash went wide, leaving an angry red welt on the cockpig's ass cheek. Bill moved aside, and T.J. took his spot. T.J. grabbed the buckle of his belt in the palm of his hand, then wrapped it around his hand several times, until he had a small tail of the belt left, giving him maximum control. While it didn't have the reach that Bill's bullwhip did, it made up for it with accuracy. T.J. threw his arm back and then brought the belt down full-force, with the tip of the belt actually hitting the delicate tissues just inside the pig's asshole, now left exposed and vulnerable as a result of its distended sphincter. The faggot screamed at the top of its lungs, no longer able to form words, just incoherent sounds of pleading, suffering, and need. I stopped T.J. before he could take his second swing because an idea had occurred to me. I moved over to the bench and unlocked the fag's chastity cage. The tiny teeth lining the cage are a torment, but considering what the faggot had been through that night, I wasn't entirely sure it had noticed. Now, however, its little nub was uncaged for the first time in over a month, the last time being during the party at my house. At that party, the pussyboy was told he would only be allowed three more orgasms before its chastity became permanent; the first of those came at the end of the party. Now, I thought, would be an excellent time for another one. I quickly explained the situation to the assembled crowd, drawing more laughs at the cunt's predicament. I ensured that its drain, which was hard despite (or perhaps because of) all the abuse, was pulled back between its legs. With any luck, anyone who missed the fag's asshole would hit its dicklet instead. I was eager to see what resulted. T.J. moved into position and took aim once more. When the belt landed, it was another direct hit on the asshole for the ginger bitch. It squealed again, drool falling out of its mouth as it did so. It was beyond words, in a mental state where all it could do was suffer and react, suffer and react, and most of all -- obey. After taking the accolades of the crowd for his accuracy, T.J. lined up for his last shot. This time, however, I saw an evil grin on his face right before he left the belt fly. He'd let out some slack on the belt aimed slightly lower this time. When the belt fell, the tip of it hit the faggot right on the bottom of its drain, right where it is most sensitive. The wide belt managed to hit its overly-full balls, taint, and asshole as well. I've never heard anything like what happened then. The faggot made an unearthly sound from deep inside, a type of plaintive, primitive squeal, followed by a high-pitched keening as its little nub began spewing cum in long ropes all over everything. The pig's entire body was rocked by the power of the orgasm combined with the pain from the belt along with the utter humiliation of the crowd watching it. Both pleasure and pain melded into one overwhelming sensation that it would crave for the rest of its life. Now, naturally, since the faggot had its pathetic little orgasm, that was the end of the game and the end of the show, right? The only merciful thing to do, of course, was to unlock the pussyboy, clean it up, and let it rest for a good long while. Not even close. I couldn't deny all those other men there the chance to abuse my toy, so the ginger bitch lay where it was on the bench, reeking of piss and cum the way a good faggot should. The men lined up then for turns, some aiming carefully for its asshole, hoping for the chance for additional blows, while some of the others (clearly the cruelest of the crowd) aimed for its unprotected balls or drain. Like most guys, the faggot's drain became incredibly sensitive after it came, something I'd taken delight in using to torment it with in the past. Now, however, it resulted in a new level of agony each time the whip or belt make contact with the hypersensitive head. Of course, any sexual pleasure the fuckpig had been getting from the beating was gone now, which meant its suffering was multiplied. Of course, a lot of the guys in the crowd wanted to use the fag's holes, but I had other plans. I let the game go on for a while, and there were a surprising number of winners, guys who managed to get three directly blows right on the bitch's asshole. By the time I called a stop to it, the cockpig's ass was welted and red all over, crisscrossed with a hatching of thin whip marks and wider imprints from the belt. The welts extended to its inner thighs, balls, and even its pitiful drain. Now was time for my special treat for T.J., my surprise. The faggot's hole had been beaten enough it was now swollen, the outer ring puffy and tight again, the inside bruised and battered. The sphincter had swollen enough you couldn't see inside the bitch's ass anymore. I knew what it was like, because I've beaten fags' assholes before, even if this was a first for my pussyboy. With a flourish, I invited T.J. to enjoy one of the greatest fucks he would ever experience. He didn't hesitate, but moved in behind the pig and, once again, snapped his hips forward and speared the fag with one long thrust. The swollen tissues of its asshole were filled with blood, making them feel superheated around T.J.'s thick rod. Deep inside, the sore spots left by the horse dildo were already an agony, only to be made that much worse each time T.J. rammed into them with his own massive member. He let out a sigh of contentment as soon as his cock was buried up past the faggot's second sphincter. "Fuuuuuck! That's amazing!" he moaned, to the delight and encouragement of the crowd. The swelling caused by the beating made the sloppy hole tight again, a hole which was which was red-hot and pulling at T.J.s cock with each stroke. Every time he withdrew his cock, it looked like he really was turning the fag inside-out, rearranging its guts to fit his shaft. "It's so hot!" T.J. exclaimed, thrusting harder, "I don't think I'm ever gonna fuck an ass again without beating it first!" We all laughed at that, and T.J. brought his hand down on the pig's ass cheek for good measure. The pain must have been beyond belief for the faggot. Even restrained, it was all T.J. could do to stay inside it. The faggot was bucking like a bronco, trying its best to dislodge what must have feel like a searing rod of red-hot iron buried inside it. The crowd was loving it, catcalling encouragement to T.J. and filming it on their phones. Finally, with another loud roar, T.J. shot his load deep inside the pig where it belonged, his grip leaving deep fingerprint bruises on the pussyboy's ass cheeks. When T.J. finally recovered, he was nice enough to allow the faggot to clean the combined cum, lube and ass slime off his cock. I debated allowing the rest of the crowd to enjoy its holes, but I could tell the fag was spent, and decided it was time to head home. We unstrapped it and got it back on its feet, wobbly as a newborn colt, reattached its chastity cage, and clipped the leash to its nose ring. I said my goodbyes while the pussyboy obediently kissed the boots of all those who were generous enough to use it. We were headed back to the car when I felt a small tug on the leash. When I looked back, the faggot murmured in a small, scared voice, "Please, Master, I really need to pee!" Indeed, its belly was still a bit swollen from all the piss and cum it had swallowed. I'm nothing if not accommodating of the needs of others. I led the faggot up to the next streetlight, leaving it to stand there in the pool of brightness, spotlighted by the yellow sulphur glow, and gave it a single command, "Piss now." Only a short time before, such an order would have embarrassed and humiliated the faggot to the point it would have tried to melt into the ground. Now, though, it simply squatted like the good, obedient bitch it had become, and pissed like any animal would while I held its leash. Its transformation from faggot to true subhuman cockpig was almost complete. *********************************************************************************** Thank you to all who have written to me with feedback about this story! Your interest inspires me. Please contact me at jeffhamby1025@gmail.com