Hey, Pig!

By Kevin’s Path

“Hey, pig!”

I hear but don’t see him come in. My blinders are on. He asks if I’d like a drink of water or anything, and I move my head up and down. Of course I do. I’m often thirsty and hungry and feeling dehydrated and can’t afford to miss a chance for a drink. He feels my forehead to see if I am warm. He pats my head.

I’ve been boxed up most of the day. I mean this literally. I am locked up in a box with my head sticking out of a hole in the top of it. There is a thick padded collar around my neck where it comes out of the hole. The padded collar supports my head and neck all around and keeps my chin up. I can move my head up and down a little for “yes” and right and left a little for “no.” The other one thing I’m allowed to do is sniff with my nose. Two sniffs means “thank you.”

I don’t try to talk to him anymore. He punishes me for that. “Don’t make any noise when I have you boxed up,” he said. The box is in a medium sized closet behind a door that he keeps locked. There is cork on the walls and ceiling to deaden sound. I can’t hear much from outside beyond the door when I am in here, but he sets up a baby monitor on the box near my head. If I make any noise in here, he can hear it out there. He has gotten me trained to sit quiet like he wants.

 

[[WARNING: This story contains extreme elements that some readers might find objectionable. Continue reading at your own risk.]]

I can’t talk sensibly anyway, because I’m muzzled. He knows I won’t try to talk with it off, but he keeps it on me anyway. He says he likes to keep a lock on my mouth. The thing has a wide squarish piece that covers my lips and my whole face between my nose and chin. There is a rubber mouth guard attached to that, which fits between my lips and front teeth and a part that pushes down my tongue and sits behind the teeth. The thing has an inch wide strap around my head that buckles in the front over the mouth cover with a padlock. When I move my head up and down yes, the padlock moves a little. I sometimes grunt or whine muzzled like this. I mostly sit quietly like I’m told, and work on swallowing my spit.

He talks to me a lot about the importance of keeping me this way. I listen. He says I am learning to accept my situation. My situation begins when he kidnapped me, drugged me, locked me up this way, and started punishing me for being a bad pig.

“I’m going to take your blinders off now; so, close your eyes until you can adjust to the light.” He pulls a pair of blacked out goggles off my head that were covering my eyes. I don’t know his name. I haven’t overheard him say anything that identifies him. I don’t call him anything, because he doesn’t let me talk. What I know about him is he is weirdly considerate about things like not blinding me with light when he pulls the blinders off. He is sometimes inappropriately friendly, as if we are best buds hanging out together.

My eyes adjust. My head is sticking out of the box now looking for him, except now he is behind me; so, I have to look up. He is sitting on the box with my head like a bowling ball in his lap, his two legs in front of me, his right and left thighs at my ears. When I tilt my head back to see him, the back of my head is resting in his crotch. He starts massaging my head. He doesn’t ask me if I have a headache. He knows my head hurts because I’m hungry and thirsty and haven’t slept enough. And, my whole body hurts because it is locked in this box with limited movement.

“So, did my pig wet his diaper today?” He puts me in a diaper whenever I need to be boxed all day. This is the way that I know he will probably go out and leave me alone in the house. I think it is a house. I move my head right and left, still looking back up at him, meaning “No, I held my piss all day like a good pig.” This isn’t one of the rules, exactly. He doesn’t punish me for going in the diaper. The diaper is there so that he can leave me locked up for long intervals and not deal with a mess when he comes back. But, if he sees me going in the diaper all the time, it makes him think he is overfeeding and overwatering me. Then, he will cut back. He has been cutting back lately. It works. I could definitely piss if he lets me, but I don’t urgently need to go right now. Ideally, he wants me trained to piss and shit only when he tells me to.

The blinders were a punishment. If I am a good pig and do what I’m told, I’m allowed to look around and have light and at least see the cork walls of the closet he’s locked me in.

He brought a bottle of water with him. It is sitting there, and I want it. But, if I do the slightest thing to try and indicate that, he will probably hold off giving it. For instance, if I look at it and start pointedly nodding my head toward the bottle…. bad pig. That’s me trying to communicate with him to get something I want. “Wrong,” he would say. “Pigs don’t start conversations with people.” I have a three-word vocabulary with only one word I can say spontaneously. I arch my head back toward him and sniff with my nose two times, meaning “Thank you taking my blinders off, massaging my head, asking about my diaper, and all that.”

He laughs. “What a good pig!” He takes out his key chain and unlocks the padlock on my muzzle. He unbuckles it and works the mouth piece out from behind my teeth. I open my mouth wide and stick my tongue out past my lips as far as it goes.

This the rule he taught me: “When I take the muzzle off for feeding and watering, I want you to get your mouth wide open with your tongue out like you are a Pez dispenser, understand pig? You can nod your head that you understand. You wait like that until I put something in your mouth, and then you hold it in your mouth until I tell you to chew on it or swallow it. When you are done swallowing it, you get wide open again. You never close your lips or pull your tongue in until I say.”

So, that’s what I do. He opens the water bottle and puts it in my mouth, telling me to close my lips around it. “Drink,” he says, and I do. After I’ve had a few swallows, he says “stop” as he pulls it out. “Right out with the tongue, pig,” he says even as I am doing it anyway.

“The Cowboys are playing the Steelers tonight, pig. You a Cowboys fan?”

With my mouth open super wide, I wag my tongue right and left, meaning “No, more a Steelers fan.”

“Yeah I’m looking forward to the game,” he says.

I suppose it must be a Monday, and it must be late afternoon. “What do you think, pig? Would you like to see the game on TV?” I hesitate a little, and then wag my tongue up and down. Of course I would, but he probably won’t let me.

There is a beeping sound that surprises him. He gets up and goes out of the room leaving the door open. He’s never leaves me in here without it locked. If I weren’t locked in this box, I could possibly make a run. I quickly close my lips and rest my jaw a moment while he is out of the room, but then I open wide again before he comes back. Shutting my mouth and resting my jaw of own free will for a moment is probably the most significant act of defiance I can manage. I’ve got to start somewhere. I hear him talking in the other room, and then he comes back with his cell phone in hand. I realize the sound was his phone ringing, and he went to the other room to take the call.

He comes back in. “Sorry pig, it was my sister calling, and I knew I had to pick up. We’ve been playing phone tag. You know.”

He had been talking to another person on the phone just now! I could have maybe yelled, shouted, said something! Instead, I sat here with my tongue hanging out hoping he would approve it was shoved out far enough. It might have been my best chance, or at least a chance, except I blew it. I gasped, and my face got hot.

He showed me his phone. “Hey, you like my new phone, pig? It’s got some good features. I wasn’t alert for that opportunity to yell and put up some resistance, maybe catch someone’s attention. When would there come another chance? Probably, it wouldn’t have succeeded, and he would have punished me to make me regret it. But, I’d survive, and it might cause him problems. My underlying fear was I missed it because I wasn’t really looking. I was getting more and more conditioned to just obey. My head hurt, and I started tearing up and gasping for air.

“Shhhh. There, there pig. Calm down.” He staddled my head again and wiped at the tears. “I sobbed and gasped and moaned. “I know. Cry it out pig. You are getting all emotional again, aren’t you? But still try to keep your mouth open and your tongue out while doing it.” I keep crying but stuck my tongue out ridiculously while doing it.

“And, wag your tongue up and down for me pig, “Yes, I am getting all emotional like a spastic little girl.” I didn’t immediately do that. “Got your nose, pig” he said pinching my nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Do it.” I was already gasping when he pinched. I struggled to get a breath and wag my tongue up and down. “Keep wagging it. Up and down. Up and down.” He finally lets go my nose to let me get back my air. He leaves again and comes back with a couple pills in his hand. He puts them on the top of my tongue. He gives me another gulp of water and tells me to swallow them. He locks the muzzle back on.

“It’s OK pig. I’m not upset with you. I know you want to be free, and you want to talk on the phone like people do. I know it gets overwhelming for you. The pills will help you calm down. Get some rest, and we’ll talk more later.” He puts the blinders back on over my eyes. I move my head left to right, meaning “no,” and he just ignores that.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll leave the phone on the box by your head for now. If my sister calls again, it will ring and go to voicemail. Listening for it will give you something to do. I’ll let you know how the Pirates make out.” I hear him turn the lock on the door and go.

I am so uncomfortable, but the pills make me sleepy, and I drift in and out of consciousness. At some point the cell phone does ring again next to my head, and it wakes me. I have trouble recollecting what it is or where I is. Eventually it stops ringing, and I haven’t even started to figure out what to do about it. Can’t comprehend it, can’t find it, can’t reach it, can’t open it, can’t talk to it. I am so far away from ever getting free. That was the purpose of leaving it next my head.

I don’t know how long before he comes back, because I devolve into a half-waking continuous fever dream. My arms and legs, spine, and shoulders ache in the restraints. I ceaselessly rock and shift in it. My chest heaves. Mucus drools out my nose, and I sweat profusely. My feet itch, but I cannot reach them inside.

I probably moan and make noises. A voice in my head lectures me non-stop about rules and legal precedents. I am in a jail, then in a hospital operating room, then a coffee shop, then I am playing tennis in the sun. I am in an airport-maze trying desperately to find my gate in time for the flight. I am in the kitchen with my mother arguing about theology. A doctor examines me to see if I am a spastic little girl. A nurse comes in to take my temperature and shows me her breasts. She puts her big nipple in my mouth and tells me to drink. My balls ache. I want to talk to her, but I can’t get her nipple out of my mouth. I am making out with my girlfriend, but then she locks me in a closet. A voice lectures me not to cum in my diaper, because it’s a rule. I get cramps in my legs, and my calves twitch painfully. I can’t stretch my legs to relieve it. I am running in a hamster wheel with my boner smacking between my legs.

Some time later, I am still delirious when he unlocks me. I am not relieved about being unlocked, because I don’t know where I am. A guy is lecturing me that other solar systems have super-earths. My legs cramp up when he starts to stretch them out, and I’m sure I make some noise, because it hurts. He rubs them for a while to get the knots out. I know he says things, but I am not sensible to it. The first thing I make sense of is something like “Wow, you really stank up the box, pig! I think you need a bath.” He spritzes some water on my face to wake me up. “Hey buddy. Want a nice hot bath, yeah?”

I don’t think I shook my head to answer anything, unless my head just drooped on its own. “Yeah, that’s my piggy – always stinking up the place and needing a bath.” He gets me up on unsteady legs and supports me with his arm under my arm. He takes the diaper off and sits me down on a toilet. The diaper was a mess of sweat, piss, and other fluids. “Oh, bad piggy! You were jerking off in there weren’t you?” He pinches my nose and lifts up my face with it. “You can move your head up and own ‘yes’,” he advises.

I move my head up and down yes, and he says “Yesssss, I was a bad piggy, playing with my little pig wiener in the box.”

He lets go of my nose so I can get my breath. “Go ahead, go in the toilet if you need to pal. I’ll run the bath for you.” He lets me sit there a while. He bends me over and wipes my ass, and then he sits me down in the bath, guiding me, because I still can’t see anything. My wrists are locked together in front of me. I raise up my arms over my head, keeping the wrist restraints out of the water stream. He soaps up my chest, arm pits, and back. He scrubs my head around the blinders and muzzle strap without removing them. He loosens up the fat padded collar off my neck to clean the dirt and sweat out from in there.

I probably have about two week’s worth of scruff on my face and neck, which he will eventually decide to shave off again, but not today. My head hair had been buzzed off a while ago, but it has come back as a brown curly tangle. He lets me rotate my head with the full range of motion of my neck before he fastens the collar back on, pushing my jaw up snug into the mouthpiece of my muzzle and restricting me again to only small head movements. He puts me on my knees and bends me over the side of the tub with my butt in the air so he can wash my ass. He does get out shaving cream and a razor for that and spends a lot of time there. He scrubs my genitals too, until my pig wiener gets hard. Without comment, he moves down to my legs and feet.

He presses his thumb up against my nose, and I sniff it twice, meaning “Thank you, for letting me out and giving me a bath, and all.” He dries me off with a towel and fluffs me all over with a blow dryer.

My legs finally stop cramping after he feeds me a banana and some vitamin water. He lets me lie down on a mattress and just rest awhile. He gives me a blanket. He leaves the muzzle off so I can open and close my mouth however I want, just so I long as I stay quiet like a good pig. He leaves me alone with the blinders off, which is great. I fall asleep and am dreamless for a while with no voices lecturing me.

At one point I know I get up quietly and push a little on the door. It unsurprisingly doesn’t open, and I can’t grip the door knob because I have fist mits locked over my hands. The mits are tethered about a foot length away from my collar; so, I have some limited ability to move my arms and elbows around. I could try to shoulder into it and force it open, but that would make a lot of noise and probably wouldn’t suffice to get it open. I listen at the door but don’t hear anything. I am in the same closet with the cork walls, and my box is still here. How long before he will lock me up in there again and pinch my nose so I can’t breathe if I even make a grunt to let him know how fucking painful it is? I lie back down and try to collect my thoughts on some plan to get out of here, but I can’t focus.

Then, I wake again to a phone ringing. It takes me a moment to realize the cell phone he’d teased me with is still in here. Fuck, where is it? It is down on the floor behind the box. By the time I get to it, the phone has stopped ringing again, but I am able to reach in and fish it out of the corner with my foot. I can use this! Call someone and get out of here! The message light is blinking on the thing. It has a recessed button on the side that activates the touchscreen. The baby monitor is still on in the room. It’s funny my keeper wasn’t alerted by the ringing. I try to mash my fist mit into the button, but it isn’t working. I start trying to hold it in both mits and mash my nose into the button when it rings again. The touchscreen lights up with an “accept call” button. I squish my nose into the screen, and the call comes through! I start shaking with excitement and fear. This is it!

I kneel with my face on the floor by the phone and whisper “Hello?” I realize that I am hardly even audible; so, I squeak out “Hello” a little louder and say “Please help me. I’ve been kidnapped. I don’t know where I am. My name is Jeffrey Singer. Could you call someone? The police? Trace the phone? I’m sure people are looking for me.”

The phone says “Hey pig! I was just calling from the kitchen phone to check up on you!” I jump up and knock into a wall. “Ahhhh!” The room is spinning. I feel like throwing up. I stare at the phone on the floor.

The phone calmly, firmly tells me to pick the phone up off the floor in my teeth and go stand in the corner. I do what the phone says to do, going to the floor and gently gripping the gel skin casing in my teeth to lift it. I stand in the corner facing the wall, shivering, while the phone in my teeth patiently reminds me that my pig mouth is not for talking.

Soon, he comes in and takes the phone away. In that instant, I try to dash out through the open closet door and just run like hell wherever that takes me, but I immediately run smack into another closed door. My foot stings from banging it hard on the door. There’s nowhere to go. I tell him defiantly that I want to go home! I’m trying to limp away from him at the dead-end of the hallway door; so, he asks me if my foot is alright.

“I banged it on the door.”

“Let me look at it. Sit.”

I slide my back side down the wall to the floor, and he lifts up my foot by the heel, turning it over. “It looks ok, maybe bruised. I’ll get some athletic tape to wrap around it. Maybe ice it if it swells.”

Of course, he muzzles me again. I think that’s the only actual conversation we’ve ever had. He grabs a fist of my hair and starts tugging me back down the hall to the closet, and I crawl along. “This is people space, piggy. You’re not to wander out here by yourself, understand?” I move my head up and down. He tells me to stay off my foot for a while. Crawl around if I need to move in the closet.

“You could have hurt yourself running around like that.”

Some time later, he comes in and checks the bandage around my ankle again. He brings in with him a package and a scary looking tool that looks like a kind of pliers. He says, “I can’t trust you, can I pig? I test you with a little bit of freedom, and look how it ends up. You pushed on the closet door. You played with my phone. You spoke. You tried to escape. You defied me, and you hurt yourself in the process. Sorry dude, but you’ve got to know it’s going to be a long time before I ever loosen your restrictions again. You hearing me pig?”

I move my head up and down, meaning “fuck you.”

“So, I have a special punishment for you that I think is appropriate. It’s going to hurt some, but it’s mostly to mark you permanently so that you’re better reminded of your place.” He opens up the package and explains what it is.

“I’ve been researching about livestock management, pig. Now, hog farmers have various industry standard methods for the identification of pigs to help them keep track of their inventory. These methods include ear tags, ear notching, electronic transponders, implants, and slap tags. They also use different types of identifiers to differentiate sows, piglets, and breeding age males. They also have special markings to identify the pigs that are ready for slaughter.”

“This is the ear tag that I’ve picked out for you.” He takes a pair of large bright yellow two-piece tags out of an envelope that reads, “Official USDA Swine Ear Tags Matched Pair.” The tag reads “UNLAWFUL TO REMOVE” and has a fifteen digit number on it, which my unique pig identification number randomly generated by the Department of Agriculture. It says “PIGGY” in large letters at the bottom, which is my herd identifier.

He takes out some gauze and rubs dark brown iodine disinfectant all over both of my ears. He comes around behind me and says, “It’s standard practice to tag both ears. I’ll try not to prolong this. I practiced on a piece of leather.”

Wait. What? He squeezes the plier thing and punches an ear tag into my right ear, and it really, really hurts. I yell flat out into the muzzle, and it sounds like “Weeeeeeee!” There’s blood coming out of my ear. He applies pressure to my ear between some pieces of gauze until the bleeding subsides. My ear is thumping, and I cry. OK, you made your point, no need to do the other one! Then, he does the other one! “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” It fucking hurts more than the first one did.

“I think that looks right. Funny, your ears were tougher to punch than the leather.”

He tells me to lie down on my stomach and try to relax. I think he means relax as in “relax,” but he ominously starts swabbing alcohol on my ass cheek. “This is where your slap tag is going to land. The typical practice is for the pig to be marked with its herd identifier on the shoulder, but I’m going to nail it into your backfat. He straddles my torso to hold me still. He dips a tooth brush in a dark green bottle labeled Slapper: Food Grade Tattoo Ink for Slap Marking Pigs. He brushes the ink onto some cast block letters arranged in a die at the end of a handle. He says, “This is a slap marker. I got letters made for it that spell ‘PIGGY.’ Each of the letters is made of little needles. Now stay still. I don’t want to have to do this to you twice.”

He aims and swings the slap marker down hard on my ass like a paddle, and no kidding, about a hundred little needles soaked with ink go right through the skin of my butt cheek all at once. It’s different from the ear pain. It feels more like a hundred bee stings. I don’t scream because my throat’s tired, but I can’t help flailing my legs around, which causes me to reactivate the bruise on my foot. He swabs more alcohol on my butt around the pattern of little blood drops welling up in the shape of PIGGY.

He gets off me and says to continue lying on my stomach with my butt up. “I’m done marking you now pig. You did good. You took it like a … well, like a brave pig.” He comes back and unmuzzles me for a minute to give me some water and some pain reliever pills for my ears, ass, and foot. I sniff twice at him, meaning “Thanks for the pain pills.”

He sits beside me and rubs my back for a while. “You’re a breeder male, by the way, according to the shape of your tag. I did a lot of soul-searching about that, and I realized that I really just wouldn’t feel right about turning you into a sow. I don’t know why. I hope you’re OK with that.” I move my head up and down, meaning “I prefer to be a masculine pig,” and I start learning to live with these yellow tags that flap in my ears whenever I move my head.

And now, here I am right back in the box again. The slap tag scabbed over and then developed into an array of dark green dots on my ass spelling PIGGY. The ear tags are still very sore, because it takes a long time to heal when you punch through cartilage. He says the box is the best place for me now, because I rest with my head held up in the collar instead of lying down with my ears on the floor where they might get infected.

I’m even more restricted than I’ve ever been. I have to try my best to sleep in here this way, because I am getting no sleep breaks outside the box. He says this is how it will always be if continue to defy him. I am only unboxed for supervised trips to the bathroom or supervised exercise breaks. The exercise breaks are mainly running in place, push-ups, and sit-ups with some stretching exercises. He brought an electric space heater into the closet. That’s how I know that the weather has turned colder. He weighs me every week or so. That’s one way I can gauge the passage of time. I know I’ve been dropping weight. He told me couple days ago it’s good news that I’m now down to my ideal piggy weight of 120 lbs. My ideal weight is more like 160 lbs, which is where I used to be. I feel weak and spacey all the time.

I’ve been told now that the holidays are upon us. That’s why I have a jingle bell clipped to my nose and a Santa hat on my head. Or, he might just be fucking with me. We do some Christmas carols together. He sings along with his MP3 player, while I bob my head and jingle along.

He says, “I know you’ve been down a lot lately pig. I don’t want you to be sad.” He has been making me spend so much time in this box, all I can do is retreat into myself and check out mentally as much as I can. Down. Yes. I am shutting down. “I gotta go now pig, but you can listen to some more of the music if you want.” He puts the earbuds in my ears and puts the thing on autoplay. He makes a thumbs up/thumbs down motion and asks “Is the sound too loud pig?” I move my head left and right and jingle no, meaning “It sounds fine,” and I sniff twice, meaning “Thanks for cheering me up,” and he says “Sure pig, catch you later.”

The player sang “Silver bells, silver bells. It’s Christmas time in the city…”

I cling to the idea that I am missing from the world, and someone out there must yet be looking for me. I spent the holidays last year with my girlfriend and her folks in Colorado. I first hooked up with Jennifer when we were both undergraduates at UC Boulder. We were pretty close, but then I graduated last year and got recruited for a job in Seattle. She is three years younger and still back in school there. Her folks didn’t really like me. They thought she was too young for me, and I was too cool and experienced for her. But, I promised Jennifer I’d come back to visit her at school next holiday break. We’d hook up again and have a real reunion. My girl will be expecting me. I bet she is trying to contact me now about plans. She must be missing me by now! If I don’t show up, she will know something’s wrong. She will come up to Seattle to find out what’s going on.

The player sang “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane…”

He left the closet door open, and I begin to smell a chicken roasting. My stomach knots up. I salivate. I suddenly feel so hungry again. My longing eyes search the passageway for my keeper to please come back and give me some food. My food problem has not gotten any better. He only feeds me a little at a time, here and there. He never feeds me at regular predictable times, because he says that I shouldn’t start to expect it as if I have a right to anything, nor should I feel like I have power to control or predict anything that happens. This was another part of his philosophy of pig management. He said “I know it’s hard on you pig, but I really am your friend, and I’m doing what’s best for you.”

The player sang “Grandma got run over by a reindeer, walking home from our house Christmas eve…”

And, feedings are always totally humiliating. I have to present my pig mouth gaping wide as I can get it with my pig tongue out. Then, he will feed me by hand, telling me when I can chew, when to stop chewing, and when I can swallow each mouthful. He’d say, “It’s good for you to be totally controlled like this and have no choices about it. If you had any choices, you’d be tempted to go to a dark place.” I don’t know what that means, but I wag my pig tongue up and down and sniff two times, meaning “Thank you for not letting me go to a dark place.”

The player sang, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go. Take a look at the 5 and 10. It’s glistening once again, with candy canes and silver lanes that glow.”

I stop smelling roasted chicken after a while. When he finally does come back, he is dressed up in a buttoned down shirt and pants with a crease in them. He tells me he is going out to a Christmas party expecting to get pleasantly drunk and, maybe, laid. “Wish me luck pig!” I jingle the bell on my pig nose, meaning, “Good luck! Let me know if you need a wingman.” He locks the closet door and goes out. I start to gulp air and cry again for loneliness. I desperately want him to come back, even just to fuck with me more.

The player sang, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light. From now on your troubles will be out of sight…”

The player played on and on. I can’t ever really fall asleep in the box without drugs, because it is so uncomfortable. But, my thoughts slow down and get so they are incoherent. I start to get disoriented physically. The muzzle starts to feel like it is a part of my face. The thick posture collar feels like it is part of my neck. I can’t look down and see anything of my own body; so, I start to feel weirdly as if I have no body. I am a floating head. I start to have hallucinations. Mostly they are conversations with imaginary people that make no sense. Sometimes, I have what I’d describe as vivid waking dreams where I feel like I am somewhere else entirely.

Also, on rare occasions I have a sex dream vivid enough to give me an orgasm in my diaper, despite the restraints on my arms, legs, hips and torso that kept me so tightly confined and immobile. That’s about the only enjoyable thing to happen in this box, and I wish it would happen more. But, my keeper says I should keep my pig balls full; so, he started punishing me if he finds any jiz.

He says, “On a real pig farm the only time you’d ever be allowed to empty out your pig balls is when the farmer decides to trade your breeder pig semen with another farm to inseminate their pigs. You just keep yourself fully stocked up against the (extremely remote) possibility of that ever happening.”

He would say, “Look at it this way pig. There is an essential difference between you and me that you have to get drilled into your head: I’m a man. I think about sex and need sex and want to shoot my load all the time. None of that applies to you anymore. You might feel like you are still entitled to squirt out your pig juice, but it’s just your delusion. You’re a little piggy now, and piggys don’t need sex. All a pig ever needs is to obey and do what it’s told.”

I’ll just come right out and say it. He super-glued my penis head to a catnip scented squeaky mouse toy.

He says, “Hey pig, I don’t think you’ve met my kitty cat. Here she is. Isn’t she pretty? Say ‘hi’ to the pig, Fluffypuff!” He locks my ankles and wrists together behind my back and sets me down on my knees on the floor. He makes me shuffle along and bounce the mouse around so that Fluffypuff can stalk it across the room, pounce on my junk, and bat away at the squeaky mouse with her paws. Fluffypuff also enjoys holding the squeaky mouse in her teeth and biting it to make it go “squeak” and throw off some catnip smell, which makes Fluffypuff roll around ecstatically.

My keeper says, “See, you don’t have to worry, pig. I have other practical uses for your pig wiener in place of sex. It won’t go to waste.” That cat scares the shit out of me. I move my head up and down and sniff twice, meaning “Thanks for turning me into a cat toy. I’ll try not to cum anymore.” I am starting to see things his way.

The music in my earbuds stopped. Where am I? How long’s it been? Oh. He’s here.

“Hey pig! Smell my feet.” He is sitting beside me with his feet propped up on the box. He taps on my face with his big toe. I just look at it wondering. “Hello! Anybody in there?” He sticks a toe right up my nose. I wake up more and start to go sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff on this feet. “That’s a good piggy!” I’m required to display convincing pig-like interest and enthusiasm whenever I am presented with anything smelly.

“Here, I’ll help you.” He spreads his toes and plants his big sweaty foot squarely in my face mushing against my nose. I accidently say “umpf”, meaning “umpf.” He says “Hey that’s cool pig. Y’know what? I’m making a new rule right now. From now on, pig, you’re allowed to say “umpf” when you’re smelling my feet. Because, I realize my smell can have that kind of effect.”

I say “umpf, umpf, umpf,” and I feel as if I’ve won something being allowed to make noise when smelling his feet. I run my nose back and forth across the sole, and he says “Hahhahhah, bad pig!” because it tickles him, but he lets me keep doing it anyway. His foot smell has an “I’ve been drinking a lot” tang to it. I wonder if he is still drunk from his party. I wonder if he got laid like he wanted. He says, “Well, I think I really need some hot coffee and a shower. Later pig” and then he goes out again.

Some time later, he comes back from his shower with a coffee cup and a towel wrapped around his waist. He props his foot up in my face again. Sniff, sniff, sniff. “Smells a little fresher now, I guess.”

I say “umpf.”

I’m surprised when he goes to get his key and then unlocks my muzzle. I open my pig mouth wide and stick out my tongue again. He waters me and gives me a little bit of food to eat. “What does a good pig say now?”

“Sniff, sniff.”

He says, “Open real wide now.” He gets down close face-to-face with me and starts brushing my teeth. Every once in a while, he has me close my mouth to swallow the toothpaste. He has me swish some mouthwash around in my mouth and spit it into a cup.

“That’s better now,” he says. “Your breath stunk a little, and I don’t want my feet going near to a dirty pig mouth.” Satisfied with my hygiene, he sticks his foot in my mouth and has me suck on his toes. “You like those toes, don’t you piggy?”

I say “umpf,” meaning “Hairy guy toes. Yum.”

He says, “What do you think pig? Should I let you out of the box again for a while? You’ve been good lately, and you’re getting a better attitude about just obeying me and accepting it’s your purpose in life.” I sniff twice loudly, meaning “Thank you so much for even considering the remote possibility of ever letting your pig out of this fucking box.”

Next I remember, he locks the muzzle right back on me again. He mounts the box and leans into me. He drops his bath towel and presses his cock head right up to my nose. With some hesitation I sniff it twice, meaning “Um…, thank you for unexpectedly sticking your knob in my face, and I don’t know what all else?” He goes away again and locks the door. I am confused. He seemed like he was going to let me out as a reward for being so good, and then he just muzzled me up again and left. I’m freaked out that his dick was so hard.

And, here I am still locked in this fucking box. I wait and wait. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! I want out of here! I try to pass the time. I count cracks in the ceiling. I try to fart the Star Spangled Banner. I tell myself every dirty joke I can think of. I fantasize about fucking Jennifer, but I can’t get off. I haven’t been able to unload. I want to. I imagine her breasts and get semi-hard in my diaper, but nothing further. I am getting more conditioned to keeping my balls full as an obedient sexless piggy. I give up and piss in my diaper.

“Hey there pig.”

Yeah! Finally, he is here to let me out! He sits beside me on the lid of the box and pets the peach fuzz that is growing out again on my recently shaved head. I move my head up and down and up and down, meaning “Yes. Good. Now, let me the-fuck out like you said.”

He takes out a letter from his pocket and says, “You know that I don’t usually allow you to know about things happening in the outside world, but I’ve decided to let you know that you got a Christmas card from this chick named Jennifer.” He opens up the letter and props up a Christmas card in front of my face. The card itself is triangular-shaped like a Christmas tree with some glitter on it. Wait. What? I’m kidnapped, locked in a box in a closet. How am I getting Christmas cards?

I see the envelope it came in. I can see it has the address of the apartment that I moved into when I first moved to Seattle for the job, but it also has a forwarding sticker attached, which redirected the letter to a PO Box number. Whoa! He’s been taking in my mail. What the fuck’s he doing with my mail? He knocked-knocks on the top of my head with his fist. “Pig? How come I’m not seeing any gratitude here? I thought it would make you happy to get a shout-out from someone you were so close to in your former life.”

“Sniff, sniff”, I say, playing for time. What does the card say?

“Here, I’ll read it to you,” he says.

 

Dearest Jeffrey,

Merry Christmas! I really hope this note reaches you before you take your final vows and go into seclusion at the monastery. I have to say, I was really shocked and surprised when you told me about your new life choice. I never realized you were such a spiritual person!

I was really looking forward to seeing you again over Christmas break. My roommate is going home over break, and, wow, we would have had a great time alone here together, sleeping late in bed, playing the footsy game again J.

I’m really sad about losing you, but when you tell me you are quitting your new job to start a religious monastic life secluded in a dorm with all men, and you are taking sacred vows of poverty, chastity, and silence and giving all your worldly possessions away – well, you definitely seem to be sending a message.

I admire the decision you’ve made, although, I regret there’s no room for me in that life. God bless. I hope you find what you’re looking for.

Love, Jennifer

 

He puts the card down in front of my face again. I am speechless. I just stare at the words. My mind won’t let me see all at once the enormity of it. No. Is this really her handwriting? How could she think I would…? Losing you – Is she dumping me? Monastery? Vow of chastity? No. No. No. No.

“Hey, Merry Christmas, pig!”

Mother fucker! He contacted my girl posing as me and told her some flaky bullshit to make her dump me. I glare at him with laser beams of hate in my eyes. Oh, it’s on! I flare my nostrils at him as if I were a charging bull. “Wait, wait, don’t look at me like that pig!” He backs up away toward the door and stumbles over something. “You’ve got it all wrong, pig. Look, I’m your friend here. I’m doing what’s best for you. Let’s calm down and talk this over.”

I shoot psychic daggers at him with my eyes. “Ow! Come on now piggy!” He goes around behind me and straddles his legs across the box lid, leaning my head on his crotch like before to comfort and calm me down. I am having none of that. I yank my head up and backward as hard as I can, trying to whack him in the nuts with the back of my head. He scoots out of range and says “Hey! Now, that’s really not nice piggy!”

I continue to punch the air behind me with my head, while making breathy “hawh, hawh, hawh” noises through my muzzle.

“Come on now piggy. Stop. You’re gonna hurt yourself whipping your head like that.”

“Hawh, hawh, hawh,” I say.

“Come on. Be reasonable. You’re a head. What’s your big plan? You going to hard breathe me to death?”

I make a long high pitched “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” sound out my nose and erupt into angry hate tears.

“The crying routine again? Really?” He goes away and comes back with a wet towel, which he places on my forehead to help me cool off. He sighs. “You know, I’m really trying hard to make this relationship work pig, but honestly, sometimes I just can’t see how we will ever make it together to the part where you’re broken inside and compliant to my will.”

I sniffle pathetically.

“We can’t let a chick come between us, piggy. We need to have a serious man-to-pig talk about this Jennifer.” He produces a photo of Jennifer that he must have gotten off my Facebook and places it on the box between us.

“So. Piggy. This girl. You bang this girl?”

I move my head up and down, meaning “Yeah. She is my girlfriend.”

“Dude! Well done! She is smoking hot! How in the world did you ever…, um, you met up with this girl in college?”

I move my head up and down.

“Did you have a lot of sex with girls in college?”

I move my head up and down. It’s college.

“Dude, I didn’t know this about you. You used to be attractive to women, and you had a lot of success with them.”

I move my head up and down, meaning “Yes I am, and when I escape from here, I will be again.”

“Yeah. No. See, that’s the problem. And, I solved your problem now by getting rid of her.”

I move my head left and right with emphasis and say “No” into the muzzle, which comes out sounding like “Nnn.”

“She’s been writing you for a while now, saying she misses you and can’t wait to see you again. I decided to have you message back and kiss her off saying you had this calling to become a monk. She seemed a little upset, but now she is moving on. I’m not sure if she really believes you’re a monk, but she definitely believes you are kissing her off.”

“She is not riding into town to set up a search party for you, pig. That’s what I want you to understand. Neither is anyone else. You are still active on Facebook and Twitter. I’m taking care of your mail. I sublet your apartment. You have a new dating profile set up on Grindr. No one’s looking for you. You haven’t disappeared as far as anyone knows; although your online persona has become, maybe, more off-putting, more political, more religious, more flaky.”

I start to feel again like my head is exploding.

“Look at the little veins popping up on your head. That’s neat!”

“So, here’s what I see, pig. You’ve been holding out on me, making sweet love to this Jennifer all along inside your little bean.” He poked my head with his finger, not in a nice way. “Don’t get me wrong. I see that she is amazing, and you could run with that, and I admire that you were a stud.”

“But, on the other hand what I see is, you’re a fuckin’ pig! You don’t get to have a private inner life in there where you make love to babes while doing a half-assed token job of obeying me. You have what I want you to have and absolutely nothing more. You violated that girl with your filthy pig wiener. She’s a human being; you’re livestock. It’s bestiality. And, it is just offensive you having sex with people.”

“I understand you better now, pig. That’s a good thing. I can see you wanting to have a relationship with this girl, but I need you to understand that you will never have any contact with her again. Once you accept that, I know I can work on you more to empty out your little head and stay focused on obeying me. If it makes you feel better about it, I’ll write to her again to give you both some closure.”

In another month or so, I will write to her saying that I am fitting in well at the monastery. I am brewing homemade beer with my monk brothers. I have been assigned to one elder brother monk who shadows me all day and night to make sure I keep my vows. I have a monk robe issued to me, which is my only clothing. I sleep on the floor. I’ve taken the vow of silence, but I am permitted to write; however, my brothers see I am having trouble with my chastity vow, and they want me to stop writing to girls from here on.

“That all sound good to you, pig?”

I move my head up and down, meaning “Yeah, I’ve really got nothing.” Funny, I don’t remember what happened after that. I must have fainted, or something.

The next thing I do remember is sitting up with my legs stretched out and sucking up some milk through a straw. The blinders are on me again; so, I don’t know where I am. I feel like my brain has cracked open and been fried like an egg in a skillet. That image reminds me of solid food and makes me sick to my stomach. I turn away, queasy, and stop drinking the milk. A voice says, “Hey, that’s good that you’re keeping it down. You’ve been too sick to eat anything.” I am bundled up in some blankets, and I can feel I am damp with sweat underneath them. I’ve been delirious, rolling around shivering in a fever for some time. Then, I remember sleeping a lot.

My body has now been scanned and digitized with a Kinect sensor. My keeper says it would be a good time to do some work on my body, now that my brain is fried. I move my head up and down, meaning “okey dokey.” I don’t realize how pathetically skinny and frail I have become until I see my own image on his monitor. I’m naked and scrawny with giant yellow pig tags flopping out of my ears. He subscribes me to a piggy fitness routine that I can do in the closet while viewing the digitized me on a monitor in there. The fitness routine has me Zumba dancing, jogging in place, doing squats, jumping a virtual rope, and then stomping on giant piano keys in the floor. Once I get my strength back enough to keep up with the routine, it keeps me very busy in there. I don’t think about much. I just follow the fitness routine. The fitness routine keeps a running score and all kinds of statistics about on how well I Zumba with the rhythm and if I squat deep enough. The fitness routine gives me a lot of positive reinforcement and makes me start to feel good about myself again. I get less disgusted with the image of my naked pig body hop-scotching in the monitor.

My keeper lets me come out into the house for the Superbowl. It is Seahawks versus Broncos. I am blindered and muzzled again; so, I can’t see it, but I can hear the play-by-play on the TV and listen to the commercials. I haven’t heard any TV since I’ve been captured, and now I am hearing something of the world! He dresses me in a crop-top blue and green Seahawks jersey for the occasion, otherwise naked. Whatever I was before, I’m a Seahawks fan now. He puts me on my knees on the floor where he can easily reach for his beer. He’s shaved and waxed my head and polished it gleaming with Vaseline so that my bald head can securely hold a beer cozy that is mounted on top of a toilet plunger suction cup.

“There’s a good piggy, kneeling up straight with your head still so my beer doesn’t slosh around!”

He gives a playful tug to a leash attached to my testicles that runs between my legs and tethers me close to the leg of a chair. I don’t move my head up and down, because that would slosh the beer. The leash is tight, and my balls ache. Superbowl means February? How long have I been here?

The doorbell rings, and when he comes back from answering it, I can smell a pizza. We listen to the game, while he keeps saying how surprised he is that the Bronco’s offense seems overwhelmed by Seattle. He eats the whole pizza and throws out the box before the half-time show. But, I’m the pig. I carefully shift a little on my knees to relieve some discomfort at the next time when he reaches to take the beer off my head. I hear him move away and then pop open a fresh beer.

Realizing how long I’ve been here like this troubles me. I used to imagine ways to escape, but I can’t now see myself ever leaving. I appraise the situation. I say to myself, “This relationship with him just isn’t healthy. I can’t allow myself to be treated more and more like an object, to where he feels OK to just plunk me down and tether my balls to furniture.” He deposits his fresh beer into my head cozy and sits back down with me by the TV.

I know I need to establish some human connection with him, make him see I’m a person too. I’ve suffered every conceivable type of degradation from him. Well no, come to think of it, I’ve never been ass-raped. I can be thankful for that at least.

I feel his knee up near my shoulder, and then his foot stretches out around the side of me and lands between my legs. He has socks on. He rubs on my penis with the sole of his foot. When it gets hard, he stops. Soon, the half-time show comes on, and I can hear Bruno Mars performing on the field. I try to adjust myself more on the floor to be comfortable, but I use up the slack in the tether and start yanking my own balls. He gives me permission to go from kneeling to sitting with my legs stretched out until half-time is over. I sniff twice.

In the second half he does the thing with his foot again. “You like that, don’t you pig?”

I know I am not supposed to slosh the beer; so, I keep my head still and just thump my boner up and down on the floor.

“Hey, I’ll make a bet with you, pig. If the Broncos turn it around in the second half and win this thing, I will give you a gift and let you squirt your pig juice one time. But, if they lose, …, well, I’m almost afraid to tell you.” I don’t want to take this bet. Call me crazy, but the Broncos are not doing well.

“Let me put it this way. I’m happy with you. You’re stronger and more healthy looking now after doing your fitness routines. I was concerned. But, I realize you’re really a tough little pig. You bounce right back.” He pauses to pull the beer off my head and down the rest of it.

“Anyway, when the Broncos lose, … sorry, if the Broncos, …whatever. You’re going back in the box.”

He keeps doing the thing with his foot just enough to keep me hard and quietly thumping through the whole second half. The score ends up 43-8 Seahawks. I am such a fucking loser. When the wrap-up show starts, he kills my boner in the usual way by bending it double around a shower curtain ring and snapping a thick rubber band around it. My penis hurts for a minute but softens up quickly. I take it stoically.

He says “I’m really sorry you lost the bet so bad, pig. Thirty-five point loss? Those Broncos really fucked you out!” I sniff twice to let him know I harbor no ill will about it.

He comes up behind me and pulls me up off my knees to standing. I get worried he is taking me right back to the closet now. I have an awful, desperate thought. What if could get him to fuck me? Maybe, he will fall in love with my ass and treat me nicer. And, I really appreciated coming out for the game with him. I really hope he will let me out soon again. I have such a limited vocabulary. The only thing I can think of is to back up into him and rub my butt up and down.

“Umm….”

“You know, most dudes I know are not so quick to offer their asses to another dude when they lose a Superbowl bet.”

He gets an erection in his sweat pants, which freaks me out a little, but I keep going. I need to establish human contact!

“Wow! You know, I probably should have seen this coming.” Eventually, he backs away and leaves me standing there, uncertain.

“No. Don’t get me wrong, pig. That’s great that you’re in love with me and all, grinding your asshole on my cock to be fucked. But, I am definitely not going to fuck you. Not that I’m not tempted to, but I have standards. You aren’t so clean down there, and I don’t want to have to scrub your pig shit off my tool. No offense.”

It’s funny how I would always think I had come to a steady state of humiliation. And then, I would unexpectedly drop to a new level. Thanks, but I don’t want pig shit on my tool.

He gives me water and puts two pills on my tongue to swallow, then muzzles me again. He says I need drugs to calm me down because I am overexcited. He dresses me in a fresh diaper and takes me back to the closet. Twenty-two year old bald freak in a diaper. I feel the turn and the other turn down the hallway, hear the bolt open on the closet door. What’s wrong with my ass? I’m doing squats. I’ve got a sweet tight hole, dammit!

My keeper says “Hey pig, so you know, I had fun watching the game with you too. Next year, we’ll make another bet, eh? Hah! And, if your team wins by more than a 35 point margin, you can start to get out of that hole you’re in!” I move my head up and down.

He is boxing me again. I move my head right and left while he fixes my wrists and angles, locks my pelvis in the seat, sets the shoulder straps, and closes the lid of the box at my neck under the posture collar. Why? What’d I do wrong? I smell him and feel something thump up against my forehead.

“Don’t worry pig. It’s not punishment. It just gets my dick hard. You know.” He thumps his hard-on on my forehead again. His sack is up against the muzzle right under my nose.

“I’ve gotta piss.” He moves behind me. The beer cozy still suction-cupped to my head starts filling with liquid.

“You can only rent beer, pig. Don’t slosh.” He fills it completely, and his overflow streams down my face and under my collar.

“Later pig. I have to go take care of this.” He leaves me this way. When I move my head, more piss sloshes out of the beer cozy. It is a flimsy porous, foam rubber thing anyway.

Oh, great! Just…great.

 

Author’s note: No pigs were harmed while writing this entirely farcical work of fiction. Don’t do anything in here for real.