Neutered White Fuckpig

NEUTERED WHITE FUCKPIG

by Kimmie Holland and Meeah Mackenzie

**ONE**

“Pig! Come!”

Daddy Sir calls and I struggle to my feet from my corner in the kitchen. I waddle into the living room where he sits sprawled in his brand-new leather easy chair watching the NBA Finals on his new HD home theater system, all bought with my latest paycheck. It’s half-time and he’s pressed the mute button on a series of commercials. There’s enough time for a quickie.

“Two,” he barks.

This is the command for me to turn around, bend over, and grab the cheeks of my big pink ass and spread them apart so Daddy Sir can fuck my well-used asshole. He drops his baggy jeans, wraps my greasy blonde ponytail in one fist, and drives his massive black cock into my bowels. I grunt softly with the shock of the sudden impact. I’m never allowed to wipe myself so I’m always well-greased back there, but it’s still a lot of meat to take. With his other hand, Daddy Sir grabs one of my blubbery tits and digs his black fingers in deep which makes my anal ring clench around his cock. Daddy Sir curses with satisfaction. He likes the feeling so much he digs his fingers into my pale tit again and again and again. I whimper and moan, tears streaming down my big white moon of a face, it feels like he’s going to tear my poor tit right off. But then he starts to come, drilling that big black pole into me, his heavy purple-black balls slapping the backs of my cellulite-dimpled thighs, over which I can already feel his sticky cum dripping from my freshly-stretched out asshole.

Luckily for me, this is just a “service fuck,” over in a few minutes, as Daddy Sir relieves himself in my ass the way he would relieve his bladder by urinating in the toilet. When he’s finished, he let’s go of my poor mauled tittie, pulls out, and thumps the thick meat of my ass with his fist. That’s my signal to kneel in front of him and obediently lick his cock and balls clean of leftover cum and ass grease.

“Get the fuck back to your crate,” he says, kicking me aside when the game comes back on.

I pad back to the kitchen, my nipple bells ringing. I curl up on my thin blanket and touch myself between the legs even though what’s there is shrunken and doesn’t work very often anymore.

These, when I look back on it all, I’ll come to remember as the good old days.

**TWO**

It wasn’t always like this. Once I was a handsome, fit, successful business man. I worked on Wall Street and had a beautiful wife and two wonderful children. Now I’m an obese, middle-aged fuck pig for a black man who beats and sexually abuses me and that’s all I’ll ever be until the day I die.

I met Daddy Sir in a public restroom. I’d gone in to take a leak or at least that’s all I thought I’d gone in there to do. A large muscular black man was just finishing up at the urinal and he caught my eye. Nothing more needed to be said. I followed him back to the last stall in the row. By the time I got there he was already seated on the toilet with the largest, blackest cock I’d ever seen jutting up from his lap. Without a word, I knelt down on the filthy floor next to my briefcase and sucked him off until he came in my mouth. He handed me a piece of toilet paper to wipe the excess cum that was dripping off my chin and told me to meet him at the stall same time the next day.

Every morning for the next two weeks I met him and he either blew me or screwed me in the ass. He had me bend over and grip the sides of the sticky, scummy toilet to fuck me and the first time it hurt so badly I vomited into the bowl. One morning, while I was standing at the sink, trying to make myself at least presentable before going to the office, he came up beside me, towering over me. “So you looking for a daddy, white-boy?”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning, aiming for my old cocky self.

He slapped me so hard my ear rang and I felt I had whiplash. Everyone else in the restroom made a point of looking the other way.

“I ask you again, white-boy. You looking for a daddy?”

You could have heard a pee-drop in that restroom. I knew he wasn’t anyone to wise-off  to and for the first time I was afraid that I could be hurt…or worse. I lowered my eyes and my hands were shaking.

“Yes daddy…sir,” I said as modestly as I could, little realizing that this is how I would come to address him for the rest of my miserable fuck-pig life.

“Louder bitch. In the highest, faggiest voice you’ve got. I want to hear you lisp, you understand?”

“Yeth daddy thir,” I repeated, my terror overriding even my shame as my ridiculously altered voice was amplified in the tiled restroom.

I heard some of the men using the facilities laughing.

“That’s better bitch. First thing you do is give me all the money in your wallet. Fuck that. Just give me your wallet and then get your pansy ass to work.”

“Yeth daddy thir.”

I hurried out of that filthy hole as fast as I could resolved never to go back. I was so happy to be in my safe, clean office. I’d gotten robbed but I considered it payment for a lesson well-learned. Never again! I called my wife Susan, just to hear her safe, sane, wholesome voice. I asked about the kids. I told her I thought I might have been pick pocketed on the train and to cancel all our credit cards. By the time I hung up the phone I was soaked with sweat and trembling like I had a fever. How could I have risked my wife, my home, my kids, my career…thank god I escaped with my life intact.

For a whole two weeks I made good on my promise. I was the perfect husband, father, and employee. Then the phone calls began.

**THREE**

They came at work, at home, even on my cell phone. Anytime of the day or night. With all the personal information in my wallet, he had no trouble finding out all he needed to know about me. Each time he called I was expected to answer in my lispy little girl faggot voice; of course, I was also expected to address him as “daddy thir.” I was forever shielding my mouth with my hand and rushing off to a private place to answer these calls but sometimes it was just impossible.

He expected me to meet him whenever and wherever he wanted me. I spent my lunch-hours swallowing his cum, or with my pants around my ankles having it fed into my ass. I was losing sleep and weight. I had no time to go to the gym or the tanning studio. Even my work was beginning to suffer. Susan was worried about me and everyone was always asking if I were sick. I couldn’t explain why so much money was missing from our bank accounts. Daddy Sir regularly asked me to make withdrawals and to bring him the cash when we met. It was inevitable that Susan began to suspect that I was having an affair, especially since I hardly had the strength or energy to have sex with her anymore, not to mention how guilty and filthy I felt being a black man’s cumslut. How could I dirty this beautiful woman, the mother of my children, knowing where I’d been and what I’d been doing?

When I came home with my nipples and navel pierced, my usually mild-mannered wife hit the roof. She demanded to know what was going on—I told her I’d had one too many with the guys and gotten pierced on a dare. She told me to take the rings decorated my nipples and bellybutton out immediately. She was infuriated when I refused; how could I tell her that I was afraid of disobeying Daddy Sir? Then, after hiding them for days, she eventually saw the genital piercings Daddy Sir had me get and threatened to take the kids and leave if I didn’t tell her exactly what the hell was going on.

The next day I begged Daddy Sir not to ruin my life anymore. I promised I’d continue to be his slut if only I could just keep it a secret from Susan. I was literally on my knees, weeping at the feet of this black man, pleading for at least a semblance of my former life, his cum from that night’s fucking leaking out of my asshole. He kicked me out of the way, crossed the room, and returned with a homemade DVD. Daddy Sir sometimes filmed me servicing him and I wondered when he’d use these videos to blackmail me. Only this wasn’t exactly blackmail.

“Take this and show it to your skank whore. She still wants you, have her come here in person and tell me. Aint no other way, pig.”

I knew I had no choice but to throw myself on Susan’s mercy. I had some hope that with my sincerest apologies and promises never to misbehave again my gentle and understanding wife would give me another chance. I did my best to prepare her for what she’s see on the DVD, but what could prepare her for watching her husband degrading himself as a fuck-pig for a black man. She sat still and silent as a statue as she watched the video of Daddy Sir strapping me with his belt, sodomizing me, and then pissing on my face. When it was finally over, she calmly told me that she wanted me out of the house that night. She was filing for divorce first thing in the morning. If she could manage it, I would never see her or our kids again. She had no doubt that once she showed everyone what was on that disc there’d be no problem in making sure I was out of their lives for good.

I left the house in tears, with little more than an overnight bag of possessions. There was still some money in our joint account and I used a modest amount to take a room in a fleabag motel. But Susan, probably on the advice of her lawyers, soon emptied the account of whatever money remained. She had my paycheck directly deposited to an account of her own. I didn’t have the nerve to protest. I could only hope I might win my way somehow back into her good graces.

In the meantime, I needed a place to live. Soon I would literally be out on the street. I was sure Susan had told all our friends and family about what she’d seen on the DVD. There was nowhere I could go…no where except to beg Daddy Sir to take me in.

He laughed when he saw me—the fine suit I’d been practically living in for days now wrinkled and stained and faintly stinking of b.o. He agreed to take me in, but there’d be a few conditions.

Those conditions are what led me to become what I now am: a black man’s faggot fuck-pig.

**FOUR**

Daddy Sir decided that I had way more clothes than was necessary. Of course, when I was inside his apartment, I wouldn’t be needing clothes at all and so I was always kept naked except for a smelly leather dog collar that he got off of a real dog. Along with my piercings, it was all I was allowed to wear, even when Daddy Sir had guests over. It didn’t seem to matter to Daddy Sir’s guests that I was naked. They barely paid me any more attention than they would any animal or lowly servant. And when they did bother to notice me it usually meant trouble in the form of a beating or a fucking—or, as was usually the case, both.

Daddy Sir often had women over to the apartment. He wasn’t gay, not a lisping, groveling, cum-loving faggot pigslut, like me. He just had a strong sex drive that wanted satisfying almost constantly and enjoyed having a white boy as his slave and whore. The fact was, he didn’t see me as a “man” at all, and so fucking me didn’t make him gay, not in his eyes or the eyes of any of the men or women who came to the apartment.

He showed me where I’d be sleeping, eating, and spending all my time when I wasn’t spending it serving him—a medium-sized metal crate next to the stove. Inside there was a threadbare dirty towel and a couple of dirty bowls for my food and drink. I wondered if they’d once belonged to the dog whose collar I was now wearing. If I needed to relieve myself, the toilet was out of bounds. Daddy Sir wasn’t going to piss in the same bowl a pig had used. So I had to beg permission to go outside to do my business. Sometimes he said yes; sometimes no. When the answer was no, I curled up in my crate and tried to fight the painful cramps as long as I could, but inevitably, it was a losing battle. I’d shit or pee in the crate and be forced to sleep beside it all night long. In the morning, before he let me clean it up, Daddy Sir would force my face into the mess and strap my ass until I was sobbing. Well, I figured, as bad as it seemed, it was better than trying to survive on the street. I’d just have to make the best of it until I could get myself and my life back in order.

I was given only junk food to eat and cheap super-sweet sodas to drink. I didn’t understand the first time Daddy Sir opened a bag of Skittles and poured the entire contents into my food bowl. After a couple of days of a diet of nothing but candy, stale cookies, day-old fast-food fries and the like, he explained that he wanted to fatten up my skinny white ass. He wanted to feel some cushion when he rammed his cock into me.

I hadn’t been taking very good care of myself for some time now so it didn’t take long for the effects of this appalling diet to make themselves evident, especially on a sedentary middle-aged man. I soon saw a small pot-belly forming around the trim waistline I’d always been so proud of. Daddy Sir noticed it, too. He started calling me his “pot-bellied fuckpig.” Fat was accumulating on my chest, too, as the gym muscles I’d worked so hard to keep firm seemed to be melting away overnight. The junk foods and soft drinks never seemed to satisfy me, no matter how much I ate…and if I tried not to eat, I was soundly beaten and threatened with force-feeding.

Almost as soon as I moved in, Daddy Sir started giving me injections. I thought these were injections of the drugs I was sure he made his living by selling and that he was trying to get me hooked. I was terrified of these twice-daily injections, even though I didn’t feel like they were having the effect I imagined something like heroin or meth should have. When Daddy Sir figured out what I was so scared of he laughed and slapped me to the ground he thought it was so funny. Like he would waste good drugs on a pig like me! No, what he was dosing me up with were hormones and hormone blockers. The drugs would block my male hormones and replace them with female ones.

Never mind the effects on my sex drive and body—those could probably be reversed. Administering hormones could be dangerous in serious ways. Could I wind up with liver or kidney damage? Did Daddy Sir know what he was doing injecting me with these powerful drugs? I didn’t dare to ask him. And as the days passed, and nothing happened, except that I grew fatter and softer and more placid about it all, the daily injections were just another part of my day.

One of the first things Daddy Sir did was take away my shoes and socks and throw a pair of cheap rubber flip-flops down on the floor in front of me. Shoes were a waste of good leather on a pig, he told me; whoever heard of a pig wearing shoes and socks?

“Do you need shoes and socks, fuckpig?”

“No, Daddy Thir,” I said in my absurd falsetto. “A fuckpig dothint need thooze or thocks.”

“From now on,” he said, pointing to the pink dollar-store flip-flops, decorated on each instep with a plastic yellow flower, “you’ll wear those outside this apartment everywhere you go. It’s all you need and better than you deserve. You understand, pig?”

“Yeth thir.”

So I started wearing the flip-flops whenever I went out to run errands for Daddy Sir. I thought I was going to be given my shoes and socks to wear to work, but it wasn’t to be. I had to wear my flip-flops to work, as well, even though it was already halfway through November and getting chilly. Naturally, everyone noticed my naked feet in the flip-flops, especially since Daddy Sir had me start to paint my toenails. Not that this was the most bizarre aspect of my appearance for by now Daddy Sir had me make various other alterations to my attire that he deemed appropriate for my new status in life. He had me cut my slacks so they hung well above my ankles, cut away the back pockets and sew up the front ones, leaving me no place to carry anything. I had to put all my possessions in a cheap tote made of orange plastic. He had me remove all the buttons from my shirt so to close it I had to tie up the ends as if it were a girl’s halter. My tie, a Father’s Day gift from my kids I recalled with a pang, became a kind of scarf, and, on casual days, a headband.

To make matters worse, by now I had already been forbidden to wipe myself and I wasn’t often given permission to wash my clothes or body so I had begun to smell pretty bad. Even people on the train begun to make faces of disgust and moved their seats when they caught a whiff of my funky odor. Due to my new diet, my pants no longer fit around my waist or my ass and the seams were stretched and had even begun to split. Since Daddy Sir had taken away my belt I had trouble even keeping them closed.

I pleaded with Daddy Sir to let me wear more conventional clothes, at least to tidy up, or I’d surely be fired. He told me he didn’t give a fuck if I were fired or not since he wasn’t seeing any of the money anyway. It was true, Susan was getting it all, but even if I never saw a penny I didn’t want her and the kids to suffer because I was a degenerate. At the office, I’d already been warned several times about my appearance and I knew they were fast losing patience with me. I sensed that upper management was only trying to avoid a sexual discrimination suit and were just looking for any excuse to fire me. My colleagues shunned me. The junior staff were openly contemptuous and insubordinate. Everyone snickered when I passed and made fun of me behind my back. I was rapidly becoming dangerously isolated. Most of my accounts were stripped from me and the others I kept only because they were unimportant and the clients hadn’t yet seen or heard about what I’d become. I was only waiting for the ax to fall.

It fell when I was caught having sex with two guys from the mailroom. One of them lured me into the stairwell on some pretext or other and then he and his body quickly overpowered me and threatened to make my life a living hell if I didn’t give them what they wanted. It didn’t take much guessing to figure out what that was. The bigger of the two already had his fat cock out, massaging it in his hand. I wonder if the whole thing was a set-up since I’d no sooner finished blowing them both when I was “accidentally” caught by someone in Human Resources. I was dismissed that afternoon.

I went back to Daddy Sir’s apartment in tears.

“What am I going to do now,” I sobbed. “How am I going to ever get another job now?”

Daddy Sir sent me into near-hysterics when he confirmed that he wasn’t going to be supporting a fat ass white faggot loser like me.

“Pleath don’t throw me out,” I begged. “Pleath I’ll do anything Daddy Thir.”

“Anything?”

“Anything!” I wept.

I probably should have thought it through a little better before I answered. But what choice did I have? Choices, it already seemed, were for an entirely different class of people than me.

**FIVE**

Peep shows, public toilets, parks, even the street when the going was slow…I plied my new trade wherever horny guys might be found. By now, I was so fat I wore a muumuu when I went out to “work.” Wearing only the thin muumuu, with my cheap rubber flip-flops and painted toes, even though it was now deep into winter, there was no doubting what I was. And there was always someone who’d give me a ten or a twenty to stick there cock into me and shoot their wad.

I’d come back to the apartment a little after dawn, even filthier than when I left, the crack of my ass glued together with cum and strange pubic hairs stuck between my teeth. I’d empty my tote of crumpled sweaty pills on the table so Daddy Sir would see them the first thing and crawl into my crate for a few hours of sleep before he woke up and needed my services. No matter how much I brought back he always accused me of holding out on him, or not working hard enough, and no matter how pitifully I pleaded my innocence, he beat me with his strap and kicked me until sometimes I even lost consciousness.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew me as Daddy Sir’s property, his fuck-pig, his white sissybitch, which is probably what kept me from being beaten up, raped, and even killed. I was the only white face you might see for days at a time in that area of the city; even the police were afraid to set foot passed the street bordering the area. But I was allowed to come and go relatively unmolested, doing Daddy Sir’s shopping and laundry and menial chores like that. Besides everyone knew that for ten bucks the fat white sissy-pig in the muumuu would go down on anyone. For twenty, you could shove it into her pink, dimpled ass.

It was true that my body was now ruined beyond all recognition. My ass and thighs were padded with dimpled pillows of fat, rolls of pink fat hung down from my belly as if I were pregnant, my pale tits flopped around heavy and full on my chest. I craved junk food all the time and Daddy Sir encouraged my cravings. He liked to hear me snorting and snuffling just like a real pig before he’d throw my “feed” down on the floor for me to eat without my hands, licking up the candy, stale donuts, and other sugar-laden, high-fat foods that regularly comprised my “slops.”

Daddy Sir required that I be a hairless fuckpig, and that I always keep my toes and fingers freshly polished, but this was becoming harder and harder the fatter and fatter I got. I could hardly even see my toes anymore, nevertheless reach them in order to paint them! For that matter, my penis seemed to have shrunken and retracted into the rolls of fat around my midsection. I had to literally part the folds to find it, small and limp, when I had to pee-pee. Even then, it was difficult to keep myself clean. I developed painful rashes where the wet flesh rubbed together and stunk of urine all the time.

The fact was that I was having a hard time even getting around anymore. Daddy Sir noticed it, too. I could never seem to obey his commands fast enough, no matter how hard I tried. I tired easily. I lost my breath. It took me what seemed forever to get down on my knees, and even longer to get up off them.

“Damn pig, where your asshole at?” Daddy Sir said one day, as I bent over, hands on my plump knees, while he slapped and parted and pummeled my big ass trying to find my hole so he could fuck me.

I begged Daddy Sir to let me lose some weight, at least fifty or sixty pounds. I was beginning to be seriously concerned about my health. But Daddy Sir wouldn’t hear of it. He’d only open up another box of Twinkies or Ring Dings and put the entire contents in my feed bowl and I’d automatically start gobbling it up. Eventually I got too big for my crate, so Daddy Sir got another one, but I outgrew that one, too. He now said I was taking up too much room and stunk too bad so I should stay outside like any other pig.

“You ever hear of a pig living in a house, bitch?”

“No Daddy Thir.”

So a kind of pen was built to keep me in out in the alley among the trash cans. It was partially roofed so I had shelter from the worst of the elements. Some newspaper was thrown inside and my old worn blanket was allowed me and that’s where I made my home from then on, even in the severest weather. Daddy Sir hired an old woman from the building to see to me. She’d grown up on a farm in Tennessee as a little girl and so was used to tending to livestock.

A kind of makeshift winch and harness was rigged up in the alley and I was strapped into it and hoisted above the ground. Dangling there helplessly, the old woman would hose me off, working the jet of water into my folds of pink fat. Every few days, she’d spray some awful smelling foam all over me and hose that off, too. Away would come what little hair was still growing after the massive amount of hormones I was being injected with. Usually the old woman was silent as she worked, but if she did talk to me, it was the way you’d talk to an animal. Even when she asked me a question, I knew she’d be offended if I dared to answer back. She’d sit on a stool in front of where my dangling limbs and paint the little nails of my pudgy pink hands and feet and she’d say things like “Now don’t piggy look so pretty with his polished pink toenails.” People ask questions of pigs and dogs and cows all the time…they don’t expect a reply.

If I thought for a second that this new arrangement meant any change in my status as a whore I was quickly to learn otherwise. Daddy Sir expected to make a profit from his livestock and he quickly put me to work as the neighborhood fuckpig. I soon lost track of the number of men who came into the alley to fuck me—either my piggy face or my piggy ass. Daddy Sir would winch me up in the harness and the customers would take me while I hung there since it was easier to access my asshole and mouth that way.

It was two of these men who performed my “adjustment.” Daddy Sir decided that I would make a better fuckpig without my nuts and besides what good was it for him if I still had testicles? I would be a more placid, better-behaved piggy without nuts and I wouldn’t even dream of ever trying to escape back to my old life. As if that weren’t enough of a reason to nut me, without even the low-levels of testosterone that my testicles were still producing, I’d grow fatter and more feminine than ever. So all the begging and squealing I did to be allowed to keep my sack accomplished nothing. Daddy Sir had made his decision: I was to be fixed.

As I hung helpless in my harness, the two men who were to castrate me went to work. They had a hard time even finding my nuts among all the rolls of fat but when they did they each grabbed hold of one so tightly I yelped with pain. Snorting and twitching, I tried in vain to get away but it was no use. With a kind of heavy, flat-ended pliers, one of the men crushed my left testicle, and the other crushed the right. Just like that my nuts, the last vestige of my manhood, were reduced to nothing more than mashed tissue.

The pain was so intense I passed out.

When I came to I was back in my stall. For the next week I was in such horrible agony I was glad when the men returned and removed my sack and ruined nuts altogether. My penis, which was now little more than a spongy pink mushroom cap, was left intact, if only because it helped keep me from splashing piss all over myself, making it a little easier to clean me.

Maybe the ultimately indignity came the next day when Daddy Sir showed up with a six pack of beer and a greasy paper plate on which sat two roughly round heavily battered balls skewered on a bamboo stick. Opening up a ratty lawn chair that was often used by men waiting their turn to fuck me,  Daddy Sir sat down, cracked open the first of his beers, and munched on what it was now clear to me were my deep-fried testicles.  He’d given the freshly-severed organs to the old black woman who had a special recipe for pig’s balls—a kind of soul-food, I guess—from her girlhood in the Deep South. Now Daddy Sir, grinning from ear to ear, draining his third beer, started in on the second fried ball on his plate. He didn’t neglect to tell me how good they tasted, and while he picked his teeth with his pinkie nail for every last morsel, I snuffled and mewled, for I knew beyond a doubt that I would never escape my fate as a pig.

This was now my life, the only life I’d ever have. I could hardly believe I’d sunk to such degradation so quickly. I was descend even lower.

**SIX**

What little hope remained of returning to Susan, of being her husband again, had been literally crushed, and ruthlessly cut off along with my testicles. To ease my heartache, I ate more and more, more than ever. My eyes were now little piggy slits, my jowls hung heavy and low on either side of my obscenely fat face, and squished between my round pink cheeks, what used to be my nose, now resembled nothing so much as a pig’s flattened snout. The old woman had taken to combing out my fine blonde hair and braiding it into pigtails which she decorated with pink gingham bows.

“You a prize-winning little piggy, that you is.” She’d poke the fat on my sides, her whole crooked black finger disappearing in my voluminous pink flesh. “Lots of bacon and barbecue on you, little piggy,” she’d cackle. “If your master ever gets tired of renting your pink ass out for breeding, you better watch out fer the slaughterhouse.”

Any semblance of a normal life was long gone. I couldn’t even remember what I once looked like and the fact that I once had a good job, a beautiful wife, wonderful kids, and owned things like my own home and car—it all seemed like some kind of unbelievable dream that paled compared to my new reality as a neutered fuckpig.

Daddy Sir set up a closed circuit camera in the alley so he could monitor me night and day. It wasn’t so much to protect me from being stolen, and he certainly had no fear of me escaping any more; it was just another way of reinforcing the message that I had nothing, that I belonged to someone else, that I didn’t even own my own privacy. And, besides, it amused him to watch his fuckpig from the comfort of his apartment whenever he felt like it.

I grew more and more depressed and the more depressed I got naturally the more I ate. Between the hormone injections, my inactivity, my castration, and my junk-food diet, my weight ballooned to truly absurd, almost grotesque proportions. I’d already had three heart attacks and was afraid that the next one could easily be the one that killed me. During one of them, Daddy Sir fucked me just to see what it would feel like to have his cock buried inside the asshole of a white pig during cardiac arrest. The last heart attack he filmed with his cell phone, getting a kick out of watching my immense body heave and shudder and run with sweat as the pain in my chest crushed and strangled the life out of me.

With my pink face flushed and feverish, I begged him to call the paramedics before it was too late. Even then, I didn’t forget the high falsetto lisp I was required to use when speaking, but then again, I’d long forgotten how to speak in any other way.

“Pwease, pwease, Daddy Thir, call the ambulance, I think I might be dying…”

Turned on by my plight, Daddy Sir took his cock out, already hard, and shoved it into my blue-lipped mouth hole. With all the sugar I’d eaten and all the soft drinks I’d consumed, never once brushing or flossing, what teeth I had left were long rotten and soft as licorice. I couldn’t breathe, especially now with Daddy Sir’s humongous cock down my throat, and it felt like someone were hitting me on the chest with an axe-handle. My bowels suddenly let go. The smell was horrendous but it didn’t bother Daddy Sir at all. He kept plunging his cock down my throat and finally unloaded what I was sure would be the last wad of cum I’d ever swallow. I was about to die. I was sure of it. And the thing is I wasn’t sad about it at all. What did I have to live for, anyway? I’d be free of this pig life I was living once and for all. But I was wrong again. I didn’t die. I wasn’t free.

My life as a neutered white fuckpig would continue.

**End**

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