Broken In

“You look like you’re ready to be broken in, fucker,” said the message from a guy who had definitely not earned the privilege.

I’d spent most of the pandemic offline from the hookup apps for the obvious reason and I was starting to think I should’ve stayed off. My inbox was mostly cleared out by now — apparently spambots don’t care how long you’ve been inactive — and I was just going through sending pings back to old regulars to let them know I was back in the game again.

And then I got this. No prior chat history, a thousand miles away. Not even a photo — just the basic stats (who the hell is six foot ten?) and some profile text about being a farmer looking for livestock.

I can’t be bothered, I thought, and reached for the block button in the corner.

A notification popped up just as I tapped the screen, stealing the click and dropping me right in the chat with the man who’d just sent me a new message.

“Answer me when I speak to you, pig,” he’d written.

I tried to reach for ‘Block’ again, but — well, it’s hard to explain. I mean, it’s easy to say ‘but my thumb wouldn’t leave the on-screen keyboard’ or whatever, but you also need to understand how it felt to obey his order against my will, how my heart pounded as my body typed out a message, even as my mind was trying desperately to drop the phone, let go of the phone, shut the thing off —

My thumb hit ‘enter’ and sent the message I hadn’t consciously intended to send, yet which contained the thoughts I would’ve communicated to him:

i don’t owe you anything fuck please let me go

And my hands were free again. I tossed the phone to the other side of the room, trying not to watch as it slid across the carpet. I gathered that him saying ‘answer me’ was what had forced me to answer him, and I didn’t want to take the chance he could make me do anything else.

The memory of following the man’s command stuck in my head as I went through making dinner. He’d called me ‘pig,’ and while anyone could’ve guessed it from my profile, that was a word that had special relevance to me.

A good man who called me ‘pig’ like that wouldn’t need any crazy magic to get me to obey.

A good man who called me ‘pig’ like that could probably have me ‘broken in’ any way he wanted.

I thought about serving good men as I brought my dinner plate back into the living room, set it on the floor in front of my discarded phone, and got down on all fours in front of it. I didn’t even realize I was in full pig posture till I tried to eat and found I couldn’t even approach the plate.

And I was hungry.

But the man’s message was on the screen, a notification that would not be dismissed: But you do owe me, pig…

I grabbed for the phone and returned to chat. Again, any possibility of putting it down, of getting away, was taken away from me — I owed the man, and that was that.

Please what do I owe you I’m hungry, I answered.

Let me come by.

But you’re so far away sir please please OINK. My hands were shaking as the scent of dinner tempted me and yet I couldn’t tear myself away from the man who had put this spell on me.

I’m not far away at all, pig, what do you mean?

I went back to his profile. There it was, right under the placeholder where his picture would be, ‘1000 m away’.

I was in too deep a pig fog to realize at first, but higher brain functions forced themselves to kick in in order to process the man’s statement.

It didn’t say 1000 mi. It said 1000 ‘m’. Of course the damn thing had converted itself to metric while I wasn’t looking. How the heck many rods is that to the hogshead?

I fumbled for the settings and changed it back to freedom units.

And there it was, right under his picture, ‘less than a mile away’. The fog of arousal returned.

SORRY COME NOW OINK

I sent my location and I waited.

Luckily it was only a few minutes before I heard heavy steps thumping up the stairs, the click of the doorknob as the farmer entered, and his deep voice as he came and stood over me. “There’s my stray pig.”

The man was enormous, both in height and girth; stuck on all fours most of what I could see was the massive overhang of his belly stretching out a tucked-in flannel shirt.

If the man ate that well, I wondered how big he fed his pigs.

“I hear you’re hungry,” he said, looking down on the plate my nose was inches away from — compelled to it by a ravenous pig hunger, but compelled from it by my farmer’s command.

“OINK,” I said, whimpering.

“Rather rich slop for a pig, isn’t it though?” He chuckled, and I blushed to think that the simple pasta meal was above my station — indeed, it should’ve been made for him. I should’ve made something better for him. I stared at the plate, whining softly and feeling like a bad pig.

“Don’t worry about it, fucker. Uncle Boyce has got just the thing for it. I know what you pigs like…”

He reached down to heft up his hanging gut with a deep grunt, his other hand opening his fly to pull out the thick roll of fat that concealed his maleness. Pressing his fingers into the flab, he exposed the thick, musky head of his cock.

“Usually I’m sittin’ down for this, but sometimes feedin’ yer pigs takes some extra work…”

A few moments of deep breathing later and a stream of pale yellow piss began to stream from that half-buried cock, landing in my plate of food and watering down the Alfredo sauce.

My human instinct would’ve flinched away from it, even in pig mode — piss on its own was one thing, but I’d never been ready for piss in food. But something about the farmer, the scent of the farmer, the dominance of the farmer stirred me to obedience, and I moved closer to the plate, feeling stray piss splashing onto my nose as he filled the plate to its brim.

“Bet that makes you hungry, don’t it, fucker?”

“OINK.” I was ravenous, but I still couldn’t touch the food without the farmer’s command.

“Good pig. Go ahead and have at it, while I get to work on the rest of you.”

I buried my face in the wet noodles, grunting with hunger as I swallowed as best I could. The human face isn’t well designed for eating without hands; my nose had to submerge in the slop to get a good mouthful, and I snorted out snoutfuls of piss as I gulped down the filthy mess.

It didn’t taste good. It was foul; a slop meant for pigs. But it was right. I wanted more. Mouthful after reeking mouthful slid down my throat into my hungry belly as the farmer knelt down beside me.

He pulled out a small pocketknife — at least, a knife that looked small in his big hands — and started to cut the clothes from my body. The human part of me flinched to see them go, but the scent of the farmer’s piss covering my face told me I belonged to ‘Uncle Boyce’ now. If he said I didn’t need clothes, I didn’t need clothes. The man’s big hands started exploring my body, and I kept eating — that was my job now, after all.

“We’ve definitely gotta put some weight on ya,” he said, handling my belly in a way that made me feel a bit queasy. I figured it was just the slop, and stuck my face in for another mouthful of pissy pasta.

His hand reached between my legs, hefting and weighing my balls, running along the length of my stiff shaft. “Probably no good for breeding, but maybe you could handle a farrowing.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the farmer did, and that was all that mattered. I’d have thought that my breeding assets were pretty respectable, but the man’s standards were clearly higher than mine.

And then his thick fingers started exploring my rump, squeezing my soft curves like so much meat, and pressing into my unprepared hole with a depth that made me yelp.

“OINK!”

“Easy, piggy,” he said, holding his fingers in place, forcing me to get used to being stretched open. “If you can’t handle this, how’re you gonna handle my cock, much less my breeder hogs? I’m not above training you under my big horse Turbo…”

My human instinct was alarmed at the thought of being bred by actual livestock, but that was now a distant, fading voice in my mind — now, I was Uncle Boyce’s pig. Human stuff just didn’t seem important anymore. I buried my face in the plate as I swallowed down every last bit I could get, grunting and snorting like the eager pig he wanted me to be.

“Looks like you’re ready now,” he said, withdrawing his fingers and pulling off his shirt. I turned to watch him as he freed his enormous gut, making it somehow look even larger — an expanse of furry flesh extending from his chest all the way to the ground as he knelt beside me. The hair that covered his gut flowed in soft whorls that led me inexorably to the deep, dark navel at the heart of his belly, an arresting sight that left me gawping, noodles slipping from my maw.

He chuckled at my reaction. “Uncle Boyce sure knows his pigs, doesn’t he? Go on, I know you want to stick your snout in there.”

It was delivered like a command, but my scramble to press my nose into the big man’s bellyhole came not out of obedience but pure desire. I couldn’t imagine anywhere I more belonged. I couldn’t imagine anything I would want more than to slurp deeply into that deep tunnel as he cradled my head in against him, rubbing behind my ear.

All thought went quiet, ceding fully to blissful pig instinct.

The farmer watched as his new acquisition started to shed its useless human shape, starting with the face plugged into his belly as it elongated out into a proper snout probing his deep navel. Its ears, stroked slowly by the farmer’s big hands, began to unfurl, and its hair grew sparser and more bristly as it spread to cover the pig’s body.

Limbs pulled inward, to a new length more suitable for life on all fours, and its body rounded out to a moderate size — the farmer was right, it could definitely stand to put on more weight. It started squealing loudly into the man’s gut as the changes spread to its nether parts; nipples dotted its underbelly, its tail curled out above its rump and its genitals began to change.

Uncle Boyce pulled the snout from his gut and turned the pig around, interested to watch the development. Usually he could tell how the inner hog would turn out, but this one had been more obscure and he soon saw why: its once-human cock and balls were diminishing into its body, but no other parts seemed to be taking their place. Beneath its eager, unpracticed hog anus was only smooth flesh.

The big man smirked, standing up to shuck off his pants before kneeling again behind his new hog and lifting his gut to rest it on the beast’s back. The new pig whimpered with need as the stiff shaft pressed at its rump, and the farmer rumbled out deeply: “Time to break you in after all, fucker.”

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