This story is an original work. It should not be reposted or reproduced in whole or in part without the author's consent. Copyright 2021 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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The Cockpig
Chapter 6
You know what the problem is with most of the people who call themselves "masters" or dominants or whatever? Patience. They lack sufficient patience. Most of the time when they find a faggot who wants to become a slave, they try to rush things, expecting the fag to uproot his life and change everything at the drop of a hat, to suddenly go from a faggot that fantasizes about being property to actually living that way overnight. Then, when that doesn't work out, they're shocked.
That isn't how it works at all. It takes time. Incremental changes, some big, some small, but all directed toward one goal: bringing out the faggot's inner self. Like stripping away wallpaper to reveal a hidden mural underneath, you have to work slowly, to keep from spooking the bitch. Trust me, your faggot has known for years what's really inside him, and is terrified of letting others see it, of what might happen if that inner self became his outer self, fully exposed to the world.
My job is to bring that inner self to the surface. To get rid of that facade built up over the years which has become the fag's outer self, the face he shows to the world to convince everyone he's "normal"; and, instead, reveal what lies within, his deepest, darkest, most primal craving: the need to grovel and serve a man - a real man.
Transforming a faggot into a real cockpig, a true piece of property worth owning, is a slow process. It takes time and determination to overcome all those barriers -- mental, physical, and social. The social ones are the toughest, since those are ingrained in the pussyboy's mind from a young age. Too bad, because all of that social programming normal people get is totally wrong for a faggot. Imagine how far most faggots could go, how much happier they would be, if, from childhood, they received proper training for their role in life; if they received the social conditioning they needed to fully accept what they are and how they should live, allowing them to finally take their proper places at the feet of their betters.
I'd been very patient with my little ginger bitch. He was like a scared little colt at times, ready to be broken, knowing the saddle and bridle were his future, but scared nonetheless. That's why I took my time. Months I'd invested in the process; waiting, training, pushing when he balked, comforting him when the little faggot got scared, reminding him this was what he was born for, what every fiber of his being wanted, needed, craved. Once, during his months at home, during the time I'd confined him to his room except for work, he balked. He got scared that being owned property wasn't right for him, that he wasn't going to be "living up to his potential" as he put it. One Skype call corrected that.
He had a full-length mirror in his room. Once I had to little cunt on the call, naked as the day he was born except for his chastity cage, I made him go stand in front of the mirror.
"Take a look at yourself, bitch. Really look," I ordered him. "Now, let's talk about what we see. Do you see a man in that mirror?"
"No, Sir," he replied softly.
"No, you don't. Know why? Well let's start with the physical stuff. First, a man would be bigger, wouldn't he? And have more hair on his body. He'd look more like a man, and less like a boy, wouldn't he?" I asked.
"Yes, Sir," he said, hanging his head.
"No, faggot, get that head up. I want you really seeing what everyone else sees. Turn around," I ordered. He slowly rotated until his ass was facing the mirror -- that small, tight, creamy white ass of his with those narrow hips. "Look at that ass, cocksucker. Does that look like a man's ass to you?" He shook his head slowly. "No, it doesn't. In fact, that ass is sculpted just perfectly for one thing and one thing only. What do you think that is, bitch?"
He started blushing, one of those full-body blushes where his body turns as red as his hair. "Fucking, Sir," he practically whispered.
"Louder, faggot. Tell me what that ass is made for."
"Fucking, Sir! It's made for a man to fuck, Sir!" he yelled.
"Exactly, cunt. That ass is just perfect for a man to fuck. That ass was made for fucking. It would be a sin to let it go to waste, a crime for an ass like that not to be fucked daily for a man's pleasure, don't you agree, pussyboy?"
"Yes, Sir," he replied, turning even deeper red.
I ordered him to turn back around, facing front. "Now, fuckboy, what's that between your legs?" I asked.
"Sir, it's your chastity cage."
"Chastity cage? That's not something a man would ever let someone put on him, is it?
"No, Sir," he said. He blushed again; his shame almost palpable through the computer video.
"How long has it been on there, pussyboy?" I inquired. He'd better know the exact amount of time. I told him when it first went on that I couldn't be bothered to keep track of how long a faggot was locked up, and, that if he didn't know, obviously, it didn't matter. It gave the bitch something to hold on to, and kept him believing the length of his denial was significant, that his suffering mattered.
It didn't.
"Sir, 92 days, Sir! It's so horny Sir!" he whined, a look of pleading hope appearing on his freckled young face.
"No one cares, though, do they fag?" I asked pointedly.
"No, Sir. No one that matters," he replied quietly, his hope destroyed as quickly as it appeared.
"Exactly, pig. Now, what's inside that cage?" I demanded.
"My drain, Sir," he replied automatically. It was like making him recite his catechism, checking to see how well he'd learned his lessons and how effectively I was reshaping his mind, right down to his vocabulary.
"What the hell is a drain, pussyboy? Isn't that your cock?" I demanded.
"No, Sir, it's my drain. Only men have cocks, and cocks are for fucking. Mine hasn't ever penetrated anything and never will, because I'm just a faggot. This is nothing but a drain, Sir. That's all it's good for and all it will ever be good for, Sir."
"Quite right, pig. It's just a small, piece of plumbing, isn't it?" He nodded, ashamed. "Look at it, faggot. Look at it right now. As much shame as you are feeling right now, look at that drain. It's swelling and filling your chastity cage, isn't it? Being abused and disgraced like this makes it hard, doesn't it?
"Yes, Sir," he whispered, a tear sliding down his cheek.
"So, faggot, look at that little body, that sculpted ass, the useless drain a real man has locked away as it should be, and tell me what you think you were put on this Earth for, bitch. What possible reason could there be for a boy that looks like that and behaves the way you do? What role could Nature have intended, I wonder?"
He sighed, turning red again, accepting what he knew to be true. "Fuckboy, Sir. A slave. Serving a man like you or any man that will use it, Sir."
"Exactly," I said. I was pleased. His training was working out well, his mind slowly reforming the way I wanted it. This was a turning point, where he finally accepted his true nature; where he didn't just think about it, or feel it, but looked in the mirror and actually saw it for the first time. Saw his inner faggot slave looking back at him from the mirror, and understood it as what he really was.
After that, I knew we were on the downhill slide for his transition, and that he was almost ready to come live with me as my property. To go from "him" to "it". I'd taught him to refer to himself only as "it" early on, so I could get him thinking less like a person with choices and rights, and more like the subhuman object we both knew he needed to be. But while he lived in his apartment, that transition could never be fully complete.
That moment I led him out of his apartment for the last time on a leash, after the scene with his now-former best friend and roommate, that was when the transition really happened. When I'd forced him to choose between maintaining his friendship and "normal" life or obeying me, he'd chosen to obey. He'd made the mental commitment, in addition to the physical ones.
Now, he was mine. Now the real training could begin.
Routine is important to training cockpigs. They need the security and predictability that comes with certain routines and protocols. It makes them feel safe in a life which is inherently unsafe; one which includes treatment on a daily basis most people would consider torture. But, just like real pigs, which thrive off what most people would consider the most disgusting slop imaginable, cockpigs thrive on what others fear -- abuse, humiliation, and suffering.
I set up plenty of routine for the cockpig, especially during its training period. It quickly got used to living in its cage. Like a new dog needs to be kept in its kennel, a cockpig needs to be caged more often than not during training. When the cockpig wasn't in use in some way, I left it in its cage. I'd fitted the cage with a remote control lock I could operate from my phone. When I had the faggot out doing chores, or serving me in some way, I'd just snap my fingers when I was done with it and it would crawl back into its cage and secure the lock; waiting there until I needed it again for something and chose unlock its cage from the comfort of my couch. It knew as soon as that locked popped, it needed to crawl to me and kiss my feet, waiting for whatever I needed. Eventually, I trained it to wait silently in the corner on its knees when not in use, but that came later. The cage was vital for reshaping its mental image, reminding it that it wasn't a person anymore, or even human; rather, it was a thing that was kept in a cage, available on a moment's notice. The camera I'd installed to watch its cage was handy, because I could tell when it was sleeping. Sometimes, I'd deliberately wait until it was asleep, leaving it locked in the cage for hours until it finally drifted off, then I'd pop the locks and have it crawl to me, bleary-eyed, to perform some menial task. Suck my left big toe. Drink my piss. Bring me a beer. Then I'd dismiss it back to its cage. The message was clear: its comfort and sleep meant nothing. It existed to serve, period.
Another part of its routine was pain. I hurt it some every day. Nothing too intense, but consistently, and routinely, in order to let it know that suffering would be a part of its life at all times, enough to reinforce the idea that the casual infliction of pain was my right, and that its willingness to suffer was its gift to me. Usually it was something simple: I'd see how many clothespins I could clamp on its tits at once and leave them there for a few hours; take a paddle to its ass and turn it bright red and sore, then send it on to do its chores for the day; removing its chastity cage and putting a humbler on it, the wooden slats of the device trapping its nuts and stretching them. The humbler is a device that sits behind and below the ass, holding the nuts stretched, forcing the faggot to crawl slowly and painfully, hence its name. From the first time I locked it on the cockpig, it hated it. The device is not only painful, but humiliating at hell, so of course I made sure to use it a lot during those early days. Watching it crawl around, each movement torturing those full nuts, stretching them, was hilarious.
Of course, a cockpig can't work all the time. It has to eat, too. Getting it used to its new routine meant training it to a new diet at well. I was training it how to cook for me, so it was allowed to eat some of my leftovers. At least twice a week, it got a nice bowl of dog food -- kibble if I was feeling mean, canned food if I was in a better mood. It helped keep the faggot grateful for any food I gave it, and also served as a constant reminder of its status. Of course, that took training, too. The first time I gave it a big bowl of Alpo, which I had thoughtfully pissed in for extra flavor, the little pig turned up its cute little nose. When I finally ordered it to eat, it managed to choke some of it down before it started to retch.
"Throw it up and you'll eat that too, fuckhole," I warned. Finally, I just took the food away and threw it out. Gave the cunt a nice whipping with my thick leather belt for its ingratitude, then let it miss a few meals. By the end of the third day without food, it was kissing my feet, begging for anything I chose to give it. Begging for the dog food.
I made it wait, even then. Wait for its meal until I needed to piss again. Then it got a nice big bowl -- kibble, canned dog food, and my piss, all mixed together. Real slop for my hungry little cockpig. This time, it licked the bowl clean.
I also included hole training in the cockpig's routine. My buddy, Ryan, the electrical engineer, made me this clever device a few years ago. It's a box which attaches to the wall. I can fit it with different size dildos, which attach to the front of it, leaving the dildo protruding from the wall. Special dildos. There is a nice little sensor on the front of the box, right at the base of the dildo, along with a timer and green/red indicator lights.
The first time I attached the cockpig to the device, I said, "See, faggot, this will train its holes to be of better use to men. Now, get that dildo in its mouth...that's it. Here's how this works. I'm going to turn on this little switch here just like this...and now it's going to swallow that big rubber cock. All the way down, pig, until you touch that sensor and the light turns green. Just like that! Feels good to have its throat filled, doesn't it? Now, do it again. Better hurry and swallow it, fag. OOOH! Not fast enough, huh? Yeah, when that red light goes on, it shocks the hell out of you, doesn't it pig. Ha! I love hearing it squeal like that. OK, cunt, keep deep throating that cock until I tell it otherwise."
I left the faggot there like that. Every four seconds, the cockpig had to have that big dildo entirely buried down its throat in order to avoid getting shocked. It was forced to constantly fuck its throat, over and over, each time making the green indicator light come on to show it was properly worshiping the cock in order to avoid receiving the painful jolt of electricity.
It spent an hour a day on this deep throat training. Periodically, I varied the sizes of the dildos. Sometimes longer, sometimes fatter. One time, I use a special one shaped like a dog's cock, knot and all, just to challenge the faggot and remind it that it wasn't a human any longer. You should have seen those sweet lips stretched around that big dog knot...
The device works for fuckhole training, as well.
I fitted it with a big fat dildo one day and attached the pig. It had four seconds to impale itself on that huge rubber pole, then four more to withdraw to the tip and impale itself again. The first time when it missed the deadline and the electricity fried its asshole was beautiful to watch. My cockpig squealed, literally, just like a real pig. It quickly worked up a sweat, forcing that dildo in and out of its ass, trying to keep up with the unforgiving timer. Sometimes it succeeded, the dildo rearranging its guts in the process; other times it failed, usually only by a second or two, and got zapped for its failure. After the third jolt of electricity up its tender asshole, the faggot started crying and desperately fucking itself on the device, frantic to avoid another jolt.
Fuckhole training was every other day. On those days, there was nothing I loved more than pulling it off the device, when its hole was sore, stretched, and fried, and ramming my big cock inside it. Fucking its hole when it has been thoroughly abused is the best. It squirms and cries, panting like a bitch in heat as I hit all the sore spots left by the dildo. I can make it squeal even louder than the electric shock when I punch-fuck it with my cock, ramming into the pig's tight little ass.
And when we are done, it never fails to drop to its knees, lick my cock clean, and thank me for using it. For training it. For my cruelty and my abuse.
All part of its daily routine now. The cockpig has learned to hate it all. And need it all.
And crave every second of it.
***************************************************************************** If you enjoyed this story, check out my new Kindle ebook,"Brandon's Boots" with expanded content not available on Nifty.
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Please contact me at jeffhamby1025@gmail.com