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"writing": "Brandy Harrington: When Nightmares Become Reality.\n\n\nPrologue: “It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”- Thought Brandy, tears running down her unnaturally aged face. Her body ached, her head hurt, everything stank, & anywhere she touched was sticky. Loud sobbing in one ear & yelling in the other, Brandy had no choice but to stand there & take it. Having nowhere to go & no one left to help her, Brandy was powerless to escape the hell that was her existence.\n\n\nChapter#1: Waking with a gasp, Brandy sat bolt upright in bed, cold sweat running down her face; next to her, Whiskers grumbled in his sleep, turning over so he faced the wall, she’d had the nightmare again. Sighing, Brandy got out of bed, walked over to the sink, got a glass of water & stared up at the stars. The jungle canopy was all around her.\nSighing again, Brandy reached one furred hand down her pink pajama pants, which were soaked & sticky. Pulling her hand out, Brandy spread her fingers, and clear threads of sticky fluid formed between them. She shuttered. This heat was a bad one. It had started a week prior, on her 17th birthday. From experience, Brandy knew her heat would reach its apex tomorrow or the day after. She’d had heats since she was 11, but never one this bad & what's worse, like all of her other heats, Whiskers could smell it coming a week in advance. Ever since the two of them had crashed in the jungle, Whiskers had warned Brandy when her heat was coming. While extremely useful, it made Brandy uncomfortable, knowing Whiskers always knew something so private. It wasn’t the first time though; if Whiskers wasn’t sniffing her dirty laundry, he was trying on her underwear or using her toothbrush.\nThree fucking years they'd been trapped in this damn jungle. Three years of pretending life wasn’t hell. Three years of living like animals to survive, & three years of Brandy pretending her “Friends” weren't dirty, backwoods savages, simply so she wouldn't be alone or with Whiskers all day. \nFrom day one, Whiskers had been a creep, slowly grooming her. Brandy saw through it immediately but what could she do? She had no one & nowhere to go. Whiskers had been a pervert since they met, close to 5 years ago, when Brandy was 12. It had been subtle but Brandy caught him glancing at her ass & looking up at her tits whenever he was close to her. Despite being 3 times her age, Whiskers was less than half her height, not counting his ears.\nIt had been like this the whole first season of their show. Brandy had brought up her discomfort to her mother/manager, but was brushed off with a quick- “You’re imagining it”- Brandy’s mother chose the money over her daughter’s happiness. In her own head, the Botox-preserved trophy dog, named Trophy, justified her own inaction with the thought. \n\n\n“If the studio didn’t want that to happen, they wouldn’t have hired a dude in his 30s to play a 7-year-old.”- Trophy’s own dreams had been a failure; she wouldn’t let her second chan- er, daughter, fail too.\n\n\nDuring the first season, Whiskers didn’t try anything, no inappropriate touching, & nothing less than appropriate conversation. Just some inappropriate staring, & some slight personal space issues. If anything, Whiskers was much the Gentleman with a charming wit & a smooth voice. It made Brandy feel much more comfortable, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something felt unnatural and artificial. \nFor her part, Trophy was glad her daughter had stopped whining. This show was a lifeline & god knows they needed the money. Thirteen years ago, Trophy had been a young, dumb 19-year-old stripper & aspiring singer living in Daytona Beach, Florida, working to make ends meet while pursuing her music. A small-town girl with good looks & big dreams, looking to make it in the big city; & everything came crashing down on a slow Saturday in August.\nSitting at a table, Trophy growled in frustration, wearing a black sequin bikini. The blonde dog with the double-G’s had made very little money that night, thanks to some dumb religious holiday. Downtrodden & annoyed, Trophy was about to call it a night when a handsome chocolate lab sat down at her table. He bought a lap dance & since the place was dead, Trophy spent her whole shift with the guy, making close to $ 400. The whole time, they drank & talked together; the lab proclaimed that he was a music producer in town on business. As her shift was ending, the now extremely drunk Trophy found herself propositioned by the man, asking her if she’d like to head over to his hotel room.\nFor a moment, Trophy hesitated, sure, she’d slept with the clientele before, why not? The sex felt good & she was making money, besides, she always used protection. But that was with regulars, guys she’d scouted out, making sure they weren’t disgusting &/or creeps. But this guy was a music producer & he was offering 500 bucks making $900 total, enough for rent, gas, groceries, & pot. Shrugging her shoulders, Trophy agreed, the guy didn’t seem like a psycho, what's the worst that could happen?\nThe worst that could happen was Trophy stupidly getting drunker & drunker on wine, then cheap beer. The worst that could happen was Trophy not running at the first sight of the Lab’s monstrous bull cock. The worst that could happen was Trophy not backing out the moment she saw how old & yellowed his condom looked. The worst that could happen was Trophy stifling her screams as the massive bull cock split her open, stretching & even slightly tearing her labia. The worst that could happen was Trophy taking it as the Lab rutted her like an animal, slamming against her cervix like a hammer, stretching her love tunnel to fit his girth. The worst that could happen was the Lab keeping this up for almost an hour. The worst that could happen was Trophy feeling the bull cock bottom out as it breached her cervix & rammed her womb. The worst that would happen was Trophy, her eyes narrowing to pinpricks, feeling the Lab’s cock swell, his balls tighten, & him unleashing a howl as he sprays a torrent of cum. The worst that could happen was the feeling of burning goo inside Trophy as the old condom burst, flooding her womb with vile, viral mutt seed & attacking a defenseless Ova. The worst that could happen was the extremely drunk Trophy passing out moments later, allowing the Lab to clean up & slip out unnoticed, satisfied at victimizing another sucker.\nIn the morning, Trophy awoke with a splitting headache & a bad hangover. Blinking rapidly, it took several seconds for her vision to clear & several more before she could think straight. Only then did the events of last night come flooding back, & horror welled up inside of Trophy. Horror quickly turned to anger as Trophy quickly pulled her phone out of her purse, grabbed the business card the lab gave her from her panties, and she quickly dialed. Out of service, frowning, Trophy tried again, but nothing. She didn’t understand; the lab had given her that card after she had sung to him. He loved her voice & wanted her to record with him. Why would? The numb realization struck Trophy like a cluster migraine; the lab wasn’t really a music producer, he’d just said that to better his chances of sleeping with her. \nAlready several hours outside the city, the lab smirked, he couldn’t believe how easy that was. All he needed to do was pretend to be a music producer, act nice, & put up with th at dumb bitches singing. Honestly, she wanted to be a singer. That dumb bitch sounded like a slutty Fran Drescher. Well, whatever, it was worth it, he’d gotten the bitch in bed with him & there was no way that breeding didn’t take, bitch had just started her heat. Maybe pregnancy would suit her? He knew her tits would get bigger, painfully so. Personally, he hoped she’d get obese, that pregnancy would wreak havoc on her. There was nothing he liked better than ruining stripper lives.\nChapter #2: Well, the breeding definitely took. A few days after Trophy gave up on tracking the lab down (she never saw him again), she started experiencing morning sickness. One pink stick later & it was official Trophy was having a mutt’s bastard.\nFortunately, the club owners, a very sweet elderly lesbian cat couple, had no issues with Trophy working there while pregnant. Still, they did have a policy of no dancers with young children, as it was deemed too great a risk of a travesty occurring, much to Trophy’s chagrin. Her breasts started ballooning in size almost immediately, as the lab expected. It got so bad that after like a month, Trophy was buying bigger bras & bikinis every week. After that, she reluctantly began wearing nipple pasties as several of the other large women did. Extremely sore & tender to the touch, Trophy’s dances devolved to mostly walking around the pole in an egregiously slutty manner. Predictably, Trophy’s weight began to skyrocket as her pregnancy progressed but it wasn’t all baby weight. While a massive taunt ball was growing off Trophy’s chest, the rest of her was keeping pace. Seemingly unable to stop eating, Trophy swelled up like a blimp, her soft skin lumpy & squishy to the touch from all the fat beneath it. Rolls growing to smother & cover up other rolls, legs so fat they pressed together like a trunk. Arms with bingo wings so big they blew in the wind & created drag. A large dust ruffle of fat skirted around the bottom of Trophy’s huge stomach & hung down to cover the massive FUPA pushing up against it. \n Wearing pasties & white bikini bottoms long stained brown that showed off her pockmarked cellulite ass. The morbidly obese, 9-month-pregnant Tropy, walked slowly around the pole, sweating like a flood & panting from the mild activity. She hated being up there, her feet hurt, walking made her sweat, she looked gross & despite being huge her bikini bottoms dug tightly into her flesh, fat spilling over the sides, almost covering them from view. Holding back tears, the 450 lbs dog knew the clientele was here to laugh at her; they didn’t find her sexy, no one thought she was talented, she was a freak, a spectacle. The upside was that Trophy went from making $500 on a good night to making over a grand on the regular. That's why she continued to do it. Hell, she only knew what she weighed because everyone was betting on it & Trophy made a dollar for every pound. Nine months in, she’d made over a million dollars except: \n1.) Trophy never kept track of how much she was making & \n2.) blew almost every dollar she got. \nWhether it was on the massive amounts of food she consumed, the new, bigger condo & the parties she threw, or just the gaudy overpriced clothes she wore, (The ruined bottom’s Trophy had on where part of a 40k bikini set, the top half of which she couldn’t even wear.) Beyond that, it was gaudy designer jumpsuits to cover up her gross body & gaudy jewelry to distract from her massive size. After everything, Trophy was still a dumb bitch who no longer wore condoms while she fucked, not seeing a reason. All in all, Trophy had about 60k in savings, instead of over a million.\nThat night at the club was going like any other; Trophy was glad her session was almost up. Beyond her normal discomfort, her stomach was killing her for some reason. It hadn’t felt right since that morning but it was too dumb to put two & two together. Trophy took some Pepto & did her best to ignore it. Fortunately, the pain was worth it; she’d made a killing that night. But just as her last song was finishing, a ripple of pain shot through Trophy’s stomach, causing her to groan and double over, holding her stomach. Another ripple dropped her as the crowd went from cheering to gasping, to silent & confused, to laughing as a third ripple hit Trophy & a spray of greasy fluids soaked her ruined bottom. She’d just gone into Labor & everyone was laughing at her.\nWell, a quick call to 911 & an ambulance ride later, Trophy was in stirrups on a hospital bed, completely naked as no hospital gown could fit her huge frame. Her fat leg rolls were taped up so her browning, used pussy could be roughly shaved & accessed, & her massive tits were held up by cuffs hanging from the ceiling. Eighteen hours later, Trophy was holding the crying Brandy, named after her favorite drink, the drink that had started this whole mess.\nAfter that, everything began to go downhill. Unable to strip now that Brandy was born, Trophy had to pick up shifts bartending instead. Now, while the owners paid her $19 an hour & she still got tips, it was nothing close to what she used to make. The clientele’s new toy syndrome had evidently worn off. Unable to afford her lavish lifestyle on her now meager earnings, Trophy scaled back massively but was still hemorrhaging her savings. Her pay barely covered babysitting & food much less the mortgage or bills. For that reason, Trophy got Brandy into baby modeling, & figured she was a cute kid, so she might as well. It's not like she hadn’t met multiple legit producers in her unconventional 15 minutes of fame.\nWell low & behold that idea worked, & baby Brandy was modeling diapers, baby clothes, & life insurance before she could walk. Miracle ass-pull that it was, Brandy’s job was enough to pay the mortgage & utilities. Brandy didn’t see much of her mother in her first formative years. With both of them having jobs & her mother working at night, Brandy spent most of her time with a handful of sitters. That changed at age 5 when Brandy’s career began getting more lucrative, prompting Trophy to quit bartending & become her daughter's manager full-time. Trophy had changed a lot in 5 years. Miraculously, she lost the weight (liposuction & spoiled white-girl meth) though she still suffered from stretch marks, lots of loose skin, cellulite, ass dimples, & she just couldn’t get rid of rolls on the back of her legs. Beyond that, Trophy’s breasts shrank some but sagged a lot, leaving her stuck wearing a huge old-lady bra, something she hated, growing up her whole life despising becoming older and undesirable. That, & the fact that the Trophy was stuck with cheap velvet or nylon tracksuits, contributed heavily to her chip on the shoulder, 'the world owes me' attitude. The Karen-pixie cut sealed the deal.\nFor the next 4 years, Trophy took Brandy across the country, landing whatever acting gigs they could find. Despite treating almost everyone as if they were beneath her, Trophy made a genuine effort to be a good parent to Brandy, even if her bad tendencies were starting to rub off on her. The problem was, that Trophy was still a narcissistic idiot who thought she knew everything & was better than everyone. Combine that with being 24, feeling like a failure, & needing to live vicariously through a child she saw as a mini-me & you have a recipe for disaster.\nDisaster struck a few months after Brandy’s 10th birthday. Her modeling jobs had mostly dried up, a few here & there but Trophy was once again tapping into her savings to meet travel expenses. It was hectic, & Trophy was a bit panicked but she had a plan. At the time, Tween pop stars were all the rage, following the model of Hanna Montanna, Ashly Tisdale, Britny Spears, Lindsey Lohan, ETC… In Trophy’s mind, she figured Brandy was cute & blonde, what the worst that could happen?\nAfter a few months of singing lessons & Trophy “cashing in some favors”, Brandy had gigs as a backup Singer/ Dancer. Once again, Trophy’s weird luck held. This lasted for a solid 8 months until January, a few months before Brandy’s 11 birthday. At that time, Brandy had done another modeling job as part of her music career. Doing a “bad girl” style photo shoot, it was Brandy in a pink Adidas half-jacket, matching pink booty shorts, & $Inc flip-flop pumps. Squatting in a position that popped her booty out towards the camera, Brandy looked over her shoulder making bedroom eyes & a pouty face, so simple, yet it would change everything.\nChapter#3: Having thought very little about the photo shoot outside the money & a new outfit for Brandy, Trophy was shocked when the ad blew up, the photo was everywhere & everyone was talking about Brandy, including one Anthro who just couldn’t get enough, framing in & hanging it on the wall of his trailer. \nWith dollar signs in her eyes, Trophy’s first thought was to cash in on the ads, attempting to launch Brandy’s solo music career, burning a lot of bridges in the process. This culminated in Brandy’s first & only album, Pink Party! Using the ad photo as the album cover. Well, through the miracle that is fad trends, a pop album of a tween in leather signing risque slut songs made platinum. Things were good for a while after that, The money was rolling in & Trophy could get back to the life she loved, leather, parties, & drugs. On the flip side, Brandy was getting everything she ever wanted & was loving all the attention and popularity. She was a nice girl, very sweet but was rapidly developing a bratty demanding personality, quick to anger when she didn’t get her own way. Things were good for roughly a year until the fad ended, & Brandy’s album sales tanked… off a cliff. Having spent most of the year parting, Trophy was caught off guard, unprepared for Brandy to lose the limelight.\nA second album was rushed to market but was critically panned & saw few sales. Trophy tried to rekindle old relationships in the music & modeling industries but meaningful, steady work failed to materialize. Leaving Trophy & Brandy hopping from one odd job to another as they struggled to make ends meet. It seemed Trophy’s monkey paw luck had finally run dry. But then there was a lifeline, an old client, a literal fat cat who had a thing for Trophy. A producer for low-budget kid's cartoons, he was more than willing to work with a faded child star & a retired stripper Karen. Sending over a script for a kid’s sitcom almost as soon as he & Trophy got off the phone.\nIt was about this time that Trophy got Botox. After years of watching her face grow grooves & baggy eyes, so old, so tired, & always insecure about her looks & age, she needed something to regain some feeling of control. She’d now looked somewhat younger, though her cheekbones looked weird as if her face was stretched out rather than rejuvenated. Her lips were thicker & her jawline retouched, it was enough… for now at least. \nThe show, whose working title was Claira & Whiskers, had a simple premise: a girl & her pet bunny going on wacky adventures, usually learning a lesson of some kind in the process, while keeping the focus on the slapstick & gags. It was cheap, quick to produce, & filled a time slot. It wasn’t glamorous or star-making, but it was a steady paycheck.\nSeason 1 consisted of 13 episodes. The show, renamed Brandy & Mr. Whiskers, performed about as well as expected, even better in the 4-12 female market. Brandy’s name recognition, though not very big, was a nice boost to an otherwise 4/7 show. Unfortunately, this left Brandy a niche, early internet micro-celebrity, someone only famous in a small, relatively obscure fandom. This served to make Brandy a bigger brat, unable to handle not getting her way & affronted when anyone talked back to her. The effect on Brandy’s mental health was evident. But her mother’s greed left her blind to it & the producer was the kind of man who would hire a perv like Whiskers. Currently working on a kids’ show to “wash” his image after his… “unusual” comments some months ago, after a hiatus.\nAfter a paid month off, thanks to high DVD sales, filming for season 2 started. Winter in FL, but summer in the southern hemisphere. Brandy & Mr. Whiskers season 2 would kick off with a bang. A 1-hour special that would start with Brand & Whiskers parachuting into the Amazon, a few hours outside of Rio. Trophy & Brandy had reservations at first, mostly to do with parachuting without a certified guide but some smooth talk from the producer & some fat stacks made everything copacetic.\nWith travel plans taken care of, Brandy, Trophy, & Mr. Whiskers were off to Brazil. After a few days in Rio, a fan meet & greet, celebrating Brandy’s 14th birthday, & filming some B-roll in the city; Brandy & Mr. Whiskers were on a plane & soaring over the jungle. It wasn’t until a day later that the public learned that their plane dropped off the radar & went radio silent over the Amazon River. It was originally planned for the rescue services to hold the news from the public, but rumors got to some journalists who leaked the rescue operation. And now it was everywhere as an international tragedy, as a 14-year-old pop star & actress was now missing in the dangerous Amazon. The news hit her mother the worst, as she couldn’t believe her daughter was alone in the jungle if she didn’t die on impact. Fortunately, Brandy & Mr. Whiskery survived the crash, but the pilot did not. Furthermore, the plane crashed in one of the numerous deep ponds found in the northern regions of the Amazon, far from civilization. Having jumped when it became clear the plane was going down, Brandy & Mr. Whiskers watched in dismay as the plane disappeared, below the water. The first thing Brandy did was cry from the shock, she didn’t fully understand what was happening but it scared her & she knew this wasn’t part of the show. Whiskers, well he saw it as an opportunity. All alone, with a child full of despair, surrounded by massive walls of solid jungle. With no cameras, fans, or producers following every step of his cotton tail for the next controversial take, he would inevitably have.\nThe next 3 years went by in a blur, every attempt Brandy & Whiskers made at rescue failed, & they went on Actual crazy adventures as they navigated the day-to-day of their new lives. The pair made new friends & became part of the community, slowly but surely learning life wasn’t so bad. Most of the bad habits Brandy got from her mother, she unlearned rather quickly, having a nasty attitude when she didn’t get her way didn’t get her very far without devoted fans. Maybe it was for the better. Brandy became a much nicer, caring dog after learning a few hard lessons. To Brandy’s dismay, she learned why Whiskers seemed so fake, the sophisticated suave rabbit was an act, & the wacky, unhinged bunny he played on TV was as real as it got, which lined up for the almost satirical scandals he would get in now & again, articles so nonsensical, things Mr. Whiskers only could get away with before the rise of social media.\nFor Whiskers, all this was a dream come true; it was his chance to get closer to the cutie he got to work with without others third-wheeling their fun. It was a slow process but Whiskers slowly but surely became a trusted friend & a source of stability & comfort, even more so because of the intense situation Brandy was going through. Such a young girl, far away from everything she ever knew, thinking she’d die without seeing her mother again. The problem was, that it became apparent to Brandy that Whiskers had a crush on her, or what Brandy’s young brain comprehended as a crush at the time. It made her uncomfortable, more so as she & Whiskers inevitably grew closer out of necessity. Brandy started off too uncomfortable & embarrassed to tell Mr. Whiskers she didn’t have feelings for him. Then too guilty later on. Whiskers was aware of this but he saw it as an advantage rather than a reason to stop. But Whiskers wasn’t a monster, he wouldn’t do anything until Brandy was legal, that would be wrong. He’d just psychologically conditioned her to trust & depend on him for years until she was legal & willingly submitted to him, perfectly above board. It worked too, Brandy couldn’t say no to him, & couldn’t tell him to stop. She knew he was doing it, she hated it, but she couldn’t stop it. Day by day, bit by bit, Brandy found herself belonging to Mr. Whiskers more & more.\nOver the next 3 years, Brandy developed into a young woman much the same as her mother in her youth. A fact that dismayed Brandy as she blamed her mother for ending up like this & didn’t want to think of her every time she looked in the mirror. At 17 the shapely blonde dog had a lithe body full of hard-coiled muscle from life in the jungle. Despite her low-fat, high-protein diet, Brandy sported a massive bubble butt & Double-C breasts. She was a smoke show, & Brandy knew it. She adored the fact that all the boys flirted with her & all the girls were jealous of her, she may hate her mother but god damn she used to be good-looking. The downside was, again, that her looks only served to make Whiskers want her more. Now, Brandy knew what sex was; she had “Friends” her age, they talked about it, some had it, & Brandy wasn’t so ignorant as to not learn what it was. She’d never had it, Brandy didn’t want to, she really had no interest in her friends or neighbors, & certainly not with Whiskers. But more than that, Brandy still hoped to get rescued one day; she feared that if she became too ingrained in the jungle, she’d never leave. But if Whiskers asked her to, ordered her to have sex with him, Brandy feared she wouldn’t be able to deny him, not for long, at least.\nIt was a week before Brandy’s 17th birthday when Whiskers pushed the beds together. Despite technically being “winter”, the jungle weather was sweltering. Brandy was down at the river bathing under the waterfall, trying to wash her fur while watching out for anyone trying to watch her. More than once Brandy caught someone watching her & suspected more than once she didn’t. Stepping out from under the falls & out of the river, Brandy quickly dried her fur & her hair, looking wistfully at a small rapid a few yards away. That was where the plane hit the water; she & Whiskers had traveled a day & a half to find the crash site. When the plane hit the water it splintered, sending most of the plane crashing into the jungle & burying the cockpit in mud. Thankfully the river was rather shallow; otherwise, Brandy doubted she & Whiskers would’ve noticed it.\nWith the help of the locals, they’d recovered as much as they could from the wreckage, salvaging plane parts to build a shelter & carve out the rather modest life they lived now. Getting dressed, Brandy’s outfit consisted of a simple, makeshift bikini with a pink & black spot pattern. With her large assists, it was easier than trying to make new shirts & pants every few weeks.\nChapter#4: Once Brandy returned to the treehouse, she found Whiskers sweeping the floor, kicking up a surprising amount of dust. Brandy kept the place quite clean. It only took a moment to notice why Whiskers had pushed his & Brandy’s beds together in the center of the room, directly in front of the TV. A large bedspread covered the beds. Proof this wasn’t just to clean under them.\n\n\n“Whiskers, wh- wh-what's this?”- Brandy asked in a shaky voice moments after she saw it.\n“Oh, I just figured pushing the beds together was a good way to make room for… other things.”- Whiskers, manic, childish, voice took on a smug, teasing tone as he said the last part. The 40-year-old rabbit no longer attempted to hide the fact that he was eye-fucking Brandy, unabashedly staring at her tits, ass, & crotch. Often rubbing her shoulders or patting her ass, Mr. Whiskers didn’t care how many times Brandy caught him sniffing her dirty underwear; he wasn’t going to stop.\n“O-oh… you think we need more room?”- Brandy’s heart sank; she instantly thought of a crib, then 2, one on either side of the room. Mr. Whiskers was gonna do it; he was going to have sex with her. The thought filled her with dread.\n“Yeah, I figured it was about time, I mean, corner beds are kids’ stuff.”- The way Whiskers was speaking, his shit-eating grin, Brandy had seen it before; she was about to go into heat.\n“You don’t mind, do you?”- Brandy wanted so much to say yes.\n“Y… No, I don’t mind.”- Brandy just couldn’t do it, & she hated herself for it.\n\n\nThe coming days seemed to drag by as mortifying fear filled Brandy, growing worse by the day. Mr. Whiskers threw her a surprise party on her 17th birthday. Brandy returned home that afternoon from fruit hunting, a deep pit of dread filling her stomach. She’d seen Mr. Whiskers cock before; it wasn’t very big but she still didn’t want it inside her. Opening the door, Brandy was bemused to find the inside dark. Turning on the lights, Brandy nearly screamed when her friends yelled surprise, standing up from behind the furniture, & Whiskers was standing in front of a massive cake. Brandy forced a smile as she pretended to be happy, thanking her friends for the surprise. Sweets & greasy food wreaked havoc on Brandy’s stomach & intestines. Whiskers knew this; he knew Brandy didn’t like surprises. He’d just wanted to upset her & do it in such a way that she couldn’t express her displeasure.\nThe party lasted late into the evening, Brandy had no choice but to pretend to have fun & despite her best efforts; Brandy ate much more of the rich coconut cake than she cared to remember. After the party, Whiskers cleaned up while Brandy spent the next two hours turning the toilet bowl into a molten hellscape. Which led to a pitch-dark bath in the river, Brandy didn’t care if anyone was watching as she tried to soothe her burning anal cavity. When she returned home, Brandy went straight to bed without saying anything, just wanting the day to end. Whiskers climbed in after her, lying behind her. Whiskers wrapped his small body around Brandy’s back. Terrified Whiskers would try to fuck her, Brandy tried to stay awake but exhaustion soon overtook her & Brandy slipped into a fitful sleep. That's when the nightmare began.\nBrandy was lying on the bare mattresses, the heat was sweltering & a thick smell of sickness, pus, & rot filled the air. Flies buzzed in the thick, green miasma that saturated the room. Brandy’s body felt heavy & sore, everything below her waist burned, culminating in her pussy. Every breath was labored, lungs feeling compressed as if a great weight pressed down upon them. Ears ringing, Brandy heard a disorderly cavalcade of crying, yelling, & whining filling the room. She smelt rot, filth, old grease, old urine, dirty genitals, old shit, fresh shit, & a whole dumpster's worth of smells between.\n\n\n“You’re doing great, kitten!”- A husky voice said from Brandy’s left. Turning her head, Brandy’s face was inches from the bloated purple genitals of an obese rabbit smelling of death. Smegma dripping from his bloated cock, Whisker's fur was stained yellow from grease & shone in the light. Beyond him, Brandy nearly choked at the sight of a dozen rabbit-dog mixes. All ranged from chubby to obese, from babies to tweens, & Brandy’s dread, from not pregnant to about to drop. Brandy didn't know how she knew they were pregnant; she just did.\n“You’re doing great, don’t forget to push.”- Attention snapping back to Whiskers, Brandy tried to ask him- “the fuck.”- Instead, Brandy let out a low moan as sharp pain spiked in her stomach & crotch, & despite her best efforts, she began to push.\n\n\nIt was then Brandy realized, the thing pressing down on her body was her massive stomach. She realized her labored breathing was her multiple chins compressing her windpipe, & the painful weight pulling her towards the floor was her massive, bloated, mutant nipple breasts. Brandy realized she was giving birth. Unleashing a primal wail, Brandy’s morbidly obese body thrashed, rancid sludge sprayed from her bloated nipples as she begged for death. Death never came; however, the baby did, after a lot of pushing, grunting, pain, sobbing, begging to stop, & a loud pop, new high-pitched crying joined the discourse. Carrying the newborn into Brandy’s line of sight, Brandy screamed at the sight of the puppy Whiskers held, a white puppy, newborn but already chubby, its stomach had the hard and unmistakable bulge of pregnancy. Just as she felt another start to descend, the screaming Brandy awoke with a start.\nThat happened every night for a week, every time Brandy awoke in a cold sweat, & every time she found her pajama pants soaked in a sticky fluid. That night her heat had started & Brandy didn’t sleep the rest of the night because of it. She looked around in the dark room. Mr. Whiskers was hugging her from behind, his paws enveloping her belly like a belt. She was showing a bit of belly, but she needed to pinch it to actually notice. The room was so warm and Whisker’s hug really wasn’t helping her. She could feel him tightly pressed against her butt, his bulge twitching lightly. Too afraid of waking Whiskers up. Brandy lay still as a statue for the rest of the night, praying for safety.\nSipping a cup of water & watching the stars, as Brandy thought back to that first night a week ago, she wondered why Whiskers hadn’t tried anything yet. She was glad he hadn’t, make no mistake but she wondered why. Her heat had been going on for a week, Whiskers knew that better than she did but he just kept rubbing up against her & trying to keep her in sight. Brandy’s heat would reach its apex tomorrow. After that Whiskers would’ve missed his shot; there was a small window for breeding hybr-. Brandy stopped mid-sip as she instantly realized Whiskers’s plan. He was waiting until tomorrow, when her heat was strongest, giving him his best chance to conceive. Cold fear began coursing through Brandy’s veins, turning the sweltering night air to ice. She couldn’t let that happen, even if she could say no, Whiskers would just force her, despite his small size he had the strength of a grown man. No, if Brandy wanted to avoid living her nightmare, she had to escape.\nDisheartened, Brandy put her cup in the sink, but how could she escape? She & Whiskers had tried everything, & she couldn’t just go running off into the jungle at night, she’d end up dead or worse. No, she had to think of something new, something she’d never thought to try before. Maybe she could rebuild the plane? No that wasn’t it, a hot air balloon? There wasn’t time; maybe the emergency distress signal would do something? It was a long shot; she & Whiskers hadn’t bothered to try it, what good was a box that instantly sent out your location & a signal to be rescued via a direct satellite feed to the nearest military base? It was crazy but Brandy had to try something, if only to say she tried.\nChapter#5: Sneaking over to the curio cabinet, Brandy undid the latch, eyes gilded by moonlight. Reaching inside, she grabbed the small gray box with a single red button & an antenna on top next to a small indicator light, the word “Distress Signal” written down the side. Taking a deep breath, Brandy hit the button. The box lit up with a red light to indicate it had turned on, then changed to yellow, and the message was being broadcast. A moment later, the light turned green, signaling that the signal had been received. Brandy wondered “Now what?” for an instant before the treehouse was lit up brighter than the sun with a strident noise & a gust of wind, as an American SWAT team climbed down in ropes on helicopters down the basin into their home. They carried first aid, checked the place & grabbed Brandy, rushing her out; she was, after all, a former minor celebrity after all. Mr. Whiskers quickly came back into role after three years, pretending he was so glad the rescue teams finally arrived, thanking them so much as he kneeled crying, when he was actually seething that he missed his chance with Brandy. But there was no point in it; he’d have to trash his plan and go back to civilization. Sitting in the helicopter after being checked for injuries & infections (they held up really well after being stranded for three years), Brandy looked out the window as the jungle canopy she had called home reluctantly for years zoomed out & shrank with distance, seeing how huge the rainforest was as it extended for thousands of miles into a green tapestry. They were going first to Brazil, then taking a trip back to Florida, & then they could finally call this adventure over.\nStateside, Brandy was placed in a waiting car at the airport and sped off. She looked out the window, watching as the airport, the life she’d known for three years, & Whiskers shrank into the background. Oddly enough, Brandy wasn’t taken to the home she’d known; hell, she wasn’t even in the same city. Instead, Brandy found herself in a gated seaside community. Full of manicured lawns, the cookie-cutter McMansions looked nice but to Brandy, they seemed fake & artificial, just like Whiskers when they first met.\nThe car pulled up to the last house in the exact middle of a deep cul-de-sac, bigger than the rest, with a brick walkway instead of a limestone one. Noise could be heard inside & kids' toys littered the lawn. Brandy got out, staring up in bewilderment, the car sped away before Brandy thought to ask any questions. She carried a small suitcase with her, a cheap one that had an extra set of clothes she had purchased in Brazil before her return. It was nothing fancy, but it was better than being naked or dressed like Tarzan. Heading up the walk, Brandy hesitantly knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect.\nSeveral sets of footsteps, coming & heavy, gradually grew louder as they approached the door. Opening the door was the fattest woman Brandy had ever seen. Easily 500 lbs, wearing a huge gown, big enough to actually cover her, sporting huge legs barely smaller than the custom door frame. Dressed in a stained muumuu a blonde dog stood in front of Brandy, her face bloated & distorted by fat & botox. Her breasts were so large & sagging, almost competing, yet falling behind her ass in width, with one of her fat arms holding something bulging out below her shirt and the other one rubbing her heavy belly as she struggled to breathe. Brandy was barely processing what stood in front of her when she was snapped back to the present as the dog Yapped: “Well, the hell do you want?” And if Brandy was being honest, not even she knew. She saw the dog’s floppy ears, her eyes, & some of the roots of her hair below her very plastic & glimmering gold locks. Then it finally hit her, it was Trophy! She finally found her mom after three years! Upon this realization, Brandy almost broke down & went to hug the huge woman, sobbing as she felt her fat belly, soft like a deflated mattress, yet oddly firm, then the smells of her mom hit her, & then the annoyed woman’s protests wanting an explanation, & then, squirms under her shirt, below her massive boob, as big as her head. Gagging, Brandy let go of the angry woman, too busy yapping to close the door on the stranger’s snout. Brandy began to tear up, overwhelmed by the situation, only stuttering: “M-mom?”, she had to repeat it louder a couple of times just to get through Trophy’s thick skull, then add “Mom, it’s me! It’s Brandy! You remember me?!”, really starting to sob as it finally clicked into her mom’s dense brain & the yelling stopped after all these years. Her daughter was alive. She then hugged her with her huge arm, her bingo wing covering her as she began to cry on the door frame. This joyful reunion took a good while before a deep voice inside called. “Are you ok dear? Who’s at the door?” This made Trophy snap back to reality and ask her daughter to come inside with her belongings. Brandy admired the new place her mom was living in, it was quite big & adapted to her huge frame, the living room had a big TV (for 2008 standards) in front of a curved couch with a huge crater on it, which would quickly be filled by Trophy, sitting down as she lifts her shirt, revealing a big Doberman baby suckling from her. Brandy stared for a good minute or two, still processing, watching her mom’s obese body naked, breastfeeding her two-year-old half-sister she’d just learned she had.\n\n\n“Trophy, who’s at the door?” The deep voice sounded annoyed now, clearly not used to being ignored. In walked the fat-cat TV producer in charge of Brandy’s show. Brandy didn’t know the story but that Doberman wasn’t his cub. \n“Trophy, I asked you a question, don’t ignore…. Oh, hay!!”- The producer’s demanding tone faltered, switching from scolding to an awkward greeting the moment he saw Brandy.\n“...Hi…”- Brandy responded in a small voice, as shocked to see him as he was her. Brandy has never cared for the producer; he felt slimy & creepy, like the worst parts of her mom made manifest, & his shows sucked. But Brandy’s surprise quickly faded; this whole situation wasn’t surprising. It had been evident that the show was Brandy’s last chance at stardom, & her mother had bet the farm on it. Brandy was her meal ticket after all. Once Brandy was declared missing, Trophy was left spiraling, grasping at whatever straws she could to keep her feet from the flame, refusing to be a failure.\n“It’s so good to see you! We were so worried!”- Almost instantly, the fat cat producer switched to shmooze mode, already trying to suck up to Brandy. Internally, he was celebrating his good luck. He’d made sure the bitches plane had gone down in the Amazon with that psycho-predator rabbit but here the brat was, standing in his living room. He didn’t care how Brandy survived the crash; he was just glad she did, because, in his short-sightedness, the producer hadn’t thought to use Brandy as Trophy’s replacement until it was too late. - “Isn’t that right dear?”- Mr. Producer purposely laced his hand with Trophy’s bloated, sausage fingers. Brandy doubted her mother could form a fist if she wanted 2. His plan had been almost perfect: remove Brandy from the picture, save Trophy from a miserable spiral into bankruptcy, & STEP 3: profit, albeit at the loss of Brandy. Truthfully, the producer had fallen in love with Trophy the moment he saw her morbidly obese waddle slowly around the pole. Roughly, half the money Trophy made from pregnant stripping was from him & the producer knew he had to have her.\nWhen Brandy was born, the producer was heartbroken, seeing his beloved Trophy forced behind the bar. This only got worse once Trophy quit, losing weight & betting on her daughter's budding stardom to pay her bills. That was a hurt too far & when the producer thought up his plan in earnest. So it was gratifying to see Brandy’s music career burn bright & quickly, leaving her & Trophy in the vulnerable position he needed.\nOnce Brandy disappeared & the show was canceled, Mr. Producer quickly became a source of strength & comfort for Trophy, a shoulder to cry on, she took gladly. From there, it was as simple as paying Trophy’s bills, funding her extravagant lifestyle, moving her in with him & popping the question once Trophy had no choice but to accept. Ironically, Trophy had believed she’d been the one pulling the strings, getting this fat old simp to do whatever she said & buy her whatever she wanted. Right up until he popped the question, Trophy realized she had no feasible choice but to accept, having grown entirely dependent on the fat cat for her lifestyle. It was a weird feeling, Trophy discovered, to realize you’d lost control of your life & were at the mercy of another to uphold said life. Trophy didn’t like it.\nChapter#6: The first thing the producer did was work to get Trophy fat again, putting the blond dog on a 10k-calorie-a-day diet of nothing but saturated fats, cholesterol, & high-fructose corn syrup. Trophy didn’t even realize he was doing it either, until one day, Trophy, having just finished five deluxe shit-burgers, rocked herself off the couch & realized two things: 1) she was sweating from simply eating & standing up, no, it wasn’t the Florida heat. 2.) Her noticeable muffin top had become a certifiable gut, spilling over the waistband of her pink stretch pants & down towards her crotch, blocking Trophy’s view of her freshly painted nails. Ever since the producer had outfoxed her, Trophy’s mind had felt sluggish & slow, not realizing she was being tricked or manipulated until it was too late.\nOne year after Brandy had disappeared, Trophy had gained 100 pounds. Her Juicy sweatpants barely fit over her cellulite-covered, dimple-filled ass. Her small gut had become a small blanket of flesh hanging off her small frame. Her tit’s had swollen up to the point that Trophy’s normal bra squeezed her so tight, pockets of fat oozed out from around the sides. Most days, Trophy no longer wore a bra, & if she had to, it was a shamefully maternity one. Beyond that, Trophy always felt sore & tired, her feet tingled & hurt, she sweated constantly, & had an annoying double chin. Now, one would think that 100 lbs in two months was good progress, but not for Mr. Producer; he wanted Trophy to be a near-immobile blob & he wanted it now! It was evident that he had to get her pregnant; the producer had wanted to wait, but Trophy’s disappointing growth rearranged his timetable. What came next was cruel, even for the producer but he loved it all the same.\nOrdering Trophy to dress up for the club, Mr. Producer grinned as she came downstairs dressed in a black bra band that used to be a full shirt, a red leather skirt that couldn’t be zipped on the sides & bulged out the front trying to contain her gut, lest it hang over the front. Her fishnets had fat oozing through them & her flip-flops cut into her sausage toes, due to the outfit’s ahem, tightness, Trophy had to forgo a bra & wear a thong, things she suspected she would come to regret. Trophy looked so embarrassed, she hated how her body had changed after the pregnancy, & it was why she always wore jumpsuits. Everything she had on was from her clubbing days but none of it had fit properly since Trophy was 19. She hated this fact, but Mr. Producer loved it.\nAlready feeling embarrassed, Trophy’s shame only grew, when they arrived at the club 16-candles. She remembered this place; it was a club for young adults, with hot furries looking to get down & dirty. Thanks to its location, 16 Candles had gained a reputation for being where rich bitch’s go to spend daddy’s money & raise their tails, more than one shame-baby had been made in the club's bathroom. \nTrophy honestly had fond memories of the place. Before she started stripping, Trophy had done escort work as a “Sugar-Baby”. She'd taken her “Dates” to 16 Candles a lot, looking to spend their money & hang out with the other girls doing the same thing. Now, looking up at the sign, all Trophy felt was dread, terrified that someone would recognize her, despite being 100+ pounds heavier & 14 years older. As the pair walked towards the door, it occurred to Trophy that, back when she was stripping, the fat cat producer had asked her out on several occasions. Even suggested 16 candles, trying to make it clear he wanted to be a sugar daddy but Trophy always had an excuse. Looking down at the old, balding, pot-bellied cat, Trophy wondered if this was a sick punishment for never going out with him.\nAdmittedly, Mr. Producer did feel a bit of schadenfreude, finally taking Trophy to 16 candles but this wasn’t revenge for the past; this was punishment for failing to meet expectations.\n\n\n“More like 14 candles.”- Trophy thought glumly, the moment Mr. Producer opened the blackout door & the woosh of air washed over her, it became clear things had changed.\n\n\nThe music was louder, the lights dimmer, the DJ sleazier, & the clientele sluttier. The biggest change & what stuck out to Trophy the most, was that all the girls looked younger, significantly younger. 16 Candles had been a young adult club, a smattering of 18-19-year-olds, & the occasional underage fur who snuck or bribed their way in.\nNow though, the average age looked to be 16, befitting the name, with a small selection of older anthro women keeping themselves separate from the rest of the crowd & chatting amongst themselves. Besides that, if Trophy was guessing the fading spot patterns right, there appeared to be a healthy mix of furs ranging from barely legal to as young as 8. She wasn’t sure; she’d fucked her way through high school, learning was for losers. Most of the girls Trophy saw, for that, is what they were, girls; they dressed in some of the most gaudy & revealing outfits Trophy had seen outside the strip club. \nFirst & foremost, none of the clothing looked cheap or fake; these girls weren't wearing costume jewelry or knock-off brands; it was all real & all designer. Second, nothing the girls wore left much to the imagination, with microskirts, micro-shirts, and micro-shorts being the main highlights. Everywhere Trophy looked, girls were doing whatever to show off thongs or lack thereof, bras or lack thereof, or just bragging about being great in bed. A few were even trying the innocent native virgin routine, dragged to the club by friends, pretending not to know why everyone was being so nice to her & buying her drinks, fucking barf.\nFollowing Mr. Producer deeper into the club, Trophy wasn’t shocked to see the degeneracy getting worse. Staring into the club's multiple shadowed corners, Trophy witnessed the normal making out but also bore witness to multiple fingerings, several hand-jobs, straight oral both ways, gay oral both ways, & even one lion cub who looked no older than 10, getting gaggle-fucked in a corner by the bathrooms. Firstly, everything north of making out was to be done in the single-occupancy bathroom or the handicapped stalls in the men's or women's rooms respectively. Secondly, Trophy had to crane her neck to get a good view of the fucking couple as Mr. Producer ushered her into a reserved booth. It was a lion cub. Trophy was sure of that but it was harder to tell what was fucking her. Her curiosity getting the best of her, Trophy excused herself, & waddled off towards the bathroom. The fucker as it were, turned out to be a morbidly obese old goat who looked to be in his mid-70s. Trophy recoiled a bit when she noticed his face resembled a pig more than a goat. Despite being less than 2 feet from them, neither acknowledged Trophy’s existence & everyone entering/exiting the bathrooms seemed not to notice the pair.\nObserving the couple, Trophy assumed they had to be an escort couple, their differences in… everything were too wide a chasm to bridge otherwise. This wasn’t surprising; it was a known fact, at least in Trophy’s world, that barnyard animals, specifically livestock, loved hooking up with predators & carnivores. It hadn't been uncommon for Trophy’s “dates” to show her off, treating her like a literal Trophy. It was a power fantasy thing, subjecting those you envy as your betters. Rich predators simply got girls naturally. \nFrom the look on the lion cub's face, she was experiencing pain, fear, regret, & longing to be anywhere but there all at once while simultaneously pretending she loved it. It was an expression Trophy had seen on many a “friend’s” face after they took that next step, moving past hand jobs & oral to actual fucking, be it a need for money, sexual thrill, or a bizarre crush. Most girls regretted it instantly, often quitting escorting entirely, falling off Trophy’s radar. The others, be it a genuine need or just a sex freak, burned bright but burned out fast. For a few weeks or months, all their bills would be paid, as well as for new clothes, cars, and other expenses. Even the girls who vehemently disliked escort sex admitted the perks seemed worth it. However, those girls tended to drop off the map just as quickly as they rose to prominence. \nOftentimes Trophy would see them around town, usually escorted by their husbands. Commonly fat to downright obese (a hard blow for the fitness fanatics), the girls seemed dead inside, eyes dull & lifeless, makeup done haphazardly, dressed either like a frumpy bitch, a slut in unflattering, ill-fitting designer clothes, or Floridan trailer trash. Looking at their wedding or engagement rings like nooses around their necks, Trophy found that if you talk to them, their voices had a dreamy almost ethereal quality to them but not a good dream, a waking nightmare, as if they were lost far away & couldn’t find their way back through a thick & misleading fog. The biggest tell though, was the massive pregnancy gut or young child the girls always sported & talked about like the child was the reason their life was ruined, often while a sugar-turned-baby daddy smiled smugly.\nThose clients tended to have a massive cock, & it was apparent the old goat on the floor was no exception. When he pulled back to thrust, Trophy could see his bruised, purple-colored member was immensely wide & if the bulge inside the lion cub was any indication, just as long. Trophy also saw, as the lioness did her best not to cry, the goat was raw dogging her. She considered intervening at that point. It was clear that this goat was looking to mate with this 8-year-old cub, cubs making cubs as it were & there was no way a cub that young knew what they were getting into. But Trophy thought better of it; she doubted the lioness would express gratitude, and the goat-man for sure wouldn’t. If it weren’t tonight, it would be tomorrow or the next day. The lioness made her choices, whether she was capable of understanding them & their consequences, Trophy knew not but she hoped the cub could at least live with her actions, if not…\nLost in thought, Trophy didn’t snap back to reality until the Goat let out a bleat & the lioness a whimper as his dick swelled, balls contracted, & he unleashed a torrent of cum inside her. What exactly happened next, Trophy was not sure but with the smell of shit & the ripping of fabric, the lion cub lay on the ground, groaning as she seemingly gained several Lbs nearly instantly, all her clothes ripping from her tits expanding & her ass & hips growing. Once the goat got off her, the lioness struggled to her feet, panting from the effort, her new gut obvious with her crop top. & the pair disappeared into the crowd together.\nChapter#8: The bathroom’s Trophy came to find out it was absolutely quiet & spotless, a mockery & insult to the 16 candles established traditions. In any event, it gave the poor dog a moment to think & rest her sore knees. Exiting the bathroom & now knowing what to look for, Trophy scanned the club again. She found the lion cub almost instantly, sitting at a VIP table on the old goat's lap in the company of a variety of other old, fat barn animals, each with a girl on its lap. Around the same age as the lioness, each girl at the table was a predator; like the lioness, each girl was struggling to smile, pretending to be happy to maintain the illusion. Moreover, each girl was noticeably heavier than expected; their club clothes stretched tightly over small frames, some of which had to part fur, revealing angry red stretch marks as their skin struggled to contain their fat flesh. Almost as if the girls' bodies were too big for their frames, gaining weight at a pace that outstripped their muscular & skeletal system growth. A few of the girls' clothes looked as if they had been freshly ripped, as if they had suddenly gained weight almost instantly. Just like what Trophy had seen with the lioness, lending credibility to the idea she wasn’t just hallucinating or delusional. Swallowing hard, Trophy hoped that wasn’t the case.\nBeyond that group, Trophy found her findings rang true across the club, much to her dismay. Many of the younger “dates” wore ill-fitting clothes incompatible with the shape & size of their bodies. All seemed uncomfortable & awkward in their movements, too much body on too little frame. What Trophy had taken for extreme sluttiness seemed to be clothes that no longer fit and revealed more than they were intended to. That's not to say a lot of girls weren't massive sluts still, just because your clothes didn’t fit, didn’t mean you had to shove your genitals in the face of anyone who walked by. \nThe older the clientele got, the less Trophy noticed this problem. The group of adult women, now talking to a pack of pugs over in their corner, looked perfectly proportioned, that is to say, no single aspect of their appearance was freakishly out of place compared to any other. Another thing Trophy noticed was that most of the girls looked drained, not emotionally, but like the youthfulness & vitality were slowly leaching out of them. Looking back towards the lioness, Trophy was shocked at how haggard & tired she looked, dried out & lacking energy, as if she had just worked a 12-hour shift as a Walmart cashier. The goat though, well he was practically glowing, looking like he felt fit enough to move a mountain. The other cubs & “dates” at the table looked much the same, respectively. Finally, at least a few girls, especially the youngest ones, sported stomachs that looked too firm & rounded just to be a gut. Dread creeping down her spine like ice, it occurred to Trophy that if Sugar-Babying had devolved into full-blown prostitution, then it wouldn’t be wholly uncommon for the girls to get pregnant, no matter the age, if the old goat wasn’t using a condom, odds are the other old furs weren't either. \nHeading back to her booth, Trophy was still baffled at how 16 candles & the Sugar-Baby lifestyle devolved into this. The sad reality was that this was the desirable outcome. Being a sugar baby was great to start. Money, clothes, & cars from lonely men looking for attractive company. But it never lasts, the girls age, lose their looks, clients start demanding more & more for less & less, etc… leading to a spiral of aging girls tumbling down the hill of less lucrative clients, jumping from one to the other faster than the last & doing more just to make less. Eventually, it would reach a point where the type of clients & the perks one would get were worth less than the effort needed to get them. An entire industry summed up by a cost-sunk fallacy. \nTrophy had been smart-ish, she realized escorting wasn’t for her, quit being a Sugar-Baby & started stripping, extending her looks & value by several years. But those who didn’t end up bitter & spiteful, filled with regrets & often trapped in relationships with kids they didn’t want. Be it trying to look like a trophy wife while raising some 80-year-old’s brat or as a single parent trying to make ends meet because they fucked some D-bag behind a bar after trying to down their sorrows, no Sugar-Baby got a happy ending. The best one could hope for, the best outcome, was a decent relationship, a steady job, & a family they didn’t constantly loathe, all while missing the money & regretting being a sudo-whore in an age where social media exists. \nWith those parents, 1 of 2 things happens: 1. The parent(s) (Mom(s)) secretly/ openly resent the kid, & blame their misery on said kid. Often pushing them to seek affection, attention, & validation from others; be it acting out, committing crimes, pushing themselves to be better than others, or dating rich old perverts for money, like mother like daughter. Option 2.) The parent(s) (Mom(s)) see their kid as a way to achieve all the things they never did. Pushing them to do whatever to reach fortune & fame while living vicariously through them cough, Trophy, cough. This, combined with a constant drag about how things used to be, how they were rich, just pushes furs younger & younger into the same, destructive, 'shine bright, burn fast' lifestyles. Resorting to drastic measures to stand out amongst an ever-growing crowd in an oversaturated industry, just to make money rocking an old pervert's jollies. It wasn’t helped that the upper 5% who mainly consumed these services, weren’t well aware of this destructive, multi-generational spiral; they encouraged it. Coercing girls, attractive or not into the industry with promises of money, & designer everything, just to ruin them. The girls, blinded by promises of everything they ever wanted, agree almost immediately, not realizing the industry’s dangers & how limited their futures are because of it. Artificially oversaturating the market to get girls willing to do more younger, having a sex pet in the single digits was no longer considered an oddity. Reaching the point where girls were getting bred like designer pets for pleasurable characteristics, an industry fueled by eugenics & using furs as currency.\nFinding her booth, Trophy was surprised & somewhat alarmed to find Mr. Producer still sitting there, but now surrounded by a pack of Dobermans. Trophy hadn’t thought much about the club's male clientele because they hadn’t changed much. Rich perverts show off their hot (& now underage) pieces of ass, normal furs just out for drinks, sex pests & greasy pervs hitting on anything with a pulse & a vulva, & the college jocks & frat bros looking to score with model-level bombshells. The ratios may have changed but the guys remained the same & were not really worth taking note of. Though looking at the Dobermans, Trophy wished she had.\nIt was a well-known fact that Dobermans tended to be aggressive, pushy, short-tempered, overall low-class, & tended not to take no for an answer. It was also a well-known fact that Dobermans could interbreed with other dogs far more easily than with other species & mixed species pairings had no issues breeding any more than normal. For context, a Doberman could nut in Trophy’s thong & knock her up if she got a wedgie or simply sat down too hard. \n\n\n“Ah you’re back” The producer said as a scared Trophy sat next to one of the large dogs.- “I’d like you to meet my associates, the Fallbrook University Chess Club.”\n“H… Hi.”- Trophy squeaked out, still looking terrified & getting several grunts of acknowledgment & a few small waves in return. Trophy knew the producer had been upset with her over… something recently, & she knew guys like him were big into punishment. Would he throw her to the pack for it though?\n\n\nLong story short: Mr. Producer would & did, though he at least got her drunk first. He & Trophy spent the whole evening, drinking, laughing, talking, & dancing like nothing was wrong. Soon Trophy felt like she may have misjudged the situation, maybe the Producer wasn’t mad at her & planning some sort of horrific punishment. However, the pack of Dobermans in a consistent, very loose, line-of-sight circle around the pair wasn’t helping.\nChapter#9: Partying late into the night, it was closing in on midnight when it occurred to Trophy, as the rum-soaked sludge that was her brain sloshed pleasantly, Mr. Producer had drunk very little, a mild buzz at best. But, he’d fed Trophy shot after shot, insisting in a joking-not joking kind of way, nearly forcing the alcohol down her throat. All the while, the debauchery all around them only grew. Sex became more prevalent, not just slyly in dark corners but on the dance floor as others danced around them, seemingly ignorant of the carnal pleasures happening by their feet. Younger cubs soon began arriving & Trophy couldn’t tell if dates or owners accompanied them. Predators accompanied by prey, though surprisingly, the reverse became more commonplace as the night wore on. Cubs as young as 6, morbidly obese & barely dressed, struggling to support stomachs so taunt, stretched, & round, they were undeniably pregnant.\nNow being drunk enough to taste colors & sitting in their booth, Trophy couldn’t be sure this next part was true & for her sake, she hoped it wasn’t. Many of the younger cubs looked, in a word, wrong. At first, she thought they were hybrids, not unheard of. But that wasn’t it, no, the cubs weren't hybrids, they looked to be changing, their bodies warping into something… In many cubs, it was subtle, ears seemed wrong, muzzle too wide, or eyes deformed. But in some, it was glaring & undeniable. They were predators, they had that kind of presence but their bodies… their bodies were warped & twisted, obese & pregnant, missing large patches of fur. Trophy prayed she was hallucinating, but swore they looked like prey, a variety of farm animals & rodents, bodies bloated, youth & exuberance drained, vitality gone. Looking at their owners, Trophy’s pupils shrank; they appeared as predators, bodies shedding the years, growing in height, bodies morphing into proud sleek forms. Their glossy fur practically glowed over huge muscles.\nHorrified, Trophy tried to speak but found she could not; she tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t work; she tried getting the producer's attention but only managed to throw herself to the floor. Trophy wasn’t drugged; she was just really drunk. Noticing the commotion, Mr. Producer looked down at the drunk bitch on the floor, & a look of sadistic satisfaction crossed his face. The truth was, Mr. Producer had wanted Trophy all those years ago, not to show her off but to drain her of everything she was worth. Mr. Producer had wanted to leave Trophy a bloated & rotten shell, a foul blob, good for nothing but making more bitches, or livestock. Sure, Trophy was older than many of the girls are now in 2006, but in 1991, you couldn’t do much better than a Trophy. Now though, having a kid & aging like an upper-middle-class Karen dipped in milk didn’t leave much worth stealing. Now the producer just wanted to ruin Trophy for his amusement & figured he could at least get a puppy-mill breeding bitch out of the deal.\nWith a look from the producer, the Dobermans all converged, forming a tight, obscuring circle; two of them hefted Trophy between them. Following the producer, they cut through the crowd & headed out of the fire exit & into the alley. There, as Mr. Producer watched on & ate KFC, the Dobermans proceeded to rape Trophy until the sun came up. 2 in her mouth, 3 in her ass, 4, in her pussy. Nine Dobermans, seven tightly packed on the ground in an odd horseshoe shape, two standing at 56-degree angles on either side of Trophy’s head. Trophy was roughly pulled into a sitting position, forcefully spreading her sausage legs & lard-ass, snapping her sweat-stained, vaginal-discharge-soaked, pube-covered, discolored red thong. Picking up the broken garment, Mr. Producer proceeded to tie the thong around Trophy’s face, making sure the small crotch triangle was pulled tight against Trophy’s nostrils.\nTo the Doberman's credit, they weren't savages. They made a point to lube up, even the two standing. Whole lotta good that did Trophy though; it served to allow 3 & 4 cocks to squeeze together in her ass & vag respectively. It failed to make it any less painful as Trophy had her pussy & most certainly her ass stretched further than ever before. Honestly, since Brandy had been born, Trophy had partaken in very little sex, mostly just fucking some old, small-dick, studio executives. So it came to pass that her genitals, all holes, had stiffened, hardened, & shrunken. Not tightly or firmly but dried out & burnt like microwaved pork.\nOpening her mouth to scream, Trophy was assailed by the last 2 Dobermans, shoving their cocks down her throat. Only then did Trophy learn that the “lube” was rotten bacon grease heated to a liquid. Thrashing & mumble-screaming, Trophy prayed someone in the club would hear her; Mr. Producer knew no one would care if they did. This was what clubs like this were for, & this is what disposable whores like Trophy got.\nEither highly focused or highly trained, likely both, the Dobermans fucked Trophy with mechanical precision. Pumping in & out of her like pistons, each thrust, recoil, & pump was perfectly even & perfectly in sync. Each Doberman fucked in a stagnated pattern, so Trophy would have a cock burrowing into her guts from both ends simultaneously & perpetually, while the two standing pumped in a constantly fast motion. Her body aching, Trophy lost all sense of time & self, so drunk & shocked she blacked out. This did nothing to stop or even slow the Dobermans.\nThey kept raping Trophy, cold & emotionless, with no passion, just precision, machines designed to impregnate whoever or whatever they were tasked to, no matter how young or unwilling. They didn’t take long either, draining their balls with nary a grunt or twitch. They weren't done, though. Mr. Producer paid for the full package. The Dobermans switched places & began all over again, dumping load after load into Trophy, now directly in her womb as her cervix got battered open. \nAs the sun crept into the sky, lighting up the predawn gray, Trophy moaned, still unconscious, her body burned so bad, ached so bad. The Dobermans had saturated her in cum to the point it oozed from her pores as she lay panting. Inside, Trophy’s colon, womb, & stomach were full of burning, malice-filled cum, it oozed out of her nose, mouth, ass, pussy. Inevitably, an Ova had shaken loose during the violent raping, just one but that one was a lamb sent to slaughter. First: Sperm from all 9 Dobermans crashed over the Ova like a tsunami, pulling it under as it screamed & begged for salvation. Second: shattered its shell & burrowing into its insides until the Ova threatened to shatter from the pressure. Third: The Doberman sperm dissolved into spermatozoa, ripping into the Ova's vulnerable DNA, they ripped the poor girl apart, forcing her back together as a wretch completely infused & infected by Doberman DNA. The single-minded programming ensured that the child would be: Female, with mostly Doberman characteristics. Bratty, unsupportive, spiteful, manipulative. Dumb, violent, a bully, gullible, gluttonous, easily manipulated. Slutty, trashy, low-class. A near non-existent metabolism, extremely fertile, & cock-crazed from a young age. Obese trash is meant to pull others down, eat, breed, & make society & the world worse off for it.\nChapter#10: Unconscious, Trophy couldn’t feel what was happening but her mind sensed it, the violent raping, the burning seed, the trauma & terror. Her mind interpreted those feelings as thoughts; inescapably, Trophy found herself watching a highlight reel of every bad decision she had made in her life. It started with kissing a little kitten boy in kindergarten before transitioning into her giving that same kitten a “handy” in second grade. From there, it was a montage of Trophy sucking & fucking her way through school. Every handy she had given a nerd to do her homework, sucking off the popular boy, then the jocks for clout as the years passed; finally every time she fucked a teacher, be it in a bathroom, car, or classroom, for a passing grade. The scene shifted again, and Trophy found herself reliving every fight she ever had with her mom. Every argument over what was appropriate for a girl her age to wear- usually something gaudy & revealing- about who she couldn’t date, when she had to be home, & why school mattered, etc. The last fight was about college; Trophy’s mother was adamant that she go, & Trophy was adamant that she didn’t. Her mother insisted that she get a good education so she could get a good job, but Trophy insisted that she go right to work, so that she could help out & pay the bills. A lie, of course, Trophy only wanted a job to fund her own partying & drug habits & to keep her mom off her back. Once again the flashback leaped forward, Trophy in her dorm room, screaming at her mom through a phone receiver. Trophy had been skipping class, the blond dog spent most nights partying & couldn’t be bothered to make it to class in the morning. A letter of academic probation had arrived for Trophy at her mother's home that day, opening it as any mother would, she immediately called & confronted her daughter. Trophy had just screamed at her mother, not even trying to explain, just stating she hated her, wanted nothing to do with her, & to stay the fuck out of her life. That phone call would be the last time she ever spoke to her mother. Packing her belongings & dropping out that same day, at the age of 18. A montage of Trophy partying her way down the East Coast from Seaside Heights NJ to Daytona Beach FL came next. Then the sugar-babying, stripping, the clientele sex, the night she got pregnant, her utter despair at finding out, getting morbidly obese, having Brandy, trying to be a star, agreeing to the TV show, & marrying the producer, all bad decisions.\nTrophy awoke in that alley around mid-morning, her head screaming, she tried to process what had happened but everything from arriving at the club onwards was a blur. Her body was bruised & sore, everything was tender, her mouth & genitals stung, & a burning heat filled her, emanating from her crotch. Opening her eyes, Trophy immediately moved to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun, then instantly vomited from the motion. Milky white vomit formed a massive, foamy puddle on the asphalt around her & Trophy didn’t stop puking until her stomach was empty & she lacked the strength to dry heave. Part of her thought she should just lie down in her vomit and die. Regardless, she kept trying to struggle to her feet, over & over again.\nStruggling to breathe, she felt like something was clogging her nose. Reaching up, Trophy pulled the ruined thong off her face, looking despondently at it, & then threw it aside. Now able to breathe, Trophy rose to her feet, head still splitting. Holding her head in her hands, Trophy learned 2 things: 1.) the only clothing she had left was the tee-shirt stretched super thin over her tits & 2.) The place was deserted, the club closed & locked up. Not sure what happened but upset & scared, Trophy spotted something else, a piece of paper at the edge of her vomit puddle. Reaching for the paper, Trophy found $20 & 2 simple words written inside: “Cab fare.” Confused & upset about why she was left behind, Trophy, trying to keep her head as still as possible, took a few tentative steps towards the alley’s open end. When she did, Trophy felt her inside shift, expecting to vomit again, she was surprised as something gushed out of her stinging cooter & down her legs. Looking down, Trophy, expecting piss was confused at the puddle of frothy, milky-white fluid forming around her feet. That’s when it hit her, the night in the club, the Doberman Pack, the weird cubs, & Mr. Producer getting her drunk so she’d be easy to rape.\nCold fear washed over her as Trophy remembered last night; it had been a punishment after all. For what, she did not know. Looking down in fear at the money clutched in her fist, Trophy considered splitting town, running away like she did from her mom & responsibilities. But… she couldn’t, Trophy wasn’t some hot 18-year-old pedigree puppy anymore, she was an old fat, washed-up, slut who failed not only herself but her daughter as well. Stumbling to the edge of an alley, Trophy hailed a cab. Believing she had no choice, she quietly got into the cab, handed the driver the money, and gave him the address, sobbing silently as he drove her back to Mr. Producer's home, back to what girls like her deserved.\nPulling up to the McMansion, Trophy got out, left the rest as a tip, & shambled up to the front door. Trying her best not to cry more, Trophy knocked. Mr. Producer answered, silently. He pulled the door open & stepped aside, allowing a shamed & crestfallen Trophy to enter before closing the door as silently as it had opened.\nTo MR. Producer's delight, the plan worked as Trophy’s weight quickly began to skyrocket. 100 Lbs in a year? Trophy blew past that in 2 months, gaining 200 lbs in a quarter of a year. The rapidly ballooning Trophy began eating to numb her horrible life, the rape opening her eyes to what her “husband” thought of her & what he would do to her. Soon she began eating to distract herself from how much weight she’d gained, only exacerbating her problems. Even still, the few times Trophy wasn’t stuffing her face, mostly on the toilet, the producer would often make her eat & Trophy feared him too much to disagree. Trophy used to think she was above him, but now it was clear he owned her.\nThings got really bad once it became clear Trophy was pregnant when the test came back positive. Almost 6 months after she’d been raped, the first signs of pregnancy were visible despite Trophy’s weight & size. The fear of having another child, not just the strain of raising one, but the fear that she would fail it like she had failed Brandy, was too much. She began just consuming incessantly, no longer caring about hygiene, her appearance, or her freedom. Trophy just didn’t want to be, didn’t want to think about her problems, she wanted the world just to swallow her up & erase the sad stain that was her existence.\nHer life would only go downhill from here. Feeding herself like her growing problem, sitting in stained gowns all day as she eats ice cream and watches TV, too overwhelmed by hormones and her “new” situation, still coping after months. Buying clothes meant nothing to her because they didn’t last long before her sweaty body stained them on the armpits & where any of her (many) fat rolls touched, a disgusting brown color. Growing so fat, her body lost shape, becoming a near-formless blob. By this point, Trophy had grown to Mr. Producer's desired size & then some, thanks to her pregnancy. It was at this point that Mr. Producer began abusing her sexually in accompaniment to physical, mental, & emotional abuse. He began pushing Trophy, who was powerless to fight back, over whenever he felt like it. Forcefully spreading Trophy’s massive legs, pushing aside slabs of fat & having 2 of the Dobermans (they were always around) hold her gut up. While Mr.Producer raped her sewer-hole cunt with his bloated (10x normal), dark purple-colored cock & balls designed to steal the best traits of its victim while replacing them with its master's worst. Not even bothering to take off Trophy’s Muumuu, just climbing under it as needed. Other times he would just blow a massive load on Trophy’s face or body, often when she wasn’t paying attention, leaving her sputtering or whining. However, the producer's favorite trick was to nut in Trophy’s food, never in front of her but in whatever was in the fridge & cabinets. Knowing Trophy would clean out the kitchen as she did every day, Mr. Producer took a sick pleasure in the thought of Trophy unknowingly ingesting his cum.\nBut the most common were the orgies. A nightly ritual, the morbidly obese, horrifically bloated, Trophy was forced to eat endlessly, far past even her own limits. All while Mr. Producer & the Dobermans rape her. She really wished she could stop, but there came a point where her hunger grew beyond her capacities, needing to eat more food the more miserable she felt. She had no control, no friends, no support. Only Mr. Producer, his Dobermans pumping her womb, drinking her milk, biting her breasts, & leaving her watching TV & eating while she waited for it all to happen over again. She knew there was nothing she could do, but at the same time, dreaded the inevitable. Feeling the first kicks of the bastard inside her, growing stronger every day, her stomach firmer & harder. Soon, Trophy believed she was having a litter, a genetic holdover from generations past & rare to occur. The idea of having a litter of puppies, an entire litter born into this world like lambs to the slaughter, or worse: Huge males like their daddies, born to bring more abuse in her life. Those thoughts filled Trophy with genuine fear. Yet, she only felt one set of paws kicking out, only one mass squirming within & that was the most alarming.\nChapter#11: The day Trophy’s daughter was born wasn’t special, nor did the sun turn black & the apocalypse didn’t start like Trophy imagined in her constant self-loathing, nor was it a magical experience that turned her life around. No, it was a plain, no-frills, ordinary day, if only because Trophy wasn’t worth the minuscule amount of effort the universe needed to make something happen. Around 4 in the afternoon, Trophy felt the inevitable pains that would come to mark this as one of the worst days of her life. She hadn’t felt comfortable for a good while since she felt that big head sit firmly on her cervix; it only made her feel more unprepared. She really hated waking Mr. Producer up from his nap, but she needed someone to take her to the hospital. She didn’t have the option to move off the couch because of her weight & he’s not a heavy sleeper, so that he would wake up easily. She disliked sharing living space with someone as sleazy as him. A Doberman was hugging her massive ass, his cock already hard as if he was waiting to push it in. She knew he would be cranky all evening & tomorrow if she woke him & who knows what his take-back would be. She felt a contraction, a painful one, reminding her of the urgency of her situation, but worse, it reminded her of the first time this happened. Instead, Trophy began shoveling food down her throat again, hoping to appease her hellspawn for a few hours at least, time to plan, time to think. But the stupor wasn’t coming, the anesthetic calm of digesting grease wasn’t working this time, & her only option was to force herself into further denial, try harder, trying to pretend that her rape child was just hungry. But another cramp in her stomach proved her very wrong, that thing wanted out, & wouldn’t even wait for her to rock herself off of the couch as her crotch became soaked with a disgusting smell, as if an old trash bag was ripped open under the summer sun. She left out whines of pain as she felt her cervix dilate and her quivering legs spread against her will. \nThe massive slabs of fat parted, revealing a nasty snatch, gaping with its brown colors, despite Trophy trying to force them to close. Her stomach was thrashing now, Trophy doing her best to keep the producer asleep, forced to cover her mouth just to muffle her whines and cries of sharp pain. More contractions came & soon Trophy felt her cervix dilating & a mass came pushing through, spreading her cervix further as her body coerced her to push. Her face turned red from the struggle & effort this was, even if it wasn’t her first time, & even if her pussy was about as tight as a trash bag. It was an experience to see her obese belly being thrashed around, despite its size and thick padding. She was making every effort she could to distract herself from the problem at hand right now. She found out rather quickly that even her well-worn-out pussy was still too tight for this, as she felt the little bastard very slowly squeeze through her pussy. Every inch forward felt like war for her as she was clenching her teeth with a deep red face, as she cried for her life. Trophy didn’t even have time to think about what would come next. Abandon it? Sell it? Gift it? She never had a baby shower & had no plans to give the baby a name. Since she knew she was knocked up she saw this brat as nothing but a bag of exhaustion; her only hope was that this brat knew how to sing & dance like her previous failure. It wasn’t long before she was gasping for air like a chain smoker. Her heart rushed so fast trying not to pass out. Trophy slid off the couch & onto the floor. She didn’t want to push; she tried not to, but her body was so loose, her muscles so atrophied, that she couldn’t stop. All Trophy could do was lie there, fist in her mouth, so her sobs wouldn’t wake Mr. Producer or alert the Dobermans. The monster slowly slid down her birth canal, every inch an eternity of agony.\nMr. Producer found Trophy on the living room floor 2 hours later. Despite her utter loathing for him, Trophy gave him a pleading look, silently begging him for help, begging him to save her. The producer simply walked away, leaving Trophy to suffer alone. Minutes later, just when Trophy was about to start screaming out of spite more than pain, the Dobermans began entering the living room. Trophy’s first believed she was getting raped while birthing but instead, they began dumping armfuls of food by Trophy’s head.\nInsulted, Trophy was about to unleash one hell of a verbal tirade but the moment she opened her mouth, it was stuffed with something from the growing pile. To her horror, Trophy didn’t want to eat but found herself unable to stop. Sausage fingers stuffing slop in her open maw despite using all her willpower to try & stop. All night, the Dobermans continued their cruel treatment, ensuring Trophy had food so she would keep eating. Occasionally, Mr. Producer would come & watch, silently checking on Trophy’s progress, before meandering off somewhere else.\n2 days later, & Trophy was finally, blissfully, on the cusp of ending this nightmare of pain & misery. Stuffing her face & wallowing in filth for 2 straight days; Trophy finally felt her labia stretch apart. Painful to the point she was sure it would tear, Trophy wailed between the mush filling her overworked mouth, tears still leaking out of her pinched eyes. For what felt like hours, Trophy’s labia stretched, wider & wider until, blissfully, Trophy gave one last involuntary push. With a pop & a rush of air, Trophy felt the thrashing mass leave her pussy. Left lying on her back in a pool of mess, Trophy panted in exhaustion, wanting nothing but to slip peacefully into unconsciousness. But annoyingly, a nasally, husky crying filled the air, keeping Trophy awake & wired, exhausted yet wide awake. Unable to move, Trophy was helpless to try to silence the infant. Thankfully, one of the Dobermans walked by &, seeing what had happened, placed the child on one of Trophy’s fat ugly breasts, snickering as he did so. Latching onto a fat, rubbery nipple, the baby began to drink deeply, silencing its wails & allowing Trophy to rest.\nThe next 2 years passed in a blur; Trophy only left the house when Mr. Producer demanded it. Usually taking her & her daughter out to dinner at the fanciest restaurants, or high-society events, dressing them in slutty, revealing outfits that only accentuated how fat, disgusting, & dirty they are. If the producer was feeling especially mean, he’d make Trophy take their daughter, Kandi, to the Pediatrician. Just so she would break down & cry as the doctor reprimanded her for letting her daughter get so fat, for not caring about her little girl's health, & demanding she see a doctor herself for the incalculable amount of health & hygiene issues she clearly had. Otherwise, Trophy spent all day on the property often found gorging herself on the couch. Watching this trashy TV show called “Jersey Shore” set in her hometown of Seaside Heights, or in her bathroom, taking rancid monster shits. Besides those two, Trophy could be found in the marital bed she & Mr. Producer shared; her side was cratered & flat. Or in her massive lawn chair, sunbathing in the front yard. \nTrophy hated the producer, no question, but having a new baby was rapidly draining what little intelligence she had left. So in her infinite wisdom, Trophy figured she’d just do the opposite of what the producer asked of her to spite him, reverse physiology. But seeing as Mr. Producer wasn’t a halfwit, he saw through Trophy’s attempt at rebellion almost instantly. Orders such as “Sunbathe in the front yard” became “Don’t sunbathe in the front yard”. Now, Trophy spent hours cooking herself under the Florida sun, stinking up the neighborhood in a small bikini overflowing with fat. “Stop eating so much” Trophy stuffed herself past capacity to the point of pain, all to not give the producer what he wanted, unable to understand she’d become his clown.\nChapter#12: It wasn’t till after the birth that Mr. Producer began fucking Trophy with absolute intensity. Contrary to the obvious, Mr. Producer wasn’t a monster, not really. He gave Trophy time to recuperate & recover before whipping his cock out one night in bed. Deep purple verging on black, Mr. Producer’s cock & coconut-sized balls pulsed with a searing heat that Trophy could feel through the ungodly humid Florida night. Bigger than any of the Dobermans individually, the producer's cock reminded Trophy of the goat she’d seen in 16 candles; that seemed like a lifetime ago.\nTrophy tried to protest but a hard smack across the stomach shut that down immediately. Forcing Trophy onto her back, the producer spread her massive thighs, plunging his cock into Trophy’s foul cunt with a loud “SPLORT!” & using her foul pussy grease as lube. Trophy forced her bloated, fleshy fist into her mouth to silence a scream. The producer’s dick seared her pussy, sending burning, white-hot pain throughout her body but she refused to wake the baby by screaming, anything but that.\nUnlike the Dobermans, Mr. Producer wasn’t a machine; he was a deranged animal, rutting Trophy like a beast in heat. Despite their size difference, the producer shook Trophy’s obese, well-used body like a leaf in a storm. Slamming their crotches together with a sound like thunder, Mr. Producer buried himself balls deep in Trophy with every thrust. His foul cock burned away at the fatty flesh of Trophy’s vaginal walls, turning her love tunnel into a love cavern, one in extreme disrepair. Tears streaming from her eyes, Trophy could feel her burning body rotting & twisting under the power of the producer’s cock; powerless to resist the malicious & vile changes he wrought across her body.\nIt didn’t take the producer long to cum but he more than made up for a lack of longevity with copious amounts of potency. Over a gallon of brown cum, thicker than oatmeal & more hazardous than a carcass in Chornobyl. Trophy felt the burning liquid rush from the producer's swollen cock & constricted balls. It flooded through her life fire, Trophy began to sweat in earnest now, feeling like her skin was simmering as the producer foul seed burned away anything untainted & clean in her cunt, leaving only the rancid & vile, warping & corrupting whatever remained. Not caring if she woke the baby anymore, Trophy could feel this heat, this fire was eating away at her soul, searing away any defense she had. Trophy could feel Mr. Producer's cock, sucking up & stealing every bit of vitality & potential Trophy had left.\nMr. Producer fucked Trophy consistently after that. It was more akin to rape, as the producer jumped the middle-aged blob dog whenever & wherever he could but Trophy never made a move to stop or resist him, so… In any case, day in & day out, Trophy could feel Mr. Producer’s cock stealing away what little remained of her good qualities. Stealing what he could for himself while leaving Trophy to rot. Every day, Trophy thought about running away, wanting so badly to leave the producer behind & start a new life. But where could she go? What could she do? Trophy was an obese, middle-aged, trashed housewife with a blowout vag & a baby. No one would want her; she had no sex appeal left & had blown her favors & burned her bridges. Where would she even go? Her mother's? Trophy hadn’t spoken to her mother in nearly 20 years; she had no idea if she’d be willing to take her in, hell, Trophy didn’t even know if her mother was still alive. Besides that, there was still the baby. As much as Trophy objectively loathed her second daughter, she wouldn’t leave the little girl to the producer or the Dobermans; she couldn’t bear it.\nSo here she was, a bloated, useless, housewife with no money & a fat, finicky baby. Trophy knew she had no choice but to stay & chastised herself for thinking of running away again as she did every day. The same scenario would play out in Trophy’s dull mind every day for the next 2 & a half years. Every day, Trophy would care for the child until it fell asleep, then get what blissful rest she could before the baby inevitably woke & demanded to be cared for. & every time, Trophy would care for it, stuffing her face as she did so. Despite the little Doberman girl growing up fast, Trophy never stopped breastfeeding. The girl put up too much of a fuss if she tried & Trophy was way too tired to fight her so it just continued.\nThe producer & the Dbermans paid little heed to what Trophy was doing when they wanted to fuck. Whether it was sleeping or caring for the baby, Trophy would feel them start groping her before inevitably trying to shove their dicks in her abused pussy or stretched asshole. That's not to say the producer or the Dobermans were anything but kind to the girl; they spoiled Trophy’s daughter like a Hamilton, the Dobermans attending to her, & the producer buying her everything a small child could want. Perhaps that's what kept the tantalizing allure of escape coming back: the idea that her daughter would be safe. However, Trophy refused to trust those monsters again, never.\nDay by day, Trophy felt more & more of herself being stolen by the producer, never the Dobermans but with the producer, Trophy could feel her soul withering. For his part, the producer was happy he was finally fucking his Trophy, shame it didn't happen sooner but the producer was happy all the same. She didn’t have much left, little of the energy, vitality, & youth that the pretty young stripper had years ago remained which was a shame but the producer was determined to suck Trophy dry all the same. Soon, Tophy’s weight began to balloon again as her body gave up; the things that had remained on her thighs and were contained by sagging skin fell under layers of new fat. Leaving Trophy looking like a 500-pound melting wax statue, only able to dress in unflattering muumuus to conceal her rotten form. Next was her mind, despite being dulled, Trophy retained a sharp wit, a keen, predatory wit, & a level of sophistication. But all that began to rot, festering & foul, it all congealed together in a brown, vile sludge that was now Trophy’s brain. Leaving her thinking & sounding like a rural Floridian, wallowing in the muck & filth like a filthy farm animal, dimwitted & unintelligent. Finally, Trophy’s soul, her hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears, everything that made Trophy well… Trophy, the producer stole. She felt it, her very being leaving her one night as the burning fires of the producer's cum managed to pry her soul loose & suck it up Mr. Producer’s cock. Leaving her hollow & void, unable to have dreams & feelings beyond the most basic, unable to grow, learn, & understand. Forever stagnant & festering, unable to progress & existing as a sad echo of life more than a living being.\nWhen the door opened on a fateful day, Brandy couldn’t recognize her mother not because of her size but because deep down, some instinctual part knew that she wasn’t her mother. That wasn’t Trophy & that part of Brandy had been right. What had stood before her wasn’t her mother; it was a hollow shell, the bloated, putrid husk of what had been Trophy, unable to experience life & fill the void within itself. What stood before Brandy was a creature that should’ve died long ago but persisted in rotting above ground, simply because its biological systems continued to function.\nChapter#13: Shell-shocked, Brandy plopped down onto the couch next to her mother, trying not to vomit. It looked new, but the massive crater Trophy sat in seemed to insist otherwise. Everything in the living room looked new, in her shell-shocked state, Brandy began to notice small details like that as a distraction. The carpets, chairs, & TV. All looked freshly replaced within the month, yet everything had a coat of grime & wear to it as if it was several years old at least. Moreover, a stench of rot, spoilage, & filth filled the air, despite the house seeming quite clean, save for a few small pink sticks littering the living room floor. Only when Mr. Producer's & Trophy’s voices faded, drowned by the ringing filling Brandy’s ears did she realize the smell was coming from her mother. Trophy looked clean, her pulled-up gown, though old & plain-looking, had seemed clean, & her fur, while greasy, seemed free of filth & the telltale signs of disease & skin infection. Bemused, Brandy pondered the mystery momentarily, her brain doing its best to block out the two adults praising God for her being “home” safe. It occurred to Brandy that her mother might be exuding the smell, not in a swamp-ass way (something Brandy knew far too much about) but like a leaking trash bag, slowly spilling its rotten & fetid contents.\nNot wanting to focus on that disturbing thought, Brandy’s focus then turned to the little girl firmly attached to her mother's engorged teat. At least 2, by Brandy’s estimation, she’d never seen a fatter toddler in her life. Dressed in a pink Dora shirt & pink shorts, both were stretched painfully tight over the young girl's bloated frame, warping & stretching the photo of Dora into something unrecognizable. It wasn’t a mystery as to why. Girls her age weren't meant to be her size. Despite being around 2 the Doberman puppy had to weigh at least 150 lbs. If she had been a pig then maybe, but a Doberman, an animal meant to be lithe & agile? No chance. \nThe girl regarded Brandy with an uninterested glance, similar perhaps to how one would regard an inordinately large piece of lint or a new stain. Disregarding Brandy once again, the girl reached one bloated hand down the crack of the couch below her, pulling up a handful of snacks clutched in her sausage fingers. Despite her hand’s size, the girl appeared to have phenomenal dexterity as she opened a packet of Twinkies with one hand without looking down & still clutching her other snacks. Pulling her mouth off the nipple for a moment, the girl shoved both Twinkies in her mouth before returning to sucking, swallowing the whole mess as one big mushy mess. She then did it again & again until the entire handful was gone. Every time she pulled her mouth off Trophy’s nipple, a different foul smell would fill the room, nearly gagging Brandy as she watched a yellow sludge trickle from her mom's breasts onto her daughter's stomach. It was no wonder this girl was so fat; all she consumed was nutritionless slop & breast sludge.\nAs if responding to Brandy’s thoughts. The girl’s shirt began to rise up as her gut swelled, digesting her meal at ludicrous speeds as her stomach bloated outwards. The large, hard ball of flesh melted into a sagging gut of soft fat that flared out on the sides, giving a dust ruffle of lumpy fat sagging towards her crotch. Now, only covering half the girl's stomach, the Dora shirt seemed at its limits; it wasn't made to hold back that much fat. Despite being a Doberman puppy, she had large, fatty breasts that sagged off her stomach. Nothing more than extra lard storage, they still forced the shirt to stretch outwards in all directions. To no one's surprise, the telltale ripping of fabric soon cut through the air but to Brandy’s surprise, it wasn’t the puppy shirt; it was her shorts. Massive rips formed on the sides between the waistband & cuffs, soft fat quickly squeezing through the gaps as the girl's hips swelled. Already massive, they stretched until the puppy's hips pushed against her mother’s stomach & the arm of the couch. The girl's arms & legs didn't seem to grow fatter, but small patches of cellulite grew in size, covering her limbs in rough flesh & lumps of fat, & minor stretch marks lengthened & deepened. This wasn’t particularly visible under the girl's short brown fur.\nBrandy didn’t like this girl; she wasn't jealous of or felt threatened by her, nor did she see her as a rival for her mother's affection - the girl could have it for all Brandy cared. Regardless, something felt fundamentally wrong about the girl, almost like a living blight on the world, something from which nothing good or productive could come. Living stagnation & degeneration was the best way Brandy could describe it. This wasn’t the first time Brandy felt like this; most anyone had at some point but that natural feeling of revulsion had never been this strong. Not even around Whiskers or the Producer.\n\n\n“Brandy, Brandy? Hello?”- Brandy snapped back to reality, suddenly aware of the hand waving in her face & the producer giving her a concerned look.\n“Wha- OH! Sss, sorry, I was thinking about something, what did you say again?”- Quickly backing up, Brandy stuttered out her response, trying to sound embarrassed instead of terrified.\n“I said, I'll have someone escort you & your bags to your room, once you're settled, we can discuss everything over dinner.”- The producer’s switch from annoyed to loving older parental figure had been almost an instant one, a skill he’d long perfected. It was clear Brandy didn't like him; he knew that the moment they met. But now she feared him, equating him with her past crash & 3 years of hell, despite the lack of evidence. Fear was effective; the producer could utilize it.\n“Oh… Ok.”- Brandy wanted to protest for a moment, desiring to spend more time with her mother. But something told her “No” wasn’t an option.\n\n\nThe Producer hit a button on an old-school pager, & moments later, 2 Dobermans in black suits & mirrored sunglasses walk into the living room. Startled, Brandy was about to ask what the deal was with the gruesome twosome. But her mother started rattling off something about a university chess team or something before she could ask. Ushered away with her mother still rattling off to empty air like an absent-minded fool, something Brandy knew her shrewd, manipulative mother hadn’t been. She wondered if one of them was the father of the Doberman toddler. \nEscorted deeper into the massive home with the other Doberman carrying her bags, Brandy saw several other Dobermans in suits, many with earpieces, walking what appeared to be set routes. Looking out one of the mansion’s towering bay windows, Brandy noticed several Dobermans roaming the property or guarding entranceways. She couldn’t be sure but Brandy swore some had rifles in their hands, not to mention all the security cameras. Trophy had said something about a chess club but to Brandy, the Dobermans looked more like an army. Beyond them, Brandy saw maids, cooks, & a whole litany of other staff, all of whom were female, but all Dobermans.\nHer room ended up being on the third floor though it wasn’t so much a room as it was a suite, having its own living room, bathroom, kitchenette, & master bedroom with a walk-in closet. Staring in wonder, Brandy stepped into the room. The suit wasn’t just huge, it was bigger than her mom's old apartment. The second Doberman set down her small bag; then, as quickly as they had arrived, the Dobermans were gone. Left alone to explore the space, Brandy gave herself a quick tour, plopping down on her new bed, in awe of how plush it was. Afterward, Brandy chose to take a shower, having not bathed since she left her hotel for her 9-hour flight from Rio, during which she sat next to Whiskers the entire time. Yeah, despite Brandy being 17, Whiskers was still assigned as her “Responsible legal guardian” until they were safely back in Florida.\n\n\n“Adults could be so stupid” thought Brandy. Then it occurred to her that she was almost an adult.\n\n\nChapter#14: Stripping out of the black tank top & high-cut micro booty shorts (All the rage in Brazil). Brandy examined herself in the mirror. Smiling, the 17-year-old blond doggo flexed, three puberty-filled years in the jungle leaving her rippling with lean muscle, a toned body & a fabulous sun-drenched complexion. Though that last one could be maintained in Florida, Brandy was sure. She’d made it out of the jungle without many noticeable scars, unlike Whiskers who had started looking like the grizzled bad guy in a Stallone movie. However, Brandy couldn’t help but compare herself to her mother again. Standing naked in front of the mirror, Brandy looked so much like pictures of her mom when she was young, ones that now hung on the wall downstairs.\nBut while Brandy was once afraid of being like her mother, she was now terrified of becoming her. Seeing Trophy downstairs, the dumb, morbidly obese, creature Trophy had become. Wallowing in her filth, fetid & stagnant, a spoiled, festering, bloated carcass, seemingly moments from ripping open & spewing its rancid, rotten insides all over the carpet. Only alive because no one had the courtesy to let her die, not to mention the obese tumor of a toddler seemingly glued to her teat.\nWhenever she closed her eyes, all Brandy could picture of Trophy was that fetid carcass, patchy fur falling out, skin muddled & marred with rot & disease, reeking with the stench of death & sickness, & her lifeless eyes staring into her soul. It was what Brandy had seen when the door first opened: the creature hiding behind the veneer of Trophy, & it was straight out of Brandy’s nightmares.\nA warm sensation running down her thighs snapped Brandy out of her delusions. Looking down, the fur on her inner thighs was damp & discolored with fluid. Reaching down, Brandy ran her hands through the warm thin fur. A clear sticky fluid stuck to her fingers.\nSighing, Brandy made a fist; she was so sick of her fucking heat; sure, she wasn’t moaning in bed unable to sleep because of her burning body as she did in Rio. But she still hated gushing at anything less than a puritan thought. It had to be almost over right? It had been over 2 weeks, none of Brandy’s other heats had lasted this long, though she supposed she had never been 17 before either. Turning on the water in the massive shower bath combo, Brandy was pleased to see a variety of feminine hygiene & beauty products waiting for her. Stepping under the warm water, Brandy’s thoughts turned back to her heat. Whiskers must’ve known how bad this heat would be; maybe he smelled it, maybe all girls had a bad heat at 17. Brandy didn’t know. It bothered her she didn’t know, Brandy had been homeschooled for most of her life & that went out the window after a few modeling gigs & her mom trying to make her a star. She’d had no formal education & even less sexual education, but Brandy knew what genitals were, she knew what her heat was, & even what pregnancy & birthing were. But that had come from a handful of jungle colloquialisms, dirty jokes, & one nice old bear lady who’d lived in civilization at one point but was much too embarrassed & flustered to tell Brandy more than the basics.\nShampooing her hair, Brandy wondered why her mom never told her any of this, but smirked; that was a dumb thought. Trophy hadn’t told her any of this, so she could exploit her, keeping Brandy young & dumb until she needed her. Most likely as a bargaining chip, trading a night with the “Innocent young pop star” for favors & or assurances from sleazy producers, slimy directors, & old-money project funders, the real people who ran Hollywood.\n\n\n“Always another sucker.”- was what Trophy always said, & Brandy was her pawn. Brandy was sure that if the producer hadn’t readily agreed to cast her, her mom would’ve had her sitting on his lap until he agreed.\n\n\nThe worst part though, was that Trophy was grooming her to be exactly like her. Brandy hadn’t noticed back then but Trophy’s bitchy attitude, snobby mannerisms, undeserved sense of self-importance, trashy tastes, inability to accept no as an answer, & need to be the center of attention; Brandy had been copying all that. She’d noticed it in the jungle, how awful & entailed she acted like her mother, it's why she hated looking at herself. But only now did Brandy realize the different dangers she’d been in if the plane hadn’t gone down over the Amazon.\nRinsing her heat off her inner thighs, Brandy popped open a bottle of feminine wash & began cleaning herself out. If there was one thing Brandy had missed, it was actual hygiene products & not just “all-natural” jungle soap. That was one thing her mom had taught her, how to keep clean & keep perfect makeup, again, teaching her daughter only enough to further her own goals. This made Brandy wonder what would’ve happened if she had stayed; nothing good, she was sure. Her best bet was ending up on some cheesy sitcom or trashy reality show & getting labeled B-list at best. Other than that, Brandy saw a life of jumping from small part to small part, chasing fame until it destroyed her. Possibly getting some internet clout by entering into a loveless relationship/marriage with a minor celebrity. If that failed, Trophy would’ve had her on the pole at 17 for cash, prob pimping her out in the back, especially with how her body looked now. Still, those were some of the better possibilities.\nBrandy didn’t want to think about the worst, nor did she want to think about the outcome. But she couldn’t help but think about the outcome; its visage was buried in her mind, that fetid, living corpse, a blight upon whichever land it treads. Brandy had nearly become her mother & if she wasn’t careful, she could again. Brandy was determined not to let that happen. Finishing her shower, the blond doggo washed her butt & thighs before turning off the water. Stepping out & drying off, Brandy was pleasantly surprised at how everything had been perfectly prepared for her. It was without a doubt that her mom & subsequently, the producer learned she was alive & coming home once rescued. But get all this ready in less than a week? Brandy didn’t think it possible, her Hotel room hadn’t been this nice & that was the Four Seasons Rio. Dropping her dirty towel in the laundry basket, Brandy was about to bust out the clean set of clothes in her suitcase when a thought occurred.\n\n\n“If towels, shower supplies, & this suite were waiting for me, I wonder what else is?”\n\n\nChapter#14: Sashaying, yes sashaying, nude across the master bedroom, which conveniently opened into the bathroom, Brandy threw open the double doors of the closet. As she thought, but far beyond what she expected, the closet was a whole-ass dressing room. Complete with a full makeup table & backlit vanity mirror, the closet featured its own wardrobe & large dresser, as well as a large glass cabinet where several beautiful dresses were displayed. Opening the wardrobe revealed several different designer outfits with matching heels (both traditional & boot), some pumps, a pair of high platforms, & some comfortable-looking “Black Air Force 1’s”. Better than the dresses, but not what Brandy was looking for. Finally the dresser. To Brandy’s relief, the top 2 draws were filled with socks & panties/bras respectively. Under that were thongs, lingerie, blouses, tee shirts, skirts, shorts, long pants, long shirts, & a variety of pajamas & bathing suits. There was no winter gear but in Florida, who’d need it?\nTo her dismay, Brandy soon realized what kind of wardrobe the producer had bought her. Everything was either white with gold accents, black with pink highlights, or some shade of pink, red, or blue so no matter what, Brandy would look like a pastel goth Barbie doll. Beyond that, everything was revealing to some degree. The difference between the panties & thongs was a few centimeters of fabric at best. The blouses were all low-cut and slightly transparent, & the bras were small & lacy, which for most was fine, but would be hell on Brandy’s double C’s. Each T-shirt was cropped to reveal the entire midriff, most of the long shirts weren’t much better, & all had bedazzled slogans on them like “pull my hair”, “camera shy”, & “ jail bait”. The shorts were much the same as the ones she’d flown in with. Booty shorts wrapped around her waist looking almost like a diaper, save for the thigh slit that went from the cuffs to the waistband, leaving the thighs fully exposed. The pants, some slacks, other jeans, etc, were low cut, leaving half of Brandy’s ass jutting out & tight enough to contour everything she’d want to cover, leaving very little to the imagination. Though the swishing bellbottoms did Match Brandy’s style, so there’s that at least. Following the previous trends, the skirts were, of course, all micro, ranging from standard small to sashes that Brandy was sure couldn’t cover her crotch from her waist. As for the rest, there wasn’t much to say. The lingerie & pajamas were lacy & revealing. The swimsuits looked more suitable for a porn shoot than a day at the beach. At least the socks were normal, cutesy & designer, but not too out of the ordinary.\nSighing, Brandy chalked the wardrobe up to one more than to “thank” her loving mother for. The producer’s credit cards may have paid for everything, but there was no doubt in Brandy’s mind that the clothes came straight from her mother; however, she was sure the producer had approved. \nPicking through the apparel, Brandy chastised herself; she shouldn’t be mean to her mother. Sure, sure, Trophy had been an obnoxious narcissist but she loved her. If she hadn't, why would she go through the effort of picking out a wardrobe for her? Brandy knew this, but had spent so long blaming her mother for everything, it was hard to think about & judge her without contempt. It just sucked that she’d been back a day & Trophy was already trying to live through her; everything was something Trophy would’ve worn at her age. But what choice did she have? Trophy or thing appearing to be Trophy was ruined & worthless. Brandy had seen it time & time again, older stars famous for their looks as cute, slutty-looking teen stars (Hanna Montana, Hillary Duff, Ashley Tisdale, etc) desperately clinging to their fame as they aged, doing whatever possible to preserve their fading beauty for just a few more months on top. Entering a death spiral of desperate, degenerate, & depraved acts for smaller & smaller parts. Until, finally, nothing was left, just like Trophy. Most parents trying to live vicariously through their children were subtle. Trophy’s brain had melted & leaked out her ears, so Brandy wouldn’t hold that shotty attempt against her.\n\n\n“If that old pervert wants a show, let's give him one,” Muttered Brandy, setting aside what she wanted to wear.\n\n\nSitting at the head of the dining room table, Mr. Producer drummed his fingers listlessly against dark wood, impatient for Brandy. The staff was still setting the table but they were almost finished & what food was already set out would soon start getting cold. Plus, there was another issue… Looking up, he gave a weary glance at Trophy & Kandi (the Doberman girl, whom he had named himself). Both were sitting, backs straight, hands clenched, staring at the food with the intensity & ferocity of an unchained predator. If Brandy didn’t come downstairs soon, Mr. Producer wasn’t sure how much longer he could stop Kandi from going sicko mode on the ham.\nGroning, the producer wondered why nothing seemed to go right with his love life. He’d wanted Trophy for years, but couldn’t own her until most everything of value was gone. Sure he’d gotten her personality, intelligence, & whatever scraps of youth, innocence, & purity were left but it wasn’t much. Now the bloated carcass sitting at his table wasn’t good for anything besides being a warm septic tank for cock. The producer could’ve used Brandy as Trophy’s replacement. Sinking his hooks into her at an impressionable age so she’d willingly fuck him & he could steal her vitality. Instead, he’d intentionally crashed her plane to trap Trophy. Now that she was back, it dawned on him that he didn’t need her; he had Kandi. The fat brat would have more vitality & being the soft bitch she was, would be easier to steal from. Instead, he’d welcomed Brandy into his home with open arms, only to instantly discover she didn’t like & or trust him & come to the realization, she’d be a major cock block to have around. Finally, Trophy was pregnant with his daughter, he had Kandi & soon a spare hole for whatever tickled his fancy. Brandy was just a 3rd wheel. Annoyed, the producer concluded he’d need to get rid of Brandy again, send her somewhere she’d get lost or kidnapped. Anything to keep her away long enough to drain Kandi like a battery, after that he’d be too powerful for her to stop. Chuckling to himself, the producer pictured Brandy walking in just to turn around & walk out, how whimsical.\nChapter#15: Mercifully, a Doberman led Brandy into the dining room moments later. Later, it occurred to the producer that he probably should’ve ordered the Dobermans to escort her downstairs. But for the moment, the producer's jaw almost hit the floor. Gone was the scared, half-starved, girl who’d been dumped on his doorstep less than an hour ago. In her place stood a beautiful young woman, makeup done perfectly, clothes accentuating & complementing her muscular supermodel body, & the producer knew he’d get none of it.\nSmirking, the look on the producer’s face had been worth it. Brandy had spent nearly an hour doing her makeup; it took a few tries but the issue of Cosmopolitan in her suitcase was a godsend. From there, she’d put on a cherry red, lacy thong & a black leather mini-skirt, consisting of 2 leather rectangles to cover her crotch & butt, pink accents on the waistband, & a gold zipper to expose differing levels of upper/inner thigh. Brandy, of course, had this completely unzipped, exposing her thigh & thong from the side. As for the “skirt” itself, the 2 leather rectangles mostly covered Brandy’s crotch if she stood up straight but if she stretched… boom, exposure city. Complementing this was a thin, white blouse with an intricate, gold-thread pattern. When light struck her at the right angle, the blouse became wholly transparent & Brandy neglected to wear a bra.\nStrutting into the dining room with the confidence of the billionaire club princess she looked like, Brandy greeted Trophy & Kandi in turn, learning the young girl's name in the process. She then did something unexpected, walking up to the producer, & gave him a big hug as Trophy & Kandi began devouring dinner like ravenous beasts.\n\n\n“Like thank you for the totally awesome new wardrobe!” Brandy said in her best Valley Girl voice as she squeezed the short, fat cat's massive gut. The voice was a trick she learned from her mother, acting like an airhead would get anyone to drop their guard & agree to whatever while distracted. It was one of the few things Brandy found useful in the jungle, having perfected the trick in the last year or so. \n“You-y- you’re welcome bbbb-but thank your mother, she picked everything out,”- Said the clearly flustered producer, pointing a stubby, fat finger at Trophy who was busy snorting as she ate an entire roast goose.\n“Yeah, but I know you paid for it & I’m like, really really grateful.”- As she spoke, Brandy, hugged the producer from the side, making sure her back was to her mom. Placing her hand on the producer’s thigh, she slowly slid it forward until it was grasping the producer’s steel-hard cock through his crisp tan loungewear. A second later, the fabric turned warm & sticky as the producer squirted pre.\n“Make a sound & I'll scream.”- Brandy’s tone was ice-cold now.- “Wouldn’t want mother to find out you’re perving on her little girl, either of them.”- Brandy whispered in his ear.\n“You fucking bitch.”- Mr. Producer whispered back, enraged she’d managed to get him in such a vulnerable situation so easily. But yeah, Trophy was an idiot but if she knew the producer wanted to fuck her kids she’d be incensed.\n“Everything you ever wanted, right here in front of you & you’ll never get it.”- Brandy’s tone took on a cruel edge then, as she squeezed Mr. Producer’s junk harder making him squirm.- “& if you ever try anything, I'll crumble your entire world to the ground.”\n\n\nThe producer didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to, the rage bubbling just beneath the surface was painted all over his face. Releasing his bulge, Brandy made a showing of sucking his pre off her fingers before going & taking her seat to his left. Smirking, if her mother had taught her one thing, it was to be unpredictable, always keeping her opponents guessing & off balance & once they were vulnerable, strike. Brandy believed she’d just done that but little did she know the kind of hell the producer was about to unleash.\nSeething, the producer was furious, who was this bitch to treat him like that, coming into his home, acting like she owned the place, that she made the rules, that she was in control? No one was in control but him. Mr. Producer wouldn’t let the insult stand; Brandy would suffer for what she’d just done.\n\n\n“So Brandy, Ya should know, I’m expecting,” Said Trophy, pausing her gorging to speak & pat her stomach, breaking the silent tension filling the air.\n“Oh, you are? Congrats.”- Brandy tried to sound cheerful, she’d suspected since she arrived & first hugged her mother, & she despised the idea.\n“Yeah, it will be our first.”- Trophy reached out one bloated hand & grasped the producers, their wedding rings intertwining. Distracted, the producer didn’t react to Trophy touching him without his permission.\n\n\nAfter that, everyone went back to eating in abject silence, save for the occasional cough, sneeze, & Trophy & Kandi eating like starved pigs. Still fuming, the producer was further enraged by the fact that his cock refused to deflate, demanding attention & refusing to relent until it achieved satisfaction. It didn’t help that Brandy was sitting directly in the evening sun, so every time the producer looked up, he got an eyeful of Brandy’s firm, round double-C’s.\n\n\n“If you’ll excuse me!”- The producer said, getting up suddenly & shuffling awkwardly into the small bathroom across the hall as Brandy smirked.\n“That fucking cunt.”- The producer growled, slamming himself down on the toilet.- “Thinking she can act like this in my house? Acting like she's a head bitch? I’ll fucking end her!”\n\n\nDropping his pants, the producer began cranking his shaft, giving into its demands for satisfaction. Bittersweet as it was, it was an angry, loveless, rub-n’ tug in a tiny bathroom. The producer had planned to get rid of Brandy by sending her to boarding school, somewhere she’d inevitably get knocked up & humiliated for it. But now, it wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice. But what to do? He couldn’t kill her, Trophy would be furious, not to mention the inevitable investigation & media coverage. No, murder was too messy, too loud, Mr. Producer knew he needed to be more subtle… After cranking his cock in silent compilation for 10 minutes, the producer was running out of ideas. He’d gone over everything from a drug overdose to a bad boy BF he could pay to destroy Brandy just like Trophy. But everything he thought of had complications both in terms of practicality & unpredictable variables. No, only one thing made sense here, the one thing Mr. Producer's mind kept returning to—an old-school orchestrated kidnapping… Grinning, the producer finished his wank & went back to the table without washing his hands.\nChapter#16: “It would be simple, the world knows Brandy’s back in the States & that she’s living with me. I’m rich & she’s currently high-profile, who wouldn’t kidnap her for ransom? It would be easy, have a couple of the Dobermans grab her, stuff her in the trunk of a rental car & drive her far away.” \n\n\nThe problem was, if they just dumped her, she'd undoubtedly tell someone, & Mr. Producer knew he’d be the first one she’d blame. That left but a few options, have her killed & buried in a field far away, ship her to a different country, or keep her imprisoned. Out of the three, Mr. Producer figured that three was his best bet; one & two had too much risk. Though if it weren’t such a logistical nightmare, the producer figured shipping Brandy to Cambodia to be a puppy mill for the cub trade would be really, really funny.\nBut no, unfortunately, it's better to keep her alive & imprisoned, that way the cunt would be controlled & alive if he needed her, win-win. But where to send her? Obviously, the producer wouldn’t risk keeping Brandy close by, not in the state, at least, though not so far that he couldn’t recall her within a few days. More than that, Mr. Producer needed someone he could trust to be Brandy’s long-term keeper, she’d be fighting to escape, & they needed to be able to control her.\nGrowing more frustrated as he watched Brandy flirt with an uncomfortable Doberman. The producer decided he’d send Brandy to the South, the deep South, “safe & cared for” by an associate of his, an old boar by the name of Hamilton. The producer didn’t know Hamilton’s history & he didn’t care to ask. If he needed someone roughed up, sabotaged, or murdered & he needed it done ugly & gritty—Hamilton was his man. Mr. Producer had only met him on 3, rather unpleasant occasions, but knew he had a thing for Brandy. He had a poster of her album cover framed on his wall and loved the signed DVD copy of the show's first season, which the producer had gifted him. The only problem was, there wasn’t a snowball's chance in hell he’d ever get Brandy back in the same condition he’d sent her in. Kinda like renting a car for a demolition derby, not a good idea. No, Brandy would have to be a gift, one that the producer understood he’d never get back unless he needed Hamiliton thrown in prison. But could he do that? He could live without Brandy sure, but compared to Hamilton, the producer suspected death would be a mercy. Looking up, he saw Brandy opening her blouse, revealing more than just some cleavage to the Doberman. Yes, he decided, yes he could live it.\nHis plan was simple from there, simply slipping Brandy a small dose of diluted Rohypnol in a cup of spiced hot cider after dinner. Three hours later & Brandy, after taking a shower, was lying atop the covers of her bed, butt-ass naked in an attempt to beat the sweltering Florida heat, something she’d done many times in the jungle. At least before Whiskers started getting… Touchy that is. In any event, the Dobermans waited until about 1:00 a.m. to make their move, thereby maximizing the amount of time Brandy would sleep. The producer loved the Dobermans, a private militia at his beck & call, professional & unquestioning, it still baffled Mr. Producer how Trophy still believed they were a chess team. 4 Dobermans lifted the 4 corners of Brandy’s comforter, keeping it stable so they could move her with as little motion as possible. Having spent many a night in a hammock, the mild swaying didn’t even make Brandy stir.\nFrom there, it was as simple as carrying Brandy downstairs & placing her in the backseat of one of the many black Escalades littering the property. Three Dobermans, two in front and one in the back with Brandy, took off, gunning it north up the freeway, heading for the interstate & Alabama.\nThe trio & their “cargo” crossed state lines around 3 am & headed into the interior. The Dobermans knew nothing about this Hamilton guy, nor did they know where they were going; all they had were some GPS coordinates for an unspecified location in Bibb County. This was fine for them; the Dobermans didn’t ask questions, they followed orders, the one Brandy had flashed, wined for a bit about giving her what she deserved, but fell in line soon enough. As fast as they were going, one would expect them to worry about getting pulled over, considering they had a drugged, 17-year-old, minor celebrity/ popstar who was hours away from being reported as missing, passed out in the back. Fortunately, the producer had foreseen this, their route was clear & so long as they stuck to it, cops wouldn’t be an issue.\nWatery, gray, pre-dawn sunlight was streaming through the trees & through the Escalade's tinted windows when Brandy first began to stir. Having traveled at breakneck speeds all night & stopping for gas only once, the Dobermans managed to cross half the state in roughly 3 hours. Currently, the Escalade was rattling slowly down a pitted & run-down dirt road. Looking like an abandoned logging trail, it (seemingly) was the only route through a large Pete bog, still draped in Night’s shadow. That may not sound dangerous but cars that had gone off-road were known to sink in Pete bogs in mere minutes. Not to mention the crocodiles, various other predators, & parasites/bacteria, if one wasn’t careful a place like this would be one's tomb.\nUnable to open her eyes, Brandy groped one hand blindly into the darkness; she felt weird. Like her whole body was stuck in slow motion & she was slowly returning to normal speed. Her hand struck something warm & she felt it shift rapidly under her touch. She heard someone mumble something, but her ears felt filled with cotton; the sound was watery & distorted. Someone further away mumbled something back but that too was unintelligible. Confused & upset, Brandy felt her hand slowing once more & she slipped into unconsciousness. The Doberman in the back had nearly hit the ceiling when Brandy had smacked his leg, scaring the shit out of him. He’d informed the two of them upfront that she was waking up, but the one in the passenger seat told him to relax, as they had about an hour before she’d wake up fully & that they were nearly there.\nTrue to his word, about 15 minutes later, the Escalade rounded a corner & the road turned into a strip of land connected to a small island in the swamp proper, though it was hard to tell with the water so chock-full of trees. Looking like a clearing more than an island, the green mound rising out of the water had a short wire fence surrounding it. The inside was a small parking area, a thatched hutch overflowing with trash bags. Some were fresh, others so old they were crumbling under the intense sun, a rotten, fetid mush swarming with flies & maggots spewing out. Finally, an old Fleetwood camper up on blocks dominated the center of the tiny island. Crude attachments made of rough wood & random bits of metal served as accessory structures containing a beat-up old washer & dryer. Wires running through the trees attached power & cable to the trailer, one pipe pumped sewage into the swamp, & one drew in water to fill a large water tank atop the trailer, which filtered & fed water to the trailer from the swamp.\nPulling into the small parking lot, the 2 Dobermans up front opened the door & instantly gagged. The air stank of rot & death, intertwined with the fetid stench of the cesspool swamp. The heat was worse than in Florida, soaking them in sweat & the insane humidity, not to mention the mosquitoes. Coughing and sputtering, the two Dobermans struggled to pull themselves together as they heard the Fleetwoods’ screen door slam open. Out trundled this weird contradiction of a pig; he was fat yet muscular, bald, yet hairy, looking like some drunk swamp trash yet a trained killer. Without saying a word, Hamilton nodded to the Dobermans, opening the back door he nearly salivated at the sight of his prize. Gingerly, Hamilton lifted Brandy out of the Escalade. Without a word, he turned & carried her back into the ruined camper, the screen door slamming behind him like the door to a crypt.\nChapter#17: Brandy could tell she’d been moving; she didn’t know why or how & she was terrified. Very much trapped in an “I have no mouth yet I must scream” scenario, Brandy was wholly paralyzed, unable to move her hand. She’d woken when the Escalade hit a particularly deep pothole. Groggy, she could barely make out the words of some country song on presumably a radio. When the car stopped, Brandy really began to worry. Trophy had told her never to let them take you to the second location. The smell hit Brandy roughly the same time as she heard the telltale hydraulic hiss of a door opening up. If she could move she would’ve vomited; the smell was worse than the rotting remains of predator kills in the jungle. A pair of rough hands reached under her, lifting her bridal style & carrying her… somewhere. Brandy wanted to scream, fight, vomit, but she couldn’t. Still paralyzed, her world was shrouded in darkness, powerless to stop whatever sinister plans these unknown fiends had for her. She heard a door slam before slipping back into unconsciousness from the smell.\nPulling out a small cell phone, the Doberman in the driver's seat hit one on the speed dial. After two rings, he simply said, “It's done” & hung up. Turning the Escalade around, the 3 Dobermans rattled back down the pitted road, happy to be leaving. Smiling, Mr. Producer sipped his coffee while Trophy & Kandi gorged themselves on breakfast a few feet away. Everything had gone perfectly, Brandy was gone & Trophy believed she’d been sent away to protect her from kidnappers. That meant no cops, no alibies, & no chance of getting caught. Sighing, the producer was pleased that everything was falling into place.\nIt took another hour for Brandy to fully wake up. When she did, she found her eyes were crusty, her ears were ringing, & her nose was swollen shut. Forcing Brandy to take long, ragged breaths through her mouth, causing her head to pound like a jackhammer. Forcing open her eyes, Brandy wished she hadn’t. Shutting her eyes quickly to block the bright sunlight & inflicting more pain on her head, Brandy slowly reopened her eyes, dreading what she might find. She wished she hadn’t. Looking back, Brandy would come to regret not dropping dead here & now. Her first thought was that a bomb had gone off; the place was a mess. But with growing horror, Brandy realized it wasn’t just stuff strewn across the floor; everywhere she looked, piles of filth & garbage rotted on the floor, crawling with insects. Trash bags, yellowed & brittle with age, spew their fetid contents across the compacted brown nylon carpet. Rotten food, random refuse, & even clothes, cemented into filth rocks, were strewn across the trailer. Webs hung off the lights, rotten dishes filled the sink, & paths cut through the rot & filth, creating a disturbing map of the pig's migratory habits.\nMoments later, Brandy vomited, violently, as if she rejected simply the concept of having something inside her stomach. She’d caught a whiff of the pig's bathroom, far worse than even Trophy’s nasty fupa; never had Brandy been more disgusted & terrified in her life. Instantly, Brandy was back in the jungle, her body lumped across the filthy mattresses, pumping out Whiskers’s baby, reliving her nightmare over & over again. Brandy vomited again & again, long past what was considered normal, puking until she was just dry heaving, her stomach had long since emptied, & Brandy was sure she’d only stopped because she couldn't smell the bathroom through the thick mucus filling her nostrils. Panting & now covered in chunky brown vomit, Brandy began to hyperventilate, pupils shrinking, sucking in oxygen faster. The realization of her situation & her fear had begun to set in. Brandy was alone; she didn’t know where she was, how she got there, or how to leave. It was the jungle all over again, except now, Brandy didn’t have friendly bumpkin animals to help her or Whiskers to keep her company/ in fear for her virginity.\nJust when she began to cry, Mr. Pig left his small bedroom & returned to the living room. There he beheld Brandy, sobbing & throwing a tantrum, nonsensical stuff about wanting to go home & wanting Mommie. Grabbing a 6-pack from his dirty fridge in the small kitchenette, Hamilton was more than content to watch Brandy howl. To watch her sob & argue with an uncaring universe, going through the stages of grief, not knowing or understanding just how bad her life can & will get. Hamilton had polished off 3 six-packs by the time Brandy finished her tantrum, painting & hiccuping, having long since run out of tears. Hamilton could’ve interrupted her any time; he chose to wait simply to witness the moment. Watching as cold reality crashed down on Brandy, the realization that her bratty attitude & demands wouldn't save her now. Forced to accept her situation as fact, despite emotionally still wanting to deny it outright.\nNow quite tipsy & feeling oh-so-violent, Hamilton waited until Brandy finally opened her red, puffy eyes, snot coating her face. Swiftly, Hamilton strode across the small living room, grabbing Brandy around her small waist, he lifted the struggling teen doggo off the floor. Despite being 90% wiry muscle the struggling dog couldn’t shake the grip of the massive pig, despite wriggling like hell. Scared & confused, Brandy opened her stinging eyes to see a massive pig storming towards her. He’d grabbed her & despite her best efforts overpowered her like a child. Eyes rolling & sweating frozen bullets, Brandy’s mind reeled in terror at the possible plans this monster had for her.\nWith a shit-eating grin, Hamilton carried Brandy a few feet to his beat-up recliner. Sitting down, Hamilton draped Brandy over his lap, and with an odd amount of precision, he began spanking the blond dog. Grimacing in pain, Brandy’s terror had subsided; pain was a good distraction, she supposed. Honestly, the spankings stung at most; it was the motion of rocking her head & exasperating her headache that really upset Brandy. Honestly, what she really needed was water. Well, Brandy didn’t get it; instead, the pig handed her a generic silver can labeled “non-alcoholic beer”. Squinting hard, Brandy looked at the can with a look of sheer audacity, could the pig read minds? Was she so basic that he predicted she needed a drink? Did he think her so low that he could buy her with a can of store-brand? Ultimately, Brandy cracked the can, as without alcohol it wouldn’t further dehydrate or debilitate her. As expected, the room-temperature beer was watery & bitter. Brandy’s natural Southern charm allowed her to finish it in one go, though, so there’s that at least.\nSeeing several just lying on the floor around the chair, intent on drinking as a distraction from the now oddly relaxing spanking. Sipping another beer, Brandy would eventually be rocked to sleep by the bizarre pig.\nHamilton for his part was in heaven. Watching his shows while the girl of his dreams was sprawled across his lap being rhythmically spanked? Perfection. Looking up at his wall, Hamilton smiled at his signed poster of Brandy, a framed promotional material from the launch of Brandy’s first album. The producer had gotten it signed for him after a job, and Brandy hadn’t thought anything of it as she did it, save for finding it odd that someone still had this old poster. To Hamilton that poster had been everything, his desire for Brandy, to love her, to covet her, to dominate her, to destroy her. His entire life revolved around her & now all his fantasies could come true.\nBrandy awoke a few hours after sunset, a cavalcade of insects & frogs croaking serving as white noise from the swamp. She had curled up in the pig's recliner, an undignified position for a dog person if ever there was one. Sniffing the air, Brandy noticed a new smell, strong enough to cut through the rot & filth. Her stomach began rumbling loudly & painfully, & it occurred to Brandy that she hadn't eaten since dinner the day before. The problem was that the smell, while delicious, reeked of grease, fats, salts, & everything else unhealthy. Brandy hadn’t cared for fatty foods before her time in the jungle; now she was sure she’d have no tolerance for them. Brandy assumed whatever the smell was, it was what the pig was making for dinner. Her first thought was to ask for something else, but then Brandy considered that the pig had spanked her to sleep. He didn’t seem like one to give normal or predictable responses to simple requests. Adjusting her position, Brandy was dismayed to find her ass hot, stinging, & painful to sit on. Hopping up, Brandy was horrified to see the pig, bent over a small stove, nude except for a rough burlap apron. Covered in coarse black hair, round & tall, he looked like a troll from Swedish mythology. Unprovoked, the pig swiveled its head to look at Brandy, two giant orbs in a massive, bloated face, casting a sinister orange light over the nude dog.\nChapter#18: Transfixed in terror, Brandy nearly shit herself when the pig smiled, his fetid grin splitting the rough pink skin, revealing jagged, yellow, rotten teeth. Her throat instantly tightened; her mouth was a desert. Brandy did the only thing she could think of.\n\n\n“Excuse me but where is the bathroom?”- Brandy croaked drily, her voice choked with fear. The pig simply pointed to a small closet door near the aft of the RV on the left-hand side.- “T… thank you.”\n\n\nHer headache having dissipated, Brandy slowly crotch-walked her way to the bathroom, trying to prevent her hot, stinging ass from rubbing up against anything. Disgusted as her oddly large feet cut a path through the layers of trash covering the floor, Brandy winced every time something crunched, squished, or wriggled beneath her toes. As she approached the small door the pig had indicated, Brandy braced herself for the god-forsaken smell, the one that caused her to vomit uncontrollably, the remains of which were drying in her fur. She smelt it, muted by the smell of the pigs cooking but the smell wasn’t coming from the small door Brandy stood in front of. Looking towards the very back of the RV, Brandy could see the foot of a dirty bed & another small door next to it. From there, the smell derived.\nOpening the closet-like door in front of her, Brandy found a small closet-like room containing a sink cabinet combo, a mirror, a toilet, & a shower. All were small, all were dusty, but otherwise looked clean & relatively unused. Shutting & locking the door, Brandy plopped down on the toilet, sighing wearily. She sagged, as if melting, the weight of the last several hours crushing her. In any event, Brandy did have to shit, so she did that while thinking of what to do next. Years of living in the jungle had taught Brandy that sitting around feeling sorry for yourself & moping was apt to get you killed. Since she wasn’t a quitter & was still riding high from telling off the producer, Brandy began to think up a plan. She didn’t know where she was & didn’t know how she had gotten there, other than the producer had something to do with it. Nor did Brandy know how far she was from civilization or how to get back if she could figure out where she was & how to leave. Okay, so… there were lots of negatives, but Brandy wasn’t a quitter; every problem in the jungle had a solution, & this was no different. She began going over what she had to work with. Brandy had no money, so no help there. She considered using her ahem… well-developed assets to persuade someone to help her. But that required Brandy to make it to a road or someone’s home, hoping they wouldn’t just shoot on sight or call the cops who’d deliver her right back to Mr. Producer. Moreover, if someone was willing to hear Brandy out they’d still need to agree to help her & most anthros who’d agree to help a naked teenager run away without contacting her parents or the police weren’t the kind of folks with the best reputation. Finally, she was a naked teenager stumbling through the swamps at night; if she didn’t die of exposure then there was a solid chance of getting raped, murdered, or worse by some swamp freak. As it stood, Brandy’s entire plan revolved around getting a ride for nothing more than oral & she doubted that would fly or that she’d be free to make that offer to anyone else.\nNow that left the pig, Brandy’s biggest & most pressing unknown. Make no mistake, Brandy didn’t think the pig was an unknown ally or some grizzled badass savior. Nor did she believe she could easily manipulate him to get her way considering how poorly she mishandled the Mr. Producer situation. No, the producer had sent Brandy to the pig because he believed she couldn’t escape him & Mr. Producer wouldn't've trusted him if he believed the pig so dumb as to get easily tricked or manipulated. The pig was Brandy's jailer, that much was obvious, & she wouldn’t escape him easily. Moreover, the spanking & bizarre gentleness with which she was handled, coupled with the fact that the pig seemed to take no issue with Brady getting up & moving about on her own, only added to Brandy's confusion about his feelings & motivations. He was a wildcard, one Brandy had to be cautious of, lest she set him off somehow.\nFinishing up on the toilet, Brandy cleaned up with some dusty toilet paper before turning on the old-looking shower. For a moment Brandy could hear the pipe shaking & shuttering, then water began to spray, turning the dust coating the shower into a gray mush that washed down the drain. Stepping in, Brandy let the hot water wash over her, letting her tense muscles relax for the first time in hours. Using a dry bar of yellow soap, Brandy scrubbed the vomit from her fur, rinsing the taste from her mouth with water from the shower head. It tasted metallic but that was better than acidic vomit by far. Once she was finished, Brandy was grateful to find a dusty but otherwise clean towel on the rod next to the shower.\nStepping out of the bathroom, the smell made Bradny’s stomach twist but this time she held it together. Having not thought of any realistic way to escape, Brandy decided to simply ask the pig if he could leave. She’d hesitated before because she didn’t know how he’d react but what other choice did she have? Walking back into the living room, Brandy found the pig setting a small table with bowls full of a thick, brown mash-like stew.\n\n\n“Can I leave?”- Brandy asked simply, intending to gauge the pig's reaction to her request. Surprisingly, he just smiled & waved in a dismissive motion.\n\n\nSurprised but not wanting to give the pig time to change his mind, Brandy quickly opened the dented & rusty door, & she stepped out into the night. Instantly, she was greeted by a wall of suffocating blackness as the door closed behind her, the quire of frogs & night creatures was unbearably loud, putting the jungle to shame, & instantly, Brandy found herself covered in mosquitoes trying to eat her alive. Ripping the door open, Brady rushed back inside, slamming it behind her, leaning up against the door hyperventilating, covered in bug bites. Eyes wide, Brandy slowly shifts her gaze to stare at the pig. Grinning Hamilton simply pointed to the empty spot at the table, indicating for Brandy to sit down. She couldn’t escape & he knew it. Picking her way through the piles of trash to sit down, Brandy sat silently in shock, for the second time that week. There was no way out; the swamp would eat her alive if she tired. Not wanting to look at the pig, Brandy picked up the brisket on the plate next to her bowl, & she absently mindlessly dunked it into the stew & took a bite. It was delicious, & almost frantically, Brandy began stuffing the stew into her mouth. The mushy stew was salty, greasy, sweet, thick, & rich; part of Brandy knew how bad this was for her, nothing healthy tasted this good. But for now, Brady licked the bowl clean & asked for seconds, which she got. By the time Brandy had finished eating, the pot was empty, & Brandy had three bowls to the pigs' one. The pig simply added their dishes to the pile in the sink. Afterwards, Hamilton half-dragged, half-escorted Brandy to his recliner, where instead of spanking her, he sat her on his lap. For the next 3 hrs, the pair watched Wheel of Fortune. Despite having slept most of the day, Brandy quickly found herself nodding off, shaking herself awake every time. Her tiredness would win out in the end though, Brandy slipped off to sleep in the pig's lap. Picking her up, Hamilton carried Brandy to his bedroom, getting naked & spooning her.\nChapter#19: Brandy didn’t dream that night; if she did, she didn’t remember for which she was grateful. In the morning, she forced her crusty eyes apart, finding herself curled up in a beam of streaming sunlight on the pig’s bare, filthy mattress. Trying to breathe, Brandy found herself taking ragged gasps through her mouth, her nose red & swollen shut, dripping snot, a side effect of sleeping near the pig’s horrific bathroom. Getting up, Brandy looked out the grimy window across from the bed, with growing dread, her fears from last night were confirmed. Past the peninsula’s small fence, the swamp stretched as far as the eye could see. Choked with weeds & trees, the dark water mixed with the dense foliage & hostile wildlife to create a natural barrier. Brandy knew she couldn’t cross it. Brandy had learned plenty of wilderness survival & tracking skills in the jungle sure. But even then, the reason she & Whiskers never tried hiking out was because they understood just how dangerous the wilderness could be. Brandy didn’t know this swamp & more importantly, didn’t trust it; unless something changed, she’d be at the pig’s mercy for the foreseeable future.\nSipping a cup of coffee, Mr. Producer watched as Trophy lazied around the backyard. Her massive stomach rose & fell with labored breaths as she ruined the 50k bikini she was wearing with sweat, simply from tossing a ball for Kandi to waddle after, happily clapping & cheering the whole time. Sighing, the producer loved his little family, moments like this, his obese daughter happy, his morbidly obese wife happy & pregnant with the first biological kid he’s sticking around for. Shame Brandy couldn’t be part of their little world but she had her chance. Brandy just had to be a good little girl & she would’ve gotten everything she’d wanted. Clothes, wealth, fame, anything Brandy would’ve asked for. Brandy could’ve asked him for a ski vacation to Switzerland for the express purpose of railing Coke off of hunky ski patroller's dicks & the producer's only questions could’ve been when she wanted to leave & how long she wanted to stay. He would’ve even paid her way when she inevitably got knocked up by some unknown rando while doing something stupid, sex in a waterslide, or something like that. In hindsight, Mr. Producer realized he’d never have gotten with her; she saw through him the moment they met, even if she hadn’t known it then. All Brandy would’ve been was a loud, living expense simply to keep Trophy happy, & the producer would’ve been fine with that. Now, Trophy believed Brandy had been put into witness protection due to “dangerous, Colombian dog smugglers” being after her, & Brandy got to live with Hamilton. Proof that actions had consequences, if Mr. Producer ever needed one, though; he did wonder what Brandy was up to now.\nThe answer, as it turned out, was monopoly. After curiosity & a desire to escape the bathroom smell (which she could taste) overcame her, Brandy wandered back out into the small living room/ kitchenette combo. There, she found the pig cooking much like he had last night. Breakfast wasn’t much different from dinner, a brown mush that tasted bizarrely amazing. Instead of being stew-like with brisket, breakfast resembled more of grits or porridge; the pig had even put berries on top. Considering their small size & that Bradny didn’t recognize them, led her to believe the pig had simply picked them in the swamp. Like dinner, Brandy ate three portions to the pig’s one, vaguely considering slowing down & eating less, especially once her stomach felt painfully bloated. After breakfast, the pig handed Brandy a list of chores. He didn’t say anything; he just handed her the list, telling her what to clean & where the cleaning supplies were. Brandy read the list, looking aghast not just at the number of things to do but also at the amount of trash she’d need to move to accomplish it. Looking up at the pig, Brandy opened her mouth, seemingly to argue or complain about the list but a raised hand from Hamilton shut her up immediately. The pig didn’t say much but he didn’t have to; some signs were universal.\nAs Brandy cleared the table, Hamilton got up & headed outside. A few minutes later, Brandy heard a truck roar to life, looking over her shoulder, she watched an old, rusty, beat-up Toyota Land Cruiser rattle down the dirt strip that connected the small island to the mainland. Again, Brandy considered making a break for it but again, her better judgment won out & she irritably started washing dishes. Unfortunately, almost everything in the sink was crusty, rusty, or moldy, much like the sink itself. It took Brandy nearly an hour to finish the dishes. She had to wash everything with scalding hot water, degreaser dish soap, & scrub with steel wool before putting the dishes in the drying rack, which had to be washed in itself first. Once the dishes were clean, Brandy had no time to rest; however, she had to get the trash picked up. Normally, if Brandy had been handed a list of chores by anyone other than maybe her mother, she’d’ve told them where to shove it. Even in the jungle, Brandy had been confident enough in her skills to get her out of any confrontation she found herself in. Now though? Now, something seemed off; it wasn’t just feeling vulnerable in isolated imprisonment, but also the pig. Something about that pig scared Brandy; it wasn’t just his size & looks - he had a dangerous energy about him. Brandy knew nothing about him, but genuinely believed that if he wanted to hurt her or worse, he could. Though Brandy figured she was safe if she didn’t piss him off, making her safest bet to do what the pig said.\nPicking up the trash proved to be far more unpleasant than doing the dishes. Despite her best efforts, Brandy hadn’t been able to find a pair of gloves or even an apron or something, leaving her butt-butt naked. This, combined with the crumbling, rotten trash bags, meant Brandy had to restuff the rotten trash sludge into new bags by hand. Digging through years of rotten filth while trying not to vomit & trying to ignore the swarms of insects infesting… everything. All the while rot & filth began coating her fur, leaving Brandy feeling greasy, dirty, & disgusting once she finished, three hours later. Not to mention moving all that trash had kicked up the smell, which left her reeking like the pig's bathroom. Her nose had begun to clear but all that meant was now Brandy could smell the rot as well as taste it, no longer able to escape it.\nOnce all the trash had been bagged or rebagged, Brady piled it up in the small, open-walled hutch next to where the pig’s Toyota had been, as indicated by his note. Hesitant to open the RV’s door, Brandy braced herself for the bugs but quickly found the swarm from last night nowhere to be seen. Overall, it took roughly 30 minutes for Brandy to haul all the black bags to the small hutch. She was only bitten a few times & the sounds of the swamp were much quieter than they had been the night before. But Brandy was no fool; she could sense them out there, the swamp creatures, hiding from the light, barely restrained predators waiting for the sun to set so they could attack their prey. Shuddering, Brandy was actually pleased to be back inside & away from the tree line.\nWith the trash done, Brandy decided to take a lunch break. This turned into an hour of watching Jeopardy while drinking Mountain Dew & eating microwaved burritos. Scratching herself, Brandy figured if she was gonna live there, the pig would have to expect her to eat the food right? Hamilton didn’t care about Brandy eating his food; truthfully, he’d want her to eat more. Brandy was a smart dog, but her intelligence outstripped her general knowledge. Living in the jungle, she’d simply eat when she was hungry, opting for unprocessed, natural foods. Brandy simply knew nothing about nutrition, moderation, or the dangers of processed food & added sugars. In Brandy's mind, if it tasted good, eat it. After lunch came the laundry. Fortunately, Brandy had seen the washer & dryer outside, & fortunately, both worked properly. But that was where the good luck ended. The pig’s filthy clothes were strewn all across the RV. Brandy had already tossed a bunch of shit away, having been too rotten & filthy to be salvageable. The rest, Brandy gathered in an old sack she found before packing & tamping the washer with the clothes & an entire bottle of detergent. Fortunately, Brandy just had to wait to put the clothes into the dryer & take them out to finish the laundry. Unfortunately, she had to put everything away next, which required clearing out trash from the pig's dresser & flipping the bare mattress, as Brandy had no hope of cleaning it. The pig’s sheet was leopard print, oddly enough, & according to the tag was featured in the “BRATZ” movie. Brandy would’ve loved to voice act that show, she remembered Trophy putting out feelers on it but nothing ever came of it.\nFinally came the hard part. The dishes were washed, the trash was picked up, & the laundry was put away; now all that was left was general cleaning. To start, Brandy scrubbed & dusted all the furniture & appliances, dusting the TV & furniture while scrubbing the shit out of the cabinets, fridge, sink, kitchen floor & bathrooms. Those last 2 were especially nasty. Not only did Brandy have to clean out countless years of accumulated trash so foul it should qualify as a war crime; but she also had to scrub through what seemed like decades of blackened, calcified filth off of every surface of the pig’s bathroom. It quickly became apparent that some or all of the calcified filth was shit because when Brandy doused it in hot water & dish soap to loosen the filth up, the smell of freshly laid shit filled the air. \nChapter#20: Now, her bathroom took all of 10 minutes; a good dusting & wipe down was all it took. The pig's bathroom… Brandy lost track of the hours. It didn’t help that Brandy had to wait for it to soften once the filth was soaked before attacking it with a putty scraper she found. Just to crack the outer calcified shell & get to the black, tar-like substance full of chunks underneath. All the while vomiting repeatedly into the toilet, each time she got a fresh whiff of hell. Brandy had all the windows open but if it weren’t for the rusty can of Lysol she’d found under the sink she’d have never finished cleaning the bathroom without passing out first. Again, it's poignant to reiterate how afraid Brandy was of the pig. After being kidnapped & forced into what Brandy believed may be a new ring of hell he was the first thing she saw & had been her only companion up to this point. So far, the pig had been nice but with the strange energy, he exuded, not to mention the aura of violence that hung about him like a cloud, & the fact that he’d threatened Brandy for simply thinking of back-talking him. Well, let's just say Brandy wasn’t keen to find out what was to happen if she upset the pig, perhaps by failing a chore he assigned her.\nFrom beneath the shit, smell rose a foul odor of old, stale cigarettes rose, painting a disturbing picture for Brandy of what she was cleaning & what was caked to her fur. Eventually, she could cut through enough layers of black filth to find the bathroom underneath. Unsurprisingly, the pig's toilet & sink were the same white ceramic porcelain as everyone else’s just stained a dark yellow from years of cigarette smoke and tar. Clicking her tongue, Brandy didn’t know what she expected to find, certainly not this, not something so ordinary. This was in defiance of the fact that nothing so far had indicated the pig's bathroom to be anything less than normal. Truthfully, Brandy had wanted something to be wrong, to be different, anything to further justify her fear of the pig. She wanted reasons to continue to hate the pig, or at least dissociate herself from him, so she wouldn’t start to sympathize with him. Worst case scenario, the pig did something so heinous, that it would drive Brandy to brave (& probably die in) the swamp just to escape him.\nBut there was no escape & there was nothing to indicate this as anything but an ordinary, albeit filthy bathroom. Once the filth was gone, Brandy tried to de-stain the toilet & sink to little effect, then moved onto the mold growing up the walls to be a bit more productive. A black mold, densely packed along the walls, forming a tight-knit, almost fur-like mass. If this filth made Brady sick, then this made her shudder, recoiling from the mold even as it recoiled from her touch. Fortunately, it proved as simple as digging in the putty scraper, then running it along the walls so the mold peeled off, & dousing everything in bleach to kill what remained after. With growing dread, it became apparent that the mold was growing out from under the shower door, the one thing Bradny hadn't opened yet. Trepidation mounting, the lean dog girl opened the shower, quickly stepping to the side in case something leaped out at her. \nFortunately, nothing did & strangely the shower wasn’t that dirty. The mold had grown up & out of the drain before going straight under the door & spreading up the walls. It was apparent why.\n\n\n“So much for normal.”- Brandy muttered to herself, examining the shower.\n\n\nTo start with, the shower wasn’t original; that much was obvious. No RV came with a double-wide, stainless-steel prison shower. Second, to reiterate, the shower wasn’t that dirty, sure the stainless steel was pitted with small rust pockets & there was a layer of soap scum over everything. But other than that, no rot, no more mold, no trash, no calcified filth, did the pig shower? It would explain the shower’s state, but what creature that bathed regularly could live in such a state of decay? Even at their lowest, Brandy & Whiskers never let their treehouse get remotely close to this bad. God, was she starting to miss Whiskers? Brandy shuddered. Now, there was a scary thought. Cleaning the Pig’s shower was simple enough, just using bleach & a rag to remove the soap scum & mold, while taking the rag and the scraper to dig the rust out of the shower divots. It was by far the easiest thing she’s done in that room.\nOnce the last rust spot was gone, Brandy got off her knees, wiped her forehead, and returned to the kitchenette, having just one last thing to do. Grabbing some Pop-Tarts as a snack, Brandy set about sweeping, mopping & vacuuming. Sadly, that proved to her the longest chore, the amount of filth & god knows what else, the pig had ground into the floor over the years was immense. Pockets of grim formed behind & under almost every surface, shit was caked into everything & ground into the carpets. Adding insult to injury, Brandy had to clean up her own dried vomit. She couldn’t remove the stains or hardened grime with the vacuum until she soaked them in water first; even then, the carpet was still brown. Cleaning the pig’s bathroom floor proved almost impossible as hardened chunks of black shit on the floor wouldn’t come up even with the putty scraper. Bizarrely, they wouldn’t break free until Brandy pulled them up with her teeth, something she discovered by accident, I assure you. Surprisingly, the chunks had no taste & stayed together when bitten, so Brandy, wanting this to end just did it after cleaning the rest of the floor. It took almost no time at all.\nOnce everything was done, & I do mean everything, Brandy collapsed in exhaustion, splayed out over a two-person loveseat she’d unearthed under a mountain of trash. She’d never worked this hard in her life. In the jungle, everything you did had a purpose; every action was to further a goal or complete an objective. No meal was guaranteed in the jungle; you had to save your strength, expending energy only if necessary & never burning excessive calories. Hell, some of Brandy’s friends & neighbors even criticized her daily bath; citing that a body's natural oils & musk helped to ward off predators but for Brandy, the risk of getting eaten was worth it over being another dirty, dumb, jungle savage. Reaching weakly for a glass of water she’d gotten (hopefully the pig’s tap water is safe) Brandy took a massive gulp. Panting, she had never been this tired before. Brandy’s lithe, muscular form was the result of a primal diet of raw fruits & veggies, supplemented with charred, unsalted meat, often still on the bone. She’d never committed to any form of purposeful diet or exercise routine in her life; her supermodel physique was a product of her environment & genetics. Though claiming Trophy had given her something outside of an inferiority complex, a superiority complex, & an entitled attitude made her queasy.\nHaving never worked this hard in her life, Brandy’s muscles ached, her body not accustomed to long periods of slow energy expenditure & short periods of rest. Brandy was accustomed to rapid movement & sudden, explosive bursts of energy, followed by long periods of rest. Brandy was a sprinter, not a marathon runner. It occurred to her that if the pig or anyone else for that matter walked in, they would see a full frontal of Brandy's jungle bush. Sighing, Brandy wished she’d shaved when she’d had the chance. Having hit full puberty in the jungle, Brandy’s bush had started growing in less than a week of humid jungle heat. Unable to do frankly fuck all bout it, Brandy just lived with her pubes like everyone else, getting so used to them she essentially forgot they existed. It never occurred to her to shave at the hotel in Rio or at the producer’s house, even when she put on that rather regrettable thong.\nBut what did it matter if someone saw now, though? Brandy had been naked since she arrived. It was less than 48 hours since she’d first arrived at the producer’s home before he kidnapped her. But now that & leaving the jungle seemed like a lifetime ago. The pig had already seen her naked, he spanked her for Nurgle’s sake so this was nothing new to him & just from his vibe, Brandy didn’t take him as one for company. But so what if he did? Was she worried that some other swamp hermit would see her? Brandy snorted with grim amusement, downing her glass of water; her only real gripe was the color. She could live with a thick bush but she had sandy-blond, short fur. Why did it have to be jet-black & always feel oily? This massive tuft of black hair started at her crotch, spreading partially up her stomach, down her thighs & around her ass. Not to mention the 2 jungles under her armpits. God, Brandy had to touch both spots to clean them; how hadn’t she thought to shave?\nShoving her troubled thoughts aside, Brady flicked on the TV, disappointed that the pig only got 8 channels. It occurred to her that this was one of the first times since the crash that she had downtime & alone time simultaneously. In the jungle, most free time was spent planning out your next day or going over stuff you needed to do to ensure your continued survival. Not very relaxing. Or you were with others, laughing, eating, playing a game, etc, fun but not private. Even after getting rescued, Brandy was constantly bombarded with questions while trying to recover. Now though, no one was here & Brandy had nothing to plan or do. It was weird; she’d almost forgotten what being bored felt like, fighting for survival would do that to ya, Brandy guessed. \nChapter#21: Absent-mindedly, Brandy began to fondle her breasts, a habit she’d picked up in what little private time she had. Letting out a small bark, & a puppy-like whimper, she loved feeling the soft warm flesh of her big titties. Despite the jungle's best efforts they were massive, taunt & firm yet subtle & soft. Unlike some girls, Brany’s tits didn’t bounce when she jogged or shook; no they had heft to them. Brandy’s big naturals would make a solid thunk if dropped on a surface & had solid force if they struck something; she’d done both. However, Brady could bury her paw-like hand into the malleable warm flesh. It was a heavenly experience; Brandy felt her entire body fill with a comforting warmth, and her heart fluttered. With her other hand, Brandy reached down between her legs, digging through her pubes until she found her warm, bloated slit. Brandy’s legs were soaked in her heat. Briefly, she wondered when this would end, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Brandy had never been this alone before, never had this much time to just relax & unwind. Rubbing her warm, bloated slit, Brandy slowly but steadily worked her fingers into her pussy. Only half an inch in & Brady was in heaven. Years of jungle living had flexed & tightened her core until it felt like her fingers were being compressed. She figured she could crack a coconut… or at least an apple with her, ahem lady bits. This lasted maybe a few moments longer before Brandy, inexperienced as she was, felt a jolt of electricity run through her from tip to tail.\nFear of the unknown bloomed in Brandy but was quickly quenched by decadent waves of pleasure. She didn’t know what this was, but it didn’t matter; it was everything she needed—and more, a reward for all her hard work. Fingers still twitching inside her iron box of a snatch, Brandy slipped into an unconscious state of pleasure from her first real orgasm.\nThat's where Hamilton found her, arriving home about an hour & a half later. The sun having long set, Hamilton, a look of grim determination plastered on his face, exited the truck & bum-rushed Fleetwood. Throwing open the door, Hamilton scurried inside, trying to keep the door & his body between the outside at all times. Even with his leathery, sun-baked skin, the mosquitoes always got a few good hits in, usually his eyes. Hamilton tried to make a point of coming home before the sun set; unfortunately, that didn’t always work out. See, despite being an old swamp hermit, Hamilton was a fairly active & involved member of the community. He was on the LaDuke town council, the secretary of the PTA, and was always organizing community events. He volunteered at the church soup kitchen on Saturday nights & spoke the good word on Sundays, being an ordained Protestant minister. Most of the community saw him as an older Uncle figure, someone to seek out in times of need or when advice was needed. \nLooking around the RV, Hamilton marveled at the state of the place; it hadn’t looked this nice since he bought it. Sure the furniture was shabby & needed replacing but he didn’t see a single giant hissing cockroach which was nice. Then he spotted Brandy. Filled with sudden panic, Hamilton rushed to Brandy’s side with surprising speed. Fear gripping his mind, Hamilton worried if she was alright, was she breathing? Did she hit her head? He didn’t know & it was killing him. Fortunately, a quick visual inspection was all it took to see Brandy was unhurt & breathing. Suddenly feeling weary, Hamilton meandered over to the fridge & grabbed a beer, non-alcoholic of course. He was old, not that old by modern standards but older than a man like him had any right to be.\nBorn in a small fishing village in southern Chile on May 5, 1964, Genoveno “Hamilton” Princip grew up in a small but loving home with poor but loving parents, the oldest of eight. Living a quiet, pious life, Hamilton was raised a devoted Spanish Catholic, regularly attending church & serving as a choir boy. Oddly, Hamilton found little success working the nets off the coast with his father; instead, he preferred to work with his mother, finding success in planting & knitting. His life was humble but fulfilling & Hamilton seemed set for an unremarkable but happy life. Unfortunately, the rise of Augusto Pinochet & the 1973 coup brought all that to a screeching halt. Hamilton spent most of his late teens and early 20s working with the far-left, liberal resistance, working to restore democracy to their besieged nation. Originally serving as an army chaplain, though unordained, & a medic, he quickly made a name for himself as a brutal killer with little remorse & a cold indifference to death. Flash forward a few years & it’s the summer of 1989, the dictatorship is crumbling & the resistance has all but won. All that was left to do was sign some papers, shake some hands, & do some photo ops while quietly clearing out the last pockets of dissenters as everyone celebrated the new democracy.\nBut with a new democracy came tough questions, such as what to do with men like Genoveno Princip. Sure, heroes of the resistance would be celebrated but Hamilton & the men like him were a shame & a liability deemed unacceptable. Well, nothing like that stays secret for long, & having cut ties with his family long ago, Hamilton booked it for the border, intent on reaching the U.S… The journey wasn’t easy but in March of 1990, as his country rang in democracy, Hamilton crossed the border into Texas.\nHamilton spent the next several years working odd jobs around Texas, lotta landscaping. Well, that turned into working security, then bouncing, & finally a debt collector for some less-than-reputable people. That was how Hamilton met Mr.Producer, collecting on a few debts the fat rabbit owed. They hit it off like a match in a gas tank, Hamilton quickly becoming the producer’s go-to guy for… discreetly brutal work for the next 20 years. The jobs took Hamilton all over the lower 48 before sending him around the world to deal with high-profile individuals on Mr. Producer's bad side. Hell, the job even took Hamilton back to Chile, a horse by the name of Harold Rivaria, a former member of the regime who’d gotten a bit too greedy with the optimum trade. Hamilton even got to spend some time with his sister, Prince, which was nice.\nIt was during these 20 years that Hamilton found himself, becoming a born-again Christian, swearing off alcohol, illegal drugs, swearing, & men. So now when Hamilton sat on the foot of a flea-infested mattress atop an old box spring in a rat-infested, predator-den motel while sipping his non-alcoholic beer & smoking his cigarette, he could feel good about himself, knowing he was living as God intended, while a toothless whore he’d just smacked gave him a Bj two feet from the pimp he stabbed. This also marked the point in his life when Hamilton became an Ordained minister; he already knew the rights & had his papers from the Democratic militia, though they were considered unofficial. It was mostly just paperwork & ceremonial stuff to complete then boom, there ya go.\nAnyways, Hamilton had nearly retired when he first became aware of Brandy, having gotten her poster when he bought the album as a gift. Having moved to Alabama it was for a girl's first communion. Spoilers, it sucked, but the poster - God Damn, Hamilton found the girl he wanted to marry. Flash forward a few years, Hamilton is retired, a pillar of his community & a spiritual leader if ever there was one. The way his face lit up the moment the producer told him about the continuing job he had for him, all he had to do was keep Brandy, the girl of his dreams, secluded & at his mercy. What could be better? The poster had been one thing but this was a dream come true.\nTurning on the stove, Hamilton was so happy with how things were shaping up. Reaching into a small reusable bag of things he’d bought that morning, Hamilton pulled out several items, lining them up on the counter. They were all foods, though not the kind you’d expect, mostly additives, thickeners, MSG, condensers, & an odd Russian jar of some bizarre chemical designed to be as addictive as heroin but only functioned as a mild sedative. All this, Hamilton began slowly adding to a mixture of meat, grains, & starchy vegetables. It was a twist on an old recipe of his mother's except now, Hamilton was adding enough growth hormones, metabolism blockers, & calorically dense fillers to start an illegal beef farm. A hog farm was a more appropriate analogy, but Hamilton’s sensitive.\nLooking over at Brandy, Ham smiled, the poor dear looked exhausted. He didn’t care much if the RV was cleaned or not; it would get dirty again anyway, & the cockroaches were a good source of protein. No, this was a test, Hamilton needed to see just how subservient & agreeable Brandy was. Any good wife needed to be both in spades, & Ham wanted to “Physically correct” any rebellious spirits, heretical thoughts, or any unagreeable opinions Brandy happened to foster. Better to do it now rather than later, saving such unpleasantness for rare, unfortunate, occasions. Setting dinner to simmer, Ham walked over to Brandy, one leg raised up & over the loveseat, jutting out her hairy vagina for all to see. A litany of impure thoughts flooded Ham’s head. But unlike some, he did not reject them or even try to dispel them. No, Hamilton embraced them, for why would God, pious in all things, plague his creations with the sin of temptation if they weren’t meant to embrace it? Ham believed God was best worshiped through embracing indulgence & excess, following your base instincts & intrusive thoughts. Now combine this belief in doing what feels right, & a strong focus on love, family, & community with a soulless autonomy while committing some of the most brutal crimes imaginable. Well, it becomes pretty clear why Brandy got such a bad vibe from Hamilton; it also paints a grim picture of what the future holds.\nChapter#22: Worried if touching Brandy would wake her, Hamilition lightly tapped her leg, when she didn’t so much as stir in her sleep, Hamilton lowered her leg. Sliding Brandy over a bit so he could sit next to her, his hairy bulk pressed against Brandy’s thigh; she was so warm. With delicacy usually reserved for a china shop, Ham slowly began stroking Brandy, running his thick, calloused fingers through her silky fur. She was so warm, even in the humid air of a sweltering, swampy night. Running his hand lower, Ham ran his hand through Brandy’s pubes, delighting in their wiry, greasy feeling. Already, his cock was harder than a diamond in his shorts, threatening to rip them apart. Hamilton wanted more than anything to mount Brandy immediately; he was going to be her husband after all, so why not exercise his god-given rights? But no, Ham knew he’d break her; if he wanted Brandy for anything other than short-term fun, he’d need to put in some setup. Speaking of which, Ham got up, dropping his old basketball shorts & taking his massive Pig cock in his hands, he unleashed a torrent of vile brown cum all over Brandy's body after just a few pumps. She stirred & snorted in her sleep but she otherwise didn’t react or awaken.\nFeeling satisfied, Ham pulled up his shorts, thinking his stew should be just about done. The last 2 meals had been a mash Hamilton made from mushy garbage he found half-rotten in his fridge. Brandy seemed to love it as she ate so much of it so Ham figured he’d need to make his dinner separately. Brandy wouldn’t leave any leftovers. Just as Ham stepped foot into the kitchenette, his egg timer dinged, indicating his stew was done. Pulling the pot off the heat, Ham added some pepper & cheese on top & started making himself a sandwich as he waited for the stew to cool. It took a few minutes but Ham had his sandwich & was firmly shaking Brandy awake. \nShe awoke rather peacefully, the shaking rising Brandy evenly from her slumber, a few hours of rest proving sufficient to soothe her aching muscles. Admittedly, Brandy was rather surprised when the large pig handed her a warm pot of hot food but she didn’t complain. This meal was different than this morning, less mushy. Brandy could now pick out individual ingredients, and the flavor, while still delicious, was different; the strange, greasy, fermented, & slightly spoiled aftertaste was gone. As Ham suspected, fresh ingredients were the key as Brandy finished devouring the entire pot in roughly the same amount of time it took Ham to eat his sandwich. Afterward, the pair watched Wheel of Fortune & once again, Brandy fell asleep. Hank carried her to his bed & spooned her until he fell asleep.\nThis routine went on for roughly 2 months & in that time, Brandy never once left the pig’s well, Hamilton’s little island. Ham hadn’t said much but Bradny was able to get a name out of him. Every day, Brandy awoke to the smell of Ham cooking breakfast & every day it was a mushy, grits-like substance. Now, Brandy didn’t mind as it tasted phenomenal but what she hated was Ham leaving her alone every day. He would leave in the mornings, return in the evenings, usually with a few groceries, & start dinner. Leaving Brandy alone to clean, but now there was very little to do, just a few dishes, some laundry, etc. Leaving Brandy bored & with nothing to do but snack & watch Ham’s eight channels. This wouldn’t be so bad, but Brandy was completely trapped, had no relevant knowledge about the outside world, & couldn’t get any information from Hamilton. He seemed content to leave her naked, save for a replica Brandy collar from the show he forced her to wear. If Brandy talked back or acted out, Ham would generally smack her, not a playful spanking but a hard backhand across the face. Fortunately, this was usually enough to gain compliance. Brandy wasn’t dumb enough to get hit twice.\nMuttering to herself, Brandy checked out her eye in the small mirror above the sink. She & Ham had gotten into an argument last night; Brandy couldn’t remember what it was about, Jeopardy or something else. Ham had been drinking, per usual & had a hair-trigger temper because of it, despite the beer being non-alcoholic. It had gotten pretty heated, Brandy remembered, escalating to screaming before Ham busted out the argument invalidator, 5 across the face. Succeeding in shutting Brandy up. She’d gone to bed still mad & her face stinging, Brandy remembered, so it was no wonder she had a dark purple shiner ringing her left eye beneath her fur. Annoyed at the black eye more than anything, her biggest complaint about getting hit was the black eye. Pulling out a small tube from a drawer, Brandy began applying mascara to try to cover the bruise. Ham had picked it up at the grocery store or something, Brandy didn’t know; he’d never told her. Regardless, Brandy had used it; she’d not used mascara since before the jungle, but now saw it as a connection to civilization & a lifeline for her dog-manity as she slowly drowned in isolation. Since Brandy used it, Ham continued to buy it, seeing it as an easy way to keep his faience happy. Satisfied with her mascara Brandy gave herself a once-over, the best she could in the small mirror. She’d need to shave again, Brandy noted. She didn’t mind having pubes, even if they did clash with her fur but she refused to have anything resembling a full bush again. The damn thing had been a nightmare to remove. Other than that, Brady didn’t want to focus on her appearance too much, mostly checking for lumps & spots. \nTruthfully, Brandy felt rather uncomfortable with how she looked now. It had started with her lithe body looking… “Puffy” would be the best way to describe it. Brandy just assumed she’d eaten something that disagreed with her, or it was the heat & humidity getting to her. It then quickly became apparent that what disagreed with Brandy was her lifestyle. See, her problems extended a lot further than not being built to/used to doing chore work. Brandy was built to move, spending most of the day active & alert. This new sedentary lifestyle, consisting of sporadic movement & near-constant snacking, was wreaking havoc.\nUnable to digest & process the insane amounts of calorically rich slop Brandy was eating, her body began storing large amounts of nutrients & energy, assuming she was preparing for a lot of energy-burning dynamic movement. The problem was that Brandy wasn’t going to do this. Brandy’s instincts & autonomic thought process hadn’t adjusted to living back in society, or at least not living like a caveman. Calling Ham’s trailer society a generosity it didn’t deserve. The point is, she’s a coiled muscle cable, ready to sprint & move at any second, a dangerous animal always primed for attack. Instead, Brandy’s lack of activity quickly began turning all that “stored energy” into fat. \nIt started with Brandy thinking her food disagreed with her, as evidenced by her puffy appearance, diarrhea, stomach cramps, and other symptoms. But it quickly became apparent that wasn’t it; Brandy began to suspect she was getting sick, feeling lethargic & low on energy, her thoughts muddled, & her sharp mind & wit dulling by the day. Less than 3 months ago, Brandy would’ve sensed the slightest movements in a 360-degree radius. Now she was startled by Ham, the large smelly pig, walking into her line of sight from her peripheral vision. That worried Brandy more than anything else, save that she spent most of her days zoning out even when she tried to focus. Jungle Brandy would’ve memorized Hamilton’s timetables & made a plan of escape for whenever the moment presented itself. Old Brandy would’ve used her charm & looks to get her way as always, despite the obvious risks. New Brandy though, new Brandy just sat on the couch drinking, now fully alcoholic beer, not caring & scratching her crotch. The beer numbed her to her surroundings & the food filled the void, as far as Brandy was concerned that was enough. She wasn’t fighting for survival or being exploited for her mother's gain, despite hating her surroundings & finding the pi-Hamilton disgusting, new Brandy found things to be looking up.\n Lack of perception aside, Brandy found herself seriously debating the pros & cons of shaving off her fur. As summer dragged on, Brandy found it getting hotter by the day. Despite two months of exposure, she wasn’t accustomed to swamp heat. Brandy found herself panting from simpler & simpler shit, putting more & more energy into simply standing up, & constantly aching & sore. Denial was what kept Brandy from realizing all her issues stemmed from the fact that she’d ballooned up to 3 times her original size. Her flat stomach, now a bloated gut, her thin limbs cylinders of cellulite & lard. Her hips swelled outwards, two massive slabs of flesh fused with her thighs. Her ass sagging, filled to bursting with gelatinous lard, huge lumps of fat, dimples & patches of cellulite. Flipping back the front & Brandy needed to trim her bush again; she knew it but it seemed to be getting harder to reach. Once a tight slit from years of primal dieting & exercising, endless hours of fingering from Brandy left it… puffy much like she had been. Now, by no means did Brandy believe that touching herself (her words) would ever be as good as it was the first time; she was uneducated, not stupid. But what Brandy didn’t appreciate was the rapid rate of diminishing returns; every day it took longer for her to get there, often failing to reach the heights of electric pleasure from just hours before. Unfortunate.\nChapter#23: Sitting on the small loveseat, Brandy wriggled, trying to get off. Her fat thighs were spread wide as Brandy jackhammered her… cookie with two fingers in the manner she’d become accustomed 2, hard and fast. Her other hand was squeezing one of her now pendulous breasts. In the past 2 months, Brandy’s prize-worthy C-cups had become sagging D’s. Massive & swollen, they’d begun sagging compared to how perky they'd been previously & Brandy’s swollen fingers dug into soft flesh that no longer had a firm bounce to it. Letting out a low, muffled moan as she bit the nipple of her other breast, firmly lodged in her mouth. Truthfully, it bothered Brandy how she looked now. Sure, she’d disliked being reminded of her mother every time she looked in the mirror but she was still proud of her figure. Looking like Trophy was a hell of a lot better than becoming her. Scoffing, Brandy dug her fingers deeper into her cookie, as if that would ever happen; she was becoming curvy, not a morbidly obese living corpse. \n“Yeah, it's almost like it's not healthy to live every day fighting for your life.”- Brandy figured.\nShe looked healthier now, if anything, right? Brandy seemed to think so, though a part of her missed her figure, a part she worked to ignore. Because Brandy knew what it’d take to get that body back, starving herself, forcing herself to exercise hour after hour out on her small island prison. & for what? To impress her jailer, the single other anthro around, or to soothe her bruised ego & wounded vanity? No, Brandy wouldn’t be doing that, any of that. Turning her head, Brandy stared hard at the poster of her hanging on the wall. Brandy never wanted to be that again. Lost in her thoughts, Brandy didn’t feel the knuckle on her middle finger slip inside until she felt it jam into her tight walls. This sent shockwaves through Brandy’s body, crackling with electricity; she passed out squirting.\nThat was how Ham found her, her bloating body splayed over the loveseat, spilling off & sagging towards the floor. Ham loved it, the stupid bitch was too conceited & self-centered to realize the isolation was the true punishment. Left alone all day unable to go anywhere, with a nearly limitless supply of beer, soft drinks, & snacks. Looking around, Ham marveled at how the RV was already returning to a state of filth, with dirty clothes on the floor, clutter & trash piling up all around. Ham had expected for at least the summer to end before Brandy’s need for cleanliness degraded this much. Not to mention she spent all day jamming fingers in her cunt, when Ham had first met her, she’d been this coiled knot of muscle with a snatch that could snap bone. Now she was just another sloppy bitch passed out with fingers in her cunt.\nThe image proved too tempting a target & like he did most days, Ham blew his load all over Brandy. Satisfied with the ropes of shit brown cum drying in her fur, Ham put away the few groceries he’d purchased before starting Brandy’s dinner. Hamilton tweaked the formula over the past two months to streamline its effectiveness. Now, Brandy ate the same porridge for both breakfast & dinner —a gruel with the consistency of lumpy oatmeal, which amounted to little more than pig feed, designed to fatten livestock and create the tenderest cuts possible. Plus the bottles of fertility, libido boosters, & estrogen twice a day were turning her loins into a waterfall. Ham had trapped Brandy in a cycle of constant heat & looking at Brandy lying there, cum covered, cunt still dripping around her two fingers. It would be tight but Hamilton believed that tonight, finally, he’d make it work.\nBrandy awoke to the smell of the gruel simmering, her stomach rumbling. Dismayed, Brandy had started snacking to offset her hunger, so she wasn’t so tempted by the pot of brown sludge Ham kept feeding her. God only knows what was in it & Brandy hated herself for loving the flavor & losing all self-control when she ate it. But did Brandy hate Hamilton? An interesting question & one without a short answer. Brandy loathed the pig, but to hate him would mean acknowledging his existence beyond being a gross annoyance. Truthfully, Brandy thought she was better than him, this fat, hairy pig living alone in a swamp, who was he? Brandy was a former model, pop star, & actress; she only put up with him out of necessity. It was one of her worst traits & one she couldn't shake. Despite herself, Brandy shared the same subconscious belief of self-centered superiority that Trophy had; & despite herself, Brandy looked down on others, trying not to, but every day in the jungle, she saw her neighbors as dumb savages. Once it became clear rescue or escape wasn't in the cards, Brandy began dwelling on the future, often thinking about what spending the rest of her life in the jungle would be like. Up until she turned 17 & Whiskers amped the creep factor to 11, Brandy feared with growing certainty she’d end up married to some jungle canine, prob after she accidentally got knocked up. By the time she’d turned 16, several members of the local Bush Dog packs had casually mentioned waiting to go out with her & a few started aggressively flirting with her. Brandy disliked it & feared they would push her into a relationship with someone, at one point she thought of Whiskers so that they’d leave her alone.\nRolling off the loveseat, Brandy got up & meandered into the small kitchenette, plopping down at the table where Ham stuck the pot in front of her & handed her a spoon. Grinning, Ham didn’t even pretend that he would eat some or that Brandy wouldn’t eat all of it. She hated it but knew a smack if not a beating was coming if she didn’t eat it. As predicted, Brandy devoured the entire pot. It's hard to picture someone miserable eating something they love but Brandy pulled it off. Simply put, she was in pain, the hot gruel scalded her mouth but she couldn’t control herself to stop & let it cool. No matter how full Brandy felt, she couldn’t stop eating & despite wanting to vomit she couldn’t, rising bile pushed down by more gruel.\nHamilton was impressed. Brandy finished a gallon of food before he finished a sandwich. Burping loudly, Brandy knew she would pay for the meal later, she never vomited but the toxic shits she took more than made up for it. Getting up, Brandy picked up the pot & stuck it under the faucet, filling it with hot water & soap. Turning around, Brandy froze, her brain failing to process what was directly in front of her. Ham’s pants were off, standing butt naked just a few feet from Brandy. The first thing she noticed was, predictably, his dick. Massive in size, the monster hung down to Hamilton’s knee covered in crusted filth; his balls hung just as low looking like 2 warty, greasy grape fruits, swaying like pendulums. All surrounded by an absolute mass of gray-black greasy, wiry, tangled pubes.\nChapter#24: Frozen for just a moment, Brandy’s nightmares flooded back into her brain, trapped with Whiskers in a hell of filth and disease. Brandy bolted for the door but Ham was faster, she threw herself against a window, but it wouldn’t budge. Brandy had to get out, had to escape; her mind was racing, thoughts of terror flooding her. She’s suddenly a trapped wild animal, feverishly trying to escape. Well, when escape won’t work, fighting becomes the default. Brandy lunged at Ham, growling & snapping, intent on getting past him even if she had to go through him. Now maybe Jungle Brandy could have nimbly evaded her foe & deliver some blows. But new Brandy, new Brandy took a single big, clumsy swing which Ham avoided, causing Brandy to stumble & fall. The moment Brandy was on the ground, Hamilton was on top of her. Yelling incoherently, Brandy wriggled like a stuck roach beneath the pig's enormous weight.\nHolding her down despite her struggling, Ham lined his massive cock up with Brandy’s puffy, virgin pussy & slowly began to worm around for a way inside, releasing Brandy’s screaming, crying & begging. Despite playing with herself, Brandy’s cookie was still tight & firm, not a loose hole needed for a cock like Ham’s, not to mention that years of core strength don't go away after a few months. Brandy would be tight, wicked tight, perfect for Ham, bad for Brandy. With practiced finesse, Ham used the tip of his cock to prod & poke Brandy’s opening, looking for the best point of penetration. Her begging & crying only further served to excite him. Prodding at the small opening Brandy created with her fingers, Ham gently parted the lips enough until just his foreskin was inside. Brandy hated the feeling of the pig, but was subconsciously thankful that it wasn’t worse. Then Hamilton got started. Using the bristly hairs covering his foreskin like a docking ring, he locked himself into Brandy before slowly pushing his cock forward. Slowly, Ham’s cock began sliding out of his foreskin. So purple it was almost black, the tip was followed by a half-inch-thick crust of grease, hair, & smegma, to the point that his shaft wasn’t visible beneath the grime.\nWhen Ham’s lower head began stretching her walls, Brandy screamed like a cross between a harpy eagle & the devil. A primal thing that indicates a deep-rooted, instinctual fear. Brandy didn’t know why but this fear was much worse than death. But the burning overshadowed that, the burning of poison-searing flesh. Millimeter by Millimeter Hank pushed into Brandy, fighting the whole way. She was tight, so tight it hurt. Ham realized that if he hadn't waited, Brandy’s cunt might have actually snapped his cock. But in any event, that didn’t happen & with every second, Ham could feel Brandy’s walls writhe from his touch, softened by his poison becoming bloated & rotten to the touch. Even still it was rough going; Ham’s filth couldn’t undo years of conditioning instantly, having to take up a stop-and-start pace he didn’t enjoy just to make any progress.\nIt was two hours before anything different happened; the carpet beneath the pair was soaked in juices & sweat. Brandy lay panting, her muscles burning as she struggled to escape. Her vision flickered, she’d made no progress but to exhaust herself, her throat raw & sore from screaming, her voice nothing but a sore croak. Ham was just as tired. Brandy proved a lot more resilient than he’d anticipated; he should’ve wanted longer, he knew that. Ham just wanted her so bad. He was determined to keep going, though; he wasn’t a quitter. Finally, just two inches in, Ham reached Brandy’s hymen. The moment Ham stopped, Brandy was fearful, a moment later, electricity shot through her as Ham’s cock touched…. Something inside her. This wasn’t a pleasurable bolt like before; no, this was white-hot pain arching from synapse to synapse, lighting Brandy up like a Christmas tree. Her body already burned like a bonfire from the rod of molten heat threatening to rip her apart, why must she suffer more? Had Brandy been coherent, she would’ve found a ghoulish irony in her string of misfortunes but as it stood, her lizard brain screamed “BLARRRG” as it struggled to escape her primal fear.\nBrandy could feel Ham’s massive cock bulging her insides; it was so tight that Ham could feel the carpet through Brandy’s skin. Excited as Brandy was terrified, Ham coiled his cock back in its bizarrely long & elastic foreskin before firing it forward like a pressurized air rifle. Years of hard living & activity had turned Brandy’s hymen into a rough, thick piece of flesh. But nothing could’ve prepared it for Ham’s force, like a battering ram; it shattered Brandy’s hymen like glass. Her face erupted in a silent scream & Brandy’s head hit the floor as she lost consciousness.\nThis, Hamilton found to be disappointing; he likes his prey to struggle or at least look uncomfortable, like many a prostitute pretending not to hate it. He considered smacking Brandy awake, but quickly rethought his position. She was so tight, & despite making progress, it was slow going, & Brandy fighting him at every turn wasn’t helping. So, Ham figured that while Brandy was unconscious, he could slip in, do his thing, & get out. Resuming his slow push forward, Ham found that, while his process was still painfully slow, his corruption & degradation of Brandy’s vaginal walls was much smoother, no longer starting & stopping as she clenched.\nAs such, Ham only took another hour to go 3 inches deeper; progress. It was at the bottom of these 3 inches that Ham reached Brandy’s cervix. Unlike her hymen, there was no mistaking this feeling; the unique flesh petals coiled tightly together, creating a porthole shut tight. Could Ham force his way in possibly hurting himself & damaging Brandy? Yes but where was the fun in that? Instead, Ham pulled out to his foreskin before pushing back forward, pushing deep into Brandy, really pushing his cock out of his foreskin, trying to expose Brandy to every bit of his dick cheese. Overexerting his every thrust, Hamilton was able to reach Brandy’s cervix in just a few pumps & under an hour this time. Rubbing up against the cervix, Ham smeared his dick filth all over it, allowing the degrading, corrosive filth to begin its evil work. Ham didn’t know how or why he had these powers, but interpreted them as a gift from God for his years of faith.\nPulling out again, Hamilton repeated this process long into the night- the sun was rising before he HAD to finish. Hank’s dick was swollen, & his balls were painfully tight. He needed to drop the load & drop it now but he wasn’t quite finished. Brandy was whimpering, moaning in fear & kicking her legs in her sleep. Despite all his efforts & all his progress, Brandy’s cervix had yet to yield to his filth. Ham had worn her down to a wicked, tight but smooth & enjoyable fuck but her now soft & semi squishy cervix wouldn’t open. Knowing he didn’t have time to keep finessing it, Ham had to try & brute force this final barricade & hope he’d done enough prep, otherwise, he’d just ruined his new toy. But as Ham slid in on his final trust, intent on pushing through Brandy’s cervix, the wilting petals unraveled creating an opening just big enough for his cock, his foreskin pulled fully back now. He slid straight into Brandy’s womb, her cervix closing slightly around his base to create a tight seal. As it turned out, Hamilton’s efforts weren’t in vain. Brandy’s immune system was so polluted that it couldn’t recognize Ham as a foreign invader & acted accordingly, opening Brandy’s cervix for an “approved” & “welcomed” guest.\nThe moment Ham entered the blazing hot inferno that was Brandy’s womb, he blew, unleashing a shit-smelling storm of rotten, foul cum. In her dreams, Brandy kept repeating her nightmare over & over, trapped in the jungle surrounded by & filled with disease & sickness, forced to give birth to Whisker's baby. But every time the nightmare cycled, it slowly changed; the smells & sounds stayed the same but everything Brandy saw morphed & changed. Soon she was in a swamp, not a jungle, the ruined treehouse became a trash-filled RV, Whiskers grew & twisted into Ham & the ear-splitting crying that preceded the true horror became an ear-piercing squeal.\nThat nightmare played on repeat for as long as Ham was fucking her, cementing Ham as her new biggest fear as he came inside her. A literal gallon of foul cum poured into Brandy from Ham’s warty balls, filling her womb to the point Brandy’s stomach began to bloat, swelling until it looked painfully tight. Once his mind-shattering orgasm finished, Ham slowly began sliding his dick out of Brandy’s womb. The vice-like grip her cervix had on his member hadn’t diminished so every bit of filth coating Ham’s dick ended up scraping off & falling into the putrid sludge polluting Brandy’s womb.\nChapter#27: The moment Ham’s cock left Brandy’s womb her cervix snapped shut trapping all of Ham’s filth deep inside. Surprised to see his dick cleaned after decoupling from Brandy, Ham failed to notice that not a drop of cum leaked out. Immensely satisfied, Ham gingerly picked up the unconscious Brandy, carried her to his big bare mattress & fell asleep spooning as normal. In the morning, Ham was gone by the time Brandy awoke. Struggling to sit up, her stomach feeling painfully bloated, Brandy’s head pounded from the force of a thousand blows, she struggled to remember what had happened, she remembered the pig on top of her… inside her- Brandy bulled over, falling back asleep after just a small excursion. Brandy woke again in the late afternoon, her stomach thankfully deflating. She had to vomit, she knew this, she wasn’t panicking, she just had to get up & do it. This proved hard as Brandy’s body was so sore, that all movement caused her pain, especially in her gut & flared her headache. Both of her legs cramped & complained as she rocked to her feet, cripple hobbling into the pig's bathroom.\nBrandy vomited a brown slurry that reeked of death; she wasn’t sure if it was last night's dinner or a gutful of shit going the wrong direction. Fortunately, this made her feel better, less cramped, & her headache more manageable. Now covered in vomit, Brandy hobbled into the pig’s shower, the bizarre, metal, prison-looking thing. Since Brandy had cleaned the Ham’s shower, it wasn’t foul, but a new ring of grime & soap scum was already forming. Awash in hot water, Brandy slid to the floor, hugging her knees as the water washed over her. She wanted to cry, but felt too dehydrated. Honestly, Brandy was barely mad; she was more disappointed with herself. Disappointed that something she should’ve seen coming blindsided her & when push came to shove she was powerless to defend herself.\nStanding up, Brandy grabbed a bottle of Old Spice body wash, she undid the cap & poured it over her head. Letting the blue goo run down her face before scrubbing it in, turning her whole body into a big sudsy mess. After her fur, pits, & mouth Brandy only had one last thing to clean, her… cookie. Her right paw shaking, Brandy slowly lowered it towards her pubic mound, reaching down & under, she assessed the damage. \n“It could be worse” was Brandy’s first thought.\nHer opening was bigger than before, she couldn’t deny that the pig’s cock had stretched her & her cookie was puffier than before. But the damage didn’t seem that bad; her pussy stung to the touch as Brandy washed it, a sign that a few splits had happened; Showing just how close Ham had been to a blowout, most likely killing Brandy if he had jumped her just a week earlier. Though Brandy didn't know any of this, just that it stung. Being naive past the basics, Brandy didn’t question why she wasn’t leaking cum or had any cum crusted on her labia. She’d been unconscious but Hamilton had been inside her; he wasn’t gonna pull out. It had been so tight, that Brandy doubted he could.\nOne change Brandy noticed immediately was that just the lightest touch sent waves of pleasure arching down her spine. She hadn’t been this sensitive the first time she touched herself, let alone now. Just washing off was bringing her close to orgasm but was it worth what Ham had done to her? No chance in hell! Finishing her shower, Brandy used the Pig’s crusted towel to dry off, not understanding what that crust was. Her back still sore, Brandy didn’t realize she was famished until her stomach began to growl. Meandering into the kitchen, she found the pot of gruel Hamilton had prepared still simmering on the stove. It didn’t look good but it tasted phenomenal, so in a perverse sense, Brandy figured she should thank Ham. Scarfing down the meal like a starving man, Brandy patted her full stomach before meandering over to the loveseat, having nothing better to do & determined not to let that fat fucking pig break her; Brandy flicked on the TV before spreading her legs & rubbing a finger along the length of her slit. It was electric, letting out a moan, Brandy came right there, arching her back as she sprayed juices. Unlike last time, Brandy didn’t pass out as she inserted the knuckle of her middle finger inside her… cookie, rubbing the knuckle along the bruised flesh, invoking another mind-shattering orgasm. In the back of her mind, Brandy wondered why her orgasm smelled more like vinegar than before. But those thoughts were drowned out under waves of pleasure. Brandy rocketed out 3 more orgasms before she had to stop & calm herself, getting not just the knuckle of her index finger but her ring finger as well, completely fitting all 3, allowing for a lot of experimentation.\nCovered in her own juices & basking in the afterglow, Brandy was about to drift off to sleep when another rumbling in her gut caused her to shoot to her feet eyes wide. Brandy wasn’t hungry this time. Legs weak, she hobbled to her bathroom & slammed down on the toilet just as a wave of the nastiest smelling shit Brandy ever smelt rocketed out of her. Holding onto the toilet for dear life, Brandy’s backside vomited a mixture of slurry & chunky diarrhea, burning hot & forceful. She had to keep flushing the toilet, fearing the bowl would fill & overflow beneath her. This went on for half an hour & Brandy felt hollow by the time it was done. Rancid cabbage mixed with roadkill, it was the worst thing Brandy had ever smelt & so runny she didn’t bother wiping, simply rocking to her feet & stepping into her shower attempting to wash all the shit out of her fur & off her backside. It was slowly going because her fur was caked in the greasy shit slurry & it wouldn’t wash off easily. Only after several seconds of scrubbing was Brandy able to strip the shit from her fur, then wash out her asshole. While there, Brandy shaved her pubes, refusing to let them get unruly. Leaving the bathroom, Brandy got a snack, suddenly hungry & went back to watching TV, where Ham found her when he arrived home. Nervous & sweating bullets, Ham was relieved to find Brandy on the loveseat, drinking beer & watching Love Actually. About halfway through his day, while reading to kids, Ham realized he might’ve pushed Brandy into trying to escape & if she did that, she’d more than likely die before he found her. The swamp & surrounding lands were merciless & chalked full of dangerous, poisonous creatures. He figured his natural defenses were enough, but as the saying goes, desperation creates dangerous men. So when Hamilton found her, still home & still alive, he knew he’d won.\nSmiling, he shut the door, loving the look of loathing Brandy gave him. Dropping his pants, Hamilton relished the look of fear plastered across Brandy’s face as he reached for his button. Knowing where this was going, Brandy leaped off the loveseat, determined to avoid Ham this time. But, she hadn’t accounted for how much she had to drink & instantly stumbled, the world now spinning. Having to hug the loveseat just to stand Brandy squealed as Hamilton grabbed her. She beat weakly against his chest, demanding he let her go but her words came out as an unintelligible slur. Dragging Brandy over to his chair, Ham sat down & forced Brandy onto his lap, spreading her legs and he started pushing his cock up into her cookie. It was tight but Ham found that slow, constant pressure had his cock pressing up against Brandy’s cervix in no time at all. Like before, Brandy’s cervix wouldn’t just open willy-nilly; Ham had to seduce it, sauteing it in his juices with long, deep strokes from his cock. Brandy kept trying to pull herself off Ham’s cock, begging him to stop, he ignored her, focused on seducing her womb. Getting fucked with long, hard strokes, Brandy’s body heated up to the point of burning almost instantly. Despite being in a better position this time, she was too drunk to defend herself, unable to stop the pig, feeling Ham’s venom polluting her soul. It took less effort than the last time for Ham’s cock to charm access into Brandy’s womb, unloading a torrent of shitty brown cum & scraping off a day’s worth of filth inside. Adding to the rotten sludge already festering in her womb.\nSatisfied, Hamilton pulled out with Brandy’s cervix closing behind him. Leaving her moaning on his chair, Ham got up to start dinner. Despite her burning body, Brandy’s limbs were ice cold & she had no strength whatsoever. Splayed out like a ragdoll over the chair she could only cry as her pussy pulsed painfully. Brandy didn’t know how long she’d been lying there, or what Ham was doing; she just knew she was in pain. Eventually, Ham returned, scooping Brandy up as if she weighed nothing, & he sat her on his lap. Then, to Brandy’s horror, Hamilton began “lovely” spoon-feeding her greasy gruel, blowing on it before shoving it in her mouth. Unfortunately, Brandy’s panting caused her to swallow or choke & despite wanting to die, she couldn’t force herself to do so, so she ate the mush.\nNow, all this was bad enough but then Brandy felt Ham’s cock stiffening & rubbing up against her pussy, slowly trying to work its way back inside. Powerless & Broken, Brandy couldn’t do anything except sob as Ham began raping her again, still feeding her gruel.\nChapter#28: Ham raped Brandy deep into the night, all through Wheel of Fortune & long after the pot had emptied & grown cold. Squirting one last load, Ham, his balls drained & feeling immensely satisfied, gave the now unconscious Brandy a sloppy kiss as he pulled his softening dick from her pulsating cookie. He then proceeded to carry the broken & sore dog to bed. \nThis routine continued for several weeks. Ham raped Brandy whenever he had a free moment, often stuffing her face while he did it & spending more time at home to fuck her more often. Every morning, Brandy would wake up sore, stiff, & bruised from the night before, though thankfully, nowhere near as bad as the first time. She’d then take a scalding shower, not caring if it hurt, trying to scrub the pig's filth off & out of her. After that, every day became a sick game of Brandy waiting for Ham to try & rape her, trying to fight him off, & suffering through it when she inevitably failed. Other than that, Brandy spent her days lounging, eating, & masturbating. She hated touching herself now, not waiting to contribute to the damage Hamilton was doing but she couldn’t help it. Her heat wouldn’t end, from the jungle to now, Brandy had a consistent burning need, waiting to be extinguished. She’d mostly ignored it but once she discovered masturbation, she’d become addicted to it, Brandy masturbating for hours because she just couldn’t control her needs. Naturally, she continued to eat & drink while she did it, so Brandy was consuming thousands of calories while doing little, even the little housework she did was slipping, & the place was a mess. More than that, Brandy’s heat had gone from a clear, viscous fluid to a yellowish slime, reeking of vinegar & old urine. Along with her weight that continued to balloon, Brandy felt more like a disgusting pig every day, she found it harder & harder to get up & do things, so it was easier to masturbate & eat on the loveseat.\nThen one day her heat stopped, several weeks after Ham started raping her, Brandy noticed she wasn’t dripping a snail trail of slime when she walked, & her inner thighs weren’t dark & soaked. She was still horny but it wasn’t a burning need anymore, more like a pestering addiction. One would think Brandy would find this sudden change alarming but she was just happy not to have to clean the mess anymore. A few days after this happened, Brandy found herself alone in the RV for the first time in a long time. Ham was gone when she got up & her breakfast was simmering on the stove when she left the bedroom after her shower. By now, Brandy was barely recognizable as the girl she used to be, having reached 300lbs, her fat arms having noticeable bingo wings, fat rolls smothering her knees, cellulite filling her ass, & a prominent double chin had formed. Most shocking though & most notable was the massive gut currently hurting her back. Spilling out in front of her, Brandy’s gut hung down to touch her thighs, covered in angry red stretch marks & cellulite. Beneath it, her crotch had started ballooning into a nasty fupa covered in wiry, greasy pubes. Causing her cookie to jut forward, pushed out so that anyone looking at her would get a clear view of her abused hole.\nNo longer in heat or enslaved to her lust, Brandy decided to catch up on the housework she’d been putting off. Lord knows when she’d have free time from Ham & despite being trapped, she didn’t want to live in filth. So Brandy set about cleaning & despite only needing to pick up, sweep, mop, & do laundry, she was exhausted & panting within 10 minutes. Soaked in sweat, Brandy was shocked & appalled at how the smallest amount of effort drained her stamina; 20 minutes of work took her over an hour. Once Brandy was done, she shuffled slowly into the small kitchenette, hating herself as she opened the fridge, grabbed a 6-pack & a bag of chips & shuffled back to her loveseat. The stained & ripped fabric compressed & the wood groaned in protest as Brandy sat down. Swinging one leg over the back of the seat & planting the other firmly on the ground, Brandy’s body was too wide to fit, so she had to improvise. This was a clear indication of how big she was getting & it depressed her but at least it made her cookie easier to reach. Digging in with one bloated paw, Brandy tried not to dwell on the fact that her whole paw now fit in an opening she struggled to get a single finger in just a few weeks prior. Casually masturbating, Brandy turned on some brain-rotting sitcom & began drinking her beer.\nHamilton arrived home late in the afternoon, his rusty old truck rattling to a stop in front of his RV. He hated leaving Brandy alone for that long but despite restructuring his schedule to maximize his free time, Ham still had responsibilities, especially on Sundays when he preached. With that in mind, he did all his shopping & miscellaneous errands on the same day, keeping him out all day. Opening his front door, Ham was about to yell at Brandy to get the groceries out of his truck, but stopped when he saw the obese dog girl passed out on the couch ugly snoring; with 3 empty six-packs on the ground, & her paw still buried in her fuck hole. One leg was still draped over the top of the loveseat & she was drooling. Smiling, Ham went to get the groceries himself; he loved his fat fuck pig. Hamilton hated to admit it but wasn’t getting any younger until Brandy came into his life. Every time they fucked he felt the years draining away as he stole more youth & vitality from the blond dog. Brandy was overflowing with energy & would nourish Ham for years; it was no wonder the producer wanted her back, he could’ve slowly fed off her for decades. Ham had no such patience; he’d drain Brandy until she was nothing but an empty shell, a bloated living corpse of stinking flesh, void of any value. Sustained by whatever trash & scraps were left & cursed to fade into non-existence after death.\nCarrying the bags inside, Ham was glad to be home; despite his outgoing personality, he was an introvert to his core. Putting away the groceries, Ham set a white and pink box on the counter. Grabbing the pot which Brandy had finally washed, he started on dinner, making the usual brown gruel for his fuck puppy. Brandy woke up to the smell of her dinner simmering, her head hurt and her vision swam. She’d overdone it, Brandy was feeling depressed & drank a lot more than she’d intended. Swinging her leg off the couch, she slowly rose to her feet, wobbling & threatening to topple over. Stumbling over to the table, Brandy, in her drunken state, could think of nothing but food; even her loathing of Hamilton was cast aside for the singular goal of stuffing her face. Looking back & much to Brandy’s chagrin, the moment Ham put the pot down, Brandy began stuffing her face, eating like a pig from a trough. Snorting as she shoved her face into the deep tail pot, the savory, salty mush was ambrosia to her drunken taste buds.\nPolishing off the pot in less than 5 minutes a full & satisfied Brandy was ready to fall back into her drunken stupor right at the table. But Ham had other plans, picking the box off the counter, he opened it & pulled out a small pink & white plastic stick. See, Ham noticed Brandy’s heat had dissipated as well. With all the estrogen & livestock growth hormones he’d been feeding her, Ham had only one theory as to why.\nRousing Brandy, Ham helped her to stand, despite her protests of wanting to sleep. Calmly, Ham simply told Brandy she had to pee right there on the kitchen floor. It took Ham repeating himself several times (something he loathed doing) before Brandy got the message, though whether she actually understood it was anyone's guess. But she had to pee so pee she did, a powerful spray of a disturbingly dark yellow liquid. Ham simply plunged his hand into the stream, dousing the little stick in foul liquid. Planning ahead, Ham had bought instant tests, which were pretty basic, but they worked significantly faster than the more detailed ones. Once Brandy’s stream stopped, Ham withdrew his hand; shaking the test a few times, he looked at the little screen. Smiling like a shit-eating asshole, Ham flipped the test around to show Brandy. Already starting to doze off again, it took Brandy a moment to focus on the little test in front of her face & even more time to understand what she was seeing. She didn’t get it; what was Ham showing her, & why did the little stick have two lines? Brandy was so confused & about to drunkenly ask Ham what this was when her voice died in her throat. Pupils shrinking & breaking out in sweats, Brandy looked at the box on the counter, having to sound out the words on the side as her brain mush rubbed 2 neurons together. It read “pregnancy test.”\nChapter#29: Instantly, the nightmares of Ham bloomed in her mind, the rot, the smells, the screaming, the pain, all the horrors that Brandy feared, filling her mind & smashing her dreams. Mouth gaping like a fish, Brandy simply turned around & began waddling/ stumbling towards the door. Instead of stopping her, Ham just laughed, knowing she couldn’t get away. As soon as Brandy opened the door the smell of the rot & filth she’d removed from the RV hit her like a wave. Nose running instantly, Brandy’s eyes threatened to swell up & the sound of the swamp was almost deafening. Thankfully, at that time of year, the bugs wouldn’t be out in force for a few more hours, so Ham didn’t have to drag his fuck pad back inside just yet. Following slowly behind her, Ham watched as Brandy drunkenly wobbled across the small yard towards the fence. She had no plan, no idea where to go, & no clue how to survive but it didn’t matter. Brandy had to flee no matter what. Reaching the short wire fence, she lifted one bloated leg, fat & cellulite sagging toward the ground, & tried to climb over the fence.\nMiraculously, Brandy got her leg over the fence; it hurt, but she didn’t care - she just had to escape. But as Brandy tried to pull herself over the fence, it buckled & sagged, sending Brandy sprawling to the ground, her legs tangled in the fence top, forcing her legs & ass to point straight up. Then, as if the universe wanted to add insult to injury, a geyser of diarrhea shot out of Brandy like Yellowstone. Burning like lava on the way out, it splattered down on Brandy soaking her in foul anal sewage. Laughing uproariously now, Ham grabbed one of Brady’s legs & untangling her from the fence, he began to drag her back to the RV. Barely conscious, Brandy was vaguely aware she was moving but felt like she was being dragged into hell.\nThe last thing Brandy remembered was something hot & burning in her cookie before she lost consciousness. Brandy awoke the next morning, hungover but functional. Last night was a blur; she could barely remember it. Brandy thought she’d run outside & remembered a burning blast leaving her ass. But looking around, she was lying on Ham’s stained mattress, her ass & cookie were sore yes but Brandy felt clean, her fur looked clean & she even smelled washed, it didn't make sense. What she didn’t know was that after Ham dragged her inside & fucked her diarrhea-splattered body, he bathed her & put her to bed.\n\n\n“Was last night just a dream?”- Brandy wondered, slowly getting out of bed. She needed water but didn’t want to spike her headache.\n\n\nWandering out of the bedroom & into the kitchenette, it would have behooved Brandy to look up instead of down at feet she could no longer see but the buzzing fluorescents were more than she could bear. Grabbing a cup, Brandy took several long draughts of water. Behind her, she could hear Hamilton humming as he shuffled around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. It was the same mushy grits as always but right now the smell made Brandy want to vomit. Splashing water on her face, Brandy mentally prepared herself to face the day, to play the sadistic game of cat & mouse that Ham kept her trapped in.\nTurning around, Brandy froze in confusion. Ham had hung up a banner reading congratulations, he’d blown up balloons & baked a cake. Bemused, Brandy was about to demand an answer like an entitled brat. When she spotted the decorations lining the cake, she saw pregnancy tests, all with two lines. Hamilton just grinned at Brandy’s reaction, it had been smart of him to get a cup of her piss in the shower to soak the test sticks in. It took a few seconds to click but Brandy remembered, remembered pissing on the kitchen floor & remembered Ham’s sadistic sneer as he showed her the positive result. Ham expected Brandy to try to waddle away again; instead, she just shut down. Her shoulders slumping, she just stared at the floor not moving. Mentally, Brandy’s brain turned off to save her from the horrific truth that her nightmares were becoming reality.\nIt didn’t matter to Ham, however, as instead of worrying, he simply walked Brandy to the table, sat her down, & began spoon-feeding her breakfast. Instinctively Brandy swallowed whatever was spooned into her mouth, so Ham wasn’t worried about her choking. If Brandy had been coherent, she’d have gagged at the foul taste mixed into the normally savory grits but for now, she just swallowed silently. Since she was carrying his child, Ham figured Brandy needed more protein so he added cum to his usual recipe. Once the pot was empty, Ham fed Brandy the cake, strawberry with chocolate & cum icing. The entire time, Ham doted on Brandy, hugging her, kissing her, & acting like a loving husband, while she stared in catatonic shock.\nHam lifted Brandy like she weighed nothing and carried her over to her recliner. Plopping down & turning on the TV, he spread her fat legs & began prodding her abused cookie with his cock. What was once hard & unyielding was now squishy & slimy, Brandy was still tight but instead of an annoying stop-start routine, Ham enjoyed a nice, slow push to the cervix. At her current size, Ham had about an inch of dick left dry without entering her womb. But that problem would solve itself, once her labia began to sag & rot, the thick fetid flesh would coat his dick completely. \nKissing Brandy all over, Ham penetrated her with slow, deep thrusts, making sure to bury his cock far into Brandy, twisting & turning as he attempted to open her cervix. Fortunately, after weeks of fucking Brandy’s body knew better than to resist Ham’s touch. Her cervix opened in short order, allowing Ham’s cock in, burying the last inch of his cock inside her before her cervix closed around his cock, creating a perfect seal. As if on cue, Ham unleashed a burning torrent of rotten cum into Brandy’s womb. This managed to elicit a response from Brandy, startling Hamilton as she began sobbing.\nDespite her shock & catatonic state, the shattered pieces of Brandy's mind were forced together by the incalculable evil & malice contained in Hamilton’s load. His cum wouldn’t let her dissociate; his cum wouldn’t let Brandy escape her nightmares. As soon as the pig's fetid sperm polluted her womb, Brandy’s nightmare began playing across her stitched-together mind. Faster & harder each time until pig squealing blasted in her ears, leaving Brandy sobbing & shaking on Ham’s dick.\nWell, despite his original surprise, Ham found Brandy’s tantrum incredibly hot, so instead of pulling out, he began raping her womb, fucking her right in the load he just blew. The slow, deep dicking would continue until it was time to start lunch. About an hour in Brandy would stop sobbing, reduced to whimpering, exhausted & out of tears to shed. Her cookie rubbed raw, her cervix itching & her womb bruised & sore from the hard backshots Ham’s cock gave it. He’d never fucked his bitch for this long before. Bradny’s stomach was visibly distended from the multiple loads in her womb & she appeared unable to hold her head up. Honestly, Ham only knew Brandy was conscious because of her whimpering.\nFeeling peckish, Ham pulled his dick out of Brandy’s womb & for the first time, rivers of cum poured down around his cock, Brandy’s cervix unable to hold that many loads. In the back of her mind, Brandy could feel something pouring out of her but she couldn’t focus. Truthfully, Brandy couldn’t focus on anything; her nightmare was reduced to loud static like an old TV. Vaguely, Brandy was aware she was awake though she wasn’t in pain, just burning up. She could feel the massive log of hog cock leaving her as Ham lifted her off his dick, followed by a torrent of burning goo as her stomach deflated. Free of Ham’s cock with a wet squelch, Bandy could feel fresh air rushing into her gaping cookie & up into her womb. This cooled Brandy’s body but left her lady bits stinging & sore. Standing up, Ham left Brandy panting on his recliner, his torrent of shit cum soaking into the shredded leather seat cushion.\nChapter#30: Despite her exhaustion, both physically & mentally, Brandy’s mind refused to slip into the comfortable folds of unconsciousness, stubbornly clinging to the waking world. She was still panting on the recliner when Ham brought her lunch. Turning her head slightly, the look of pure loathing in Brandy’s eyes would make Khorne blush but Ham remained oblivious or indifferent. Picking up the obese Brandy with one arm, Ham sat her back down on his lap & began spoon-feeding her lunch. Brandy was aware of the fetid aftertaste this time but found herself incapable of doing anything about it. She couldn’t even regurgitate the meal as Ham fed her, lacking the strength to puke. Once the pot was empty, Brandy was left feeling painfully full as Ham kissed her deeply & rubbed her stomach lovingly, the contact made Brandy shudder.\nAfter lunch, Ham spent the rest of the day sweetly rubbing Brandy, holding her while whispering sweet nothings in her ear. He didn’t bother trying to fuck her which for Brandy just made things worse. Her horniness & need to get off drove her closer & closer to touching herself in front of the pig, much to Ham’s amusement as he sucked the filth off her pube-covered fupa. Eventually, as Ham spoon-fed her dinner, Brandy lost & began digging a fatty paw into her sore & bruised-looking cookie. Moaning sloppily between mouthfuls of rancid gruel, Brandy was keenly aware of Hamiliton laughing at her, reveling in her misery as she finally lost control. But Brandy didn’t care; she couldn’t if she wanted to, she’d lost all control. Brandy could do nothing but dig her fat paw further into her bruised cookie, addictively seeking to satisfy herself. After several minutes & with a rather undignified howl, Brandy arched her back & sprayed a steaming, thick, pea-green sludge from her cookie all over the carpet. Completely spent & finally satisfied, Brandy couldn’t stave off the waves of exhaustion finally overtaking her & she passed out into a dreamless sleep in Ham’s lap. Grinning, Ham continued to feed the unconscious Brandy until the pot was empty before carrying her to bed, more excited about his favorite toy than ever before.\nAfter that, Brandy just sorta gave up; Hamilton had broken her. No longer did the blond-ish dog dream about escaping or try to avoid her captor's touch. Instead, she spent all day dead-eyed & draping herself over the ruined loveseat rhythmically drilling her paw in & out of her cookie while she stuffed her face with cheap beer & as much junk food as she could take before needing to shit, just to do it all over again. No longer giving a shit, the old trailer rapidly returned to its former foul state, though the foul pig at its center was now Brandy instead of Ham. Half-heartedly, she considered that Ham may beat her to death for disobeying him. Instead, the fat pig seemed more turned on than ever. The reality was, that everything Ham had done & everything he ordered Brandy to do was to break her, slowly eroding her defiant spirit & dousing her fiery temper. Finally, it had worked & Ham had turned Brandy into a dull subservient sow, unable & unwilling to resist him, more a dirty, fat fleshlight than a dog. Within 3 months of getting pregnant, Brandy gained another 150lbs of beer & crap food-fueled lard & her hygiene tanked. Like the trailer, Brandy just stopped taking care of herself, accumulating new layers of grim, sweat, & filth by the day. Unwilling to wash her hands much less shower, unless she was feeling especially filthy (such as when Ham uses her face like a toilet), it didn’t help that every day Brandy found it a little harder to get up & every day the doorway to the toilet & by extension, the shower, was just a bit tighter.\nBy six months into her pregnancy, Brandy hated going to the bathroom, not just because she got stuck but because she couldn’t help but look in the mirror. All she could see was Trophy, the spitting image of her mother that Brandy remembered from puppyhood before she lost all that weight & visions of the foul bloated living carcass her mother had become played across her mind as she grunted & squirmed on the toilet, Sweating & trying not to sob as her rancid diet burned through her guts & exited her abused & bloated asshole like a runaway freight train. It disgusted & terrified her but Brandy couldn’t dissociate or even dwell in misery as whatever hellion Hamilton dumped in her womb kicked as if she owed it money.\nMuch like Ham predicted, once Brandy gave up, her body started to rot & spoil unimpeded. Her fat flesh filled with rancid lumps of lard, forcing her ass to sag to her knees with the weight of gravity pulling it down. Her stomach faired no better, ballooning outward like a fleshy tarp, gallon upon gallon of hot, rancid fat once again overtaking her pregnancy with rolls thicker than an arm sagging down to cover her crotch. Or it would save for her fupa which grew just as fast & jutted forward, propping up Brandy’s stomach & pushing her cookie forward so the opening was visible under her gut.\nThanks to the pregnancy, Brandy’s big tits began sagging immensely, covered in stretch marks as her perky funbags plopped heavily on her stomach, becoming far more fat than flesh as the nipples & areola thickened & darkened until Brandy was left with two obscene udders. Constantly sore Brandy found herself massaging them just to get through her days until the tightness finally gave way & her foul milk tanks began to produce. Horrified by this latest development, Brandy was tragically unaware of what the two sets of tender lumps beneath her breasts were. Besides all that, Brandy’s double chins got thicker, her bingo wings got bigger, her knees & elbows disappeared entirely, she sweated nothing but grease, staining her fur, with blemishes & cellulite marring the surface of every bit of flesh she had.\nTo no one's surprise, Ham loved every moment of this, more turned on by his unwilling plaything than ever. Whenever Ham was home, he was inside Brandy, raping her almost endlessly, going so far as using her as a urinal just to keep fucking. But what tickled his jimmies was Brandy herself; she’d given up on any form of dignity & almost begged Ham to fuck her the few instances when he was otherwise engaged. Brandy just didn’t care anymore, she’d lost all self-control & sexual stimulation was the only thing numbing her to the horrors of reality & her fat paw just wasn’t cutting it anymore, hell, two paws weren’t enough & junk food & cheap beer only went so far. Consequently, Ham leaving the trailer became something Brandy couldn’t stand, acting like a bitch in heat, begging for sex the moment he got home & hating herself for it.\nChapter#31: Nine months in, & Ham decided it was finally time to get married, couldn’t let his rape baby be a bastard now, could he? Brandy, having broken the loveseat months ago, now spent most of her time either in bed or lying on the living room floor, getting plowed & eating or trying to pleasure herself & eating while waiting for Ham to fuck her, all while her tits dribble a constant stream of a sticky substance Brandy refused to think about. So when one Sunday morning, Ham roused her early, forcing the 500-pound Brandy to struggle to her feet (an amusing visual, to be sure) & half-dragging her to his metal prison shower to scrub her down; she was less than amused. Confused & demanding answered in her now slow & unintelligent southern drawl, Ham’s only response was to grab a pendulous breast, squeezing until Brandy sprayed lard milk all over the shower, making her moan & shutting her up. Speaking of breasts, Brandy now had six, all massive & foul. Those tender lumps? An evolutionary holdover usually reserved for the fattest of mutt broodsows. Until she realized what they were, Brandy didn’t think her self-esteem & self-worth could get any lower until the horror of her discovery sent her spiraling as her new tits darkened and swelled before dribbling foul fluids like the rest. Now, Brandy wanted nothing more than to curl up & die, another piece of trash on the floor but Hamilton, her lack of willpower, & her bottomless addiction to sexual stimulation refused to let her go. After the shower, Ham surprised Brandy with a gift, a massive muumuu with an elaborately gaudy flower pattern. The only things Ham had ever gotten her were cheap makeup & her replica collar, now choker, so to say Brandy was surprised was an understatement. Her dimwitted mind tried to think of a reason for the gift as Ham helped her get dressed, but came up blank. Brandy resorted to asking but as usual, Ham ignored her. Answering her would validate her as an anthro & not just a plaything.\nOnce Brandy was dressed and her makeup done up, Ham hustled her out the front door, a difficult process as Brandy barely fit. This left her scared & further confused as Brandy hadn’t been outside in weeks much less at Ham’s urging. She was further bemused once Ham began steering her towards his rusty pickup. Rapidly filling with an ice-cold sense of dread, Brandy couldn’t think of a single GOOD reason Ham would get her in his truck. She feared he was passing her off to someone else or planned to dump her in the swamp to let the animals, insects, or elements dispose of her. No one would ever find her body, reasoned Brandy, her two remaining brain cells rubbing together with enough friction to start a fire.\nDespite Ham’s immense strength, Brandy had become a challenge to move for the last few weeks with her weight skyrocketing as her pregnancy neared its end. So when I say loading Brandy into the bed of his truck was an ordeal, it was an ordeal. Burying his hands in the mountainous amount of sweaty, greasy, ass & leg fat covering Brandy, Ham had to push his squealing bitch up as Brandy lifted one monstrously fat leg onto the tailgate to slowly try & pull herself up while Hamilton lifted her remaining girth. With a lot of sweating, cursing, & the front of the truck lifting as the back sank, Brandy was finally loaded into the back like a fat farm animal, with Ham slamming the tailgate closed behind her. Getting into the driver's seat, the truck turned over with a loud rumble & a moment later, Ham & Brandy were moving away from the trailer & tiny island, rumbling down the dirt road into the unknown.\nThey drove for about an hour, serenaded by the cacophony of swamp sounds & static-filled country music from the truck's old radio. Lacking shocks, the truck bounced & bumped something fierce. Fortunately, Brandy’s 500 pounds of blubber acted like a natural shock absorber, but the southern spring air was sweltering; yet Brandy couldn’t shake the cold feeling of dread & deep wrongness. Her baby thought the same as the brat began thrashing and shaking from the moment Brandy got in the pickup & refused to stop, much to Brandy’s chagrin. The brat was normally active, but never to this extent, & never caused this much pain, all of which only added to Brandy’s worry. Her fears only amplified as Hamilton finally left the dirt roads behind, tires hitting asphalt as the truck rumbled past an old sign reading: Swampville, 5 miles. Adding to her fear, Brandy was mortified by the sight of anyone seeing her, seeing what she’d become. Bradny had been a pop star, an actress; she couldn’t stand the thought of other anthros seeing her as this fat, disgusting sow leaking from her every hole & staining her muumuu with sweat and body fluids.\nOn several occasions, Brandy considered popping the tailgate & just rolling out to try & escape, but dismissed the idea every time. There was no way Ham wouldn’t notice the sudden shift & lack of weight in the truck bed. More than that, Brandy knew she couldn’t escape him; he had a truck & it took everything she had just to stand up & waddle to the toilet. Despite her present situation, awakening feelings of shame & embarrassment Brandy hadn’t felt in months, she was far too broken to try anything, tamed by Ham & reduced to a meek weak-willed sow. So when the truck rumbled into the small farm town, all Brandy could do was quietly sob & try to cover her face as everyone out on the warm Sunday turned to stare at what they assumed at first was livestock being transported from one farm to another. The truth, however, became apparent when Ham turned into the packed parking lot of the white, high-steepled church. To their dying day, many an Anthro of Swampville would remember the day pastor Hamilton unloaded what had to be the single fattest woman they’d ever seen from the bed of his pickup. Many thought she was a cow or an exceptionally large hog, so the fact that she was an anthropomorphic woman came as quite a shock. However, compared to the horrors yet to come & the events soon to be forever seared into the minds of the church's congregation, it was nothing.\nRemoving Brandy from the truck proved easier than loading her Ham. He simply rolled the obese dog out of the truck & onto the asphalt with a loud thud, as Brandy’s girth seemed to shift from her head to her feet & back again, like a fleshy lava lamp, before returning to normal. Helping Brandy stand, her Muumuu was scuffed from the fall & covered in stains, filth, & large wet spots from the foul fluids her body produced during the long hot trip. Besides the Muumuu, Brandy’s mascara ran down her face, ruined by a combination of sweat & sobbing out of shame. Ignoring all this & apathetic/ oblivious to Brandy’s feelings, Ham took her by one massive cellulite-covered arm & ushered her into the church, holding the doors open wide so Brandy would fit as she slowly waddled inside. Inside, a small congregation dressed in their Sunday best filled the wooden pews, with the Deacon standing beside the lectern, as the Pastor was currently helping a morbidly obese stranger inside. The small but dedicated congregation was informed last week that today's regular proceedings would be substituted with the wedding of a member of the congregation & pillar of the community but no one knew who. As soon as the door swung shut behind Brandy everyone (save Ham) began to gag & dry heave. Having spent nearly a year eating & fucking her body into a rancid blob, Brandy had become nose blind enough not to realize she smelt like a burning landfill & Ham loved it so he didn't mention it. Sure he’d scrubbed the visible filth from her fur that morning but that wouldn’t deal with the months of accumulated filth in her folds & the overall smell of rot & filth Brandy spewed endlessly. So as Ham walked her down the aisle, the congregation, through tear-filled, half-closed, realized that A.) reverend Hamilton was getting married & B.) it was to this foul, foul creature. Not wanting to seem rude many Anthros clapped & gave half-hearted congratulations between coughing fits; no one even tried to stand up. The only guest in attendance not coughing to death (including other pigs) was the Deacon, though for as little as Ham knew about the guy, that could be for any number of reasons. The old goat was the only Anthro besides Hamilton who knew he was the one getting married today & as such, being the Deacon, he’d be conducting the ceremony. The old Goat had agreed to the task with the same blase monotone he always used, which even Ham found off-putting. Regardless, he’d agreed which was all Ham needed to get the ball rolling on this humiliating farce.\nChapter#32: Waddling unwillingly down the aisle, escorted by Hamilton, Brandy’s other paw rested on her ginormous stomach, sloping & sagging more than a foot in front of her, the brat inside wouldn’t settle down at all. Normally, Brandy would eat to calm her almost bastard child or it would normally calm on its own after a while. Here, she had no snacks & her life-ruining monster refused to let up in the slightest, so all Brandy could do was suffer through the internal beating, praying she wouldn’t collapse in the middle of the church.\nThe walk to the altar took forever as Brandy waddled at a glacial pace, & Ham had no desire to expedite things, soaking in & enjoying every moment of Brandy’s humiliation & suffering. At that time, some of the congregation had composed themselves & opened all the windows, providing much-needed relief for the other churchgoers/ wedding guests. Consequently, almost everyone had recovered by the time Brandy & Hamilton were in position, though many donned face masks to block the awful, though no longer all-consuming odors.\nStanding in front of the crowd, Brandy’s face was bright red, hating Ham, hating this parody of a ceremony, hating her unborn, & hating the guests for staring at her, though most were deliberately looking elsewhere. Truthfully it boiled down to a deep-seated & ugly resentment for Anthros Brandy had never met. Why hadn’t anyone come & saved her, why wasn't anyone trying now? Brandy was frankly offended that these people could sit there & watch her suffer, being forced into a ceremony she wanted no part of & do nothing, never even speaking up in disapproval. Truthfully, this wedding raised red flags for everyone in attendance & many would’ve intervened if it wasn’t for Pastor Hamilton standing across from his bride-to-be. As such & with great reservation, everyone remained seated & silent, the simple farm folk much too polite to speak out against the town Pastor without reason. If only Brandy had said something, pity.\nThe old goat began a traditional ceremony, droning on in his lifeless, monotonous voice, though whether Brandy heard a word of it was anyone's guess. The morbidly obese canine spent the ceremony with both ham arms on her gigantic stomach, trying not to double over in pain or fall over entirely. Brandy’s brat was beating her insides, all four paws hurt, her back, knees, & hips were screaming from standing this long, & between the heat, the sweating, & struggling to breathe past her fat, Brandy was at serious risk of passing out. Blood was rushing in her ears, her vision flickered, causing Brandy’s focus to fixate on her stomach pain. Surprisingly, she made it through half the ceremony before her baby shifted in her fatty womb & the world went sideways.\nThe attendees gasped as Brandy toppled over sideways before rolling onto her back. Frozen in shock, no one moved, many convinced they’d just witnessed this dangerously obese woman have a heart attack. Despite this, the deacon continued his speech as if nothing had happened, & pastor Hamilton just grinned; he knew what was up & bet Brandy wished she was having a heart attack. Moments later, Brandy began to groan & fart, much to the congregation's relief & disgust, thankful she hadn’t dropped dead.\nFor her part, Brandy was barely conscious. Her brat had shifted hard & sent a wave of rippling pain throughout Brandy’s body. Lying on her back, Brandy was helpless as another wave of pain ripped through her & her rancid asshole blasted farts like a foghorn, making many a churchgoer visibly ill despite being farmers. The third wave forced Brandy into a hyper-alert state, as she became instantly aware of everything going on around her. She began to cry, just wanting to pass out & escape this humiliating nightmare. Trying to sit up in a vain attempt to regain the smallest amount of dignity, a fourth ripple knocked her back down as she felt a massive gush of fluid escape her ruined cookie cunt. This finally broke the congregation as the rapidly forming puddle of brown slurry beneath Brandy was comparable to tear gas. Stampeding for all exits, the church quickly emptied until only Brandy Hamilton & the Decon remained. How the Decon continued to ramble on, not even Ham knew, as the smell was making even him gag.\nUnable to speak, Brandy silently prayed & wailed for the pain to end as she felt her ruined cervix start to open. \n& a massive mass began to force its way through. Despite its rancid & bloated state, Brandy felt her birth canal stretch painfully as her massive brat started slowly making its way towards freedom. Sobbing, Brandy tried to clench, tried to stop herself from birthing this evil, knowing that once her baby was born, she would be utterly beyond saving. Not knowing or caring about the consequences, Brandy prayed that if she could just stop the mass, then it would go away. That if it wasn’t born, then she could go back to being a normal girl instead of a disgusting, disease-ridden sow. In her heart, Brandy knew that her efforts were futile; her muscles had rotted & atrophied to the point she could barely stand, much less stop a baby from being born. All she managed to do was amplify her suffering, turning the painful process into unbearable agony.\nFor hours, Brandy lay on the church floor, sobbing but too weak to speak as her baby slowly & visibly moved closer and closer to freedom. She could feel her labia stretching & growing as it deformed & changed to accommodate the giant creature creeping towards it at a glacial pace. The rancid brown flesh transforming into a gaping, greasy hole with slimy & thick meat curtains the color of well-done ground beef. Despite the smell at Ground Zero being so bad that it could choke an elephant, Brandy remained fully awake & aware of everything, her eyes swelling shut & her puffy, red nose streaming mucus. Worse still, she felt everything, her brat's movements, her body swelling with rot, & her six tits undulating as they sprayed an ever-thickening slurry of festering lard milk that burned her nipples & had the consistency of spoiled mayo. Silently, she prayed for Papa Nurgle to save her, begging for salvation from this living nightmare of pain & torment, but none came. Just the mocking silence of uncaring gods & a universe desiring her to suffer.\nEight hours later & the sun had long since set, the old goat, having finished his sermon hours ago, left, leaving Brandy & Ham alone. Having gotten a chair, Ham sat stroking his dick as he watched his 500lbs new teen wife struggle to give birth on the floor, her baby not even halfway out but stretching her birth canal more than Ham thought possible. Brandy stared at him with her swollen eyes, silently pleading for him to help her, to do anything to ease her suffering. Ham just blew ropes of shit cum on her stomach & face as a response. No, the only relief Brady got was the massive garbage bag of fast food compost Ham had left in the sun to fester. Despite her loathing, Brandy couldn't stop her sausage fingers from ripping the bag open, spilling its fetid contents on her morbidly obese stomach. A smell worse than even her foul birth sludge, Brandy couldn’t help but stuff her face, desperate to numb her suffering.\nA day later & Brandy finally felt relief as a wet pop from her labia marked an end to her pain. Covered in rancid food stains, trash, & a lot of brown shit cum, the last thing Brady heard was fat ugly crying before slipping into blissful unconsciousness. Sticking his new daughter (for that's what she was) on one of Brandy’s nipples, Ham began the arduous task of loading 500lbs of dead weight back into his truck. Brandy didn’t awaken until around noon the next day; her dreams were plagued with nightmares about being an immobile puppy mill. When she did awake, she found herself back on Ham's filthy mattress. She briefly wondered if it was all a horrible nightmare, but her sore, aching body proved otherwise. Absolutely famished, Brandy attempted to roll over so she could work her way slowly to her feet, but stopped as she felt something warm & squirming pushing against her gut. Slowly looking down in abject terror, Brandy screamed as she beheld the fat baby lying next to her, realizing her nightmares had come true.\nChapter#33: Ten years later: Brandy stood in the small, filthy living area of Ham’s trashed RV, the place having fallen into worse disrepair than ever. Trash littered the floor, intertwined sporadically with crappy kids' toys & other assorted junk. Ears ringing like she’d just been flashbanged, the now 700lbs Brandy wanted nothing more than to sit down, her legs burned from trying to support her weight & the act of moving exhausted her, as she labored to breathe through smothering fat. Weeping softly, her right eye was quickly swelling up as her mascara ran. Ham, drinking a bottle of non-alcoholic wine, had just hit her… again. He blamed her for their daughter, Sweety, a fat pig-dog who looked almost identical to Bradny at that age, minus the pig nose, having just tested positive on a pregnancy test. Sweety, who was dressed in a ripped purple dress, patched jeans & sandals, was sporting a massive gut & her fatty pre-teen breasts sprayed milk as she sobbed; the little brat didn’t want to be pregnant. Ham blamed Brandy for it, sure, he was fucking Sweety almost every day, but she was Brandy’s responsibility, so clearly this was her fault & Hamilton made sure she felt the wrath of his displeasure.\nHating her life, Brandy had become everything her mother was, a dumb, worthless, fetid carcass of rancid fat & foul flesh that didn’t have the dignity to die. Naked as the day she arrived, Brandy could no longer leave the RV if she wanted to, as she was unable to fit through the door. Barely able to waddle & unable to stand without help, Brandy spent most of the day lying in bed, struggling to breathe, with Sweety forced to do all cooking & cleaning since Brandy couldn’t do her wifely duties anymore. Spending all day eating or being mounted by Ham, Brandy didn’t have the luxury of ignorance & stupidity her mom had; she was dumbed down to the point of idiocy, sure, but she was left keenly aware of how awful she & her life were. How her massive, bloated stomach full of rot & waste spilled out down her obese legs & sides, her limbs near useless tubes of fat she could barely lift & she struggled to breathe past her own fat. Unable to clean herself, her fur was greasy & filthy, her cookie cunt a giant overstretched gaping hole spewing foul sludge with a huge clit & a bunch of nasty blackheads in her ratsnest of pubes, smegma coated everything between her legs & she relied on Sweety to clean her, a task she hated. Her giant ass was full of cellulite & fat, rotten to the core & stank like death spilling out from behind her thighs and hanging past her rancid cunt, Fupa so swollen it stuck out from under her sagging stomach. Her six breasts, giant sacks of fat covered in veins & stretch marks, ending in huge brown rubbery nipples, & leaking yellow slop constantly.\nIn contrast to the living carcass, Ham had never looked better, firmer, or younger, & was now energized. He’d stolen everything from Brandy, withered her soul to near nothing & left her rotten, fetid just like Trophy, & just when Brandy thought nothing could get worse, the Twins came. Sandy & Cindi, the twins, were two fat pigs with blond hair & long floppy dog ears, two more leeches on Brandy’s life.\nStanding in the living room, the twins feed from her engorged slop spouts. Brandy, in Pain & covered in filth, unaware she was pregnant again, wished she had never left the jungle & just let Whiskers have his way with her because nothing could be worse than this hell.\nMeanwhile, Mr. Producer sat in a lawn chair in his backyard, Trophy’s memorial small & forgotten in a corner, she’d passed not long after giving birth to his daughter, Mandy & was missed by absolutely no one. Simply rolled into a huge hole, buried & subsequently forgotten. Spredding his legs further apart, MR. Producer smiled as Kandi went from suckinging his balls to sucking his nasty dick. The obese 11-year-old Doberman was on her third pregnancy, with a huge gut jutting forward with a dust ruffle of fat growing off it. Naked as always, her nasty, bloated cunny dripped rancid fluid & her ass stank like a cesspool. Having never gone to school, she was nothing more than the producer's puppy mill & she loved it, always wanting her bloated body stuffed with his evil cum. Meanwhile, his daughter, Mandy, was stuffing her face as a Doberman railed her, 9 years old, obese, pregnant & happy as could be lying next to Kandi’s two girls, sucking dick like formula bottles.\nSighing in contentment, Mr Producer & Ham, so far away, both looked around, sighing in contentment with just how perfect their lives were, the end.",
"writing_bbcode_parsed": "Brandy Harrington: When Nightmares Become Reality.
Prologue: “It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”- Thought Brandy, tears running down her unnaturally aged face. Her body ached, her head hurt, everything stank, & anywhere she touched was sticky. Loud sobbing in one ear & yelling in the other, Brandy had no choice but to stand there & take it. Having nowhere to go & no one left to help her, Brandy was powerless to escape the hell that was her existence.
Chapter#1: Waking with a gasp, Brandy sat bolt upright in bed, cold sweat running down her face; next to her, Whiskers grumbled in his sleep, turning over so he faced the wall, she’d had the nightmare again. Sighing, Brandy got out of bed, walked over to the sink, got a glass of water & stared up at the stars. The jungle canopy was all around her.
Sighing again, Brandy reached one furred hand down her pink pajama pants, which were soaked & sticky. Pulling her hand out, Brandy spread her fingers, and clear threads of sticky fluid formed between them. She shuttered. This heat was a bad one. It had started a week prior, on her 17th birthday. From experience, Brandy knew her heat would reach its apex tomorrow or the day after. She’d had heats since she was 11, but never one this bad & what's worse, like all of her other heats, Whiskers could smell it coming a week in advance. Ever since the two of them had crashed in the jungle, Whiskers had warned Brandy when her heat was coming. While extremely useful, it made Brandy uncomfortable, knowing Whiskers always knew something so private. It wasn’t the first time though; if Whiskers wasn’t sniffing her dirty laundry, he was trying on her underwear or using her toothbrush.
Three fucking years they'd been trapped in this damn jungle. Three years of pretending life wasn’t hell. Three years of living like animals to survive, & three years of Brandy pretending her “Friends” weren't dirty, backwoods savages, simply so she wouldn't be alone or with Whiskers all day.
From day one, Whiskers had been a creep, slowly grooming her. Brandy saw through it immediately but what could she do? She had no one & nowhere to go. Whiskers had been a pervert since they met, close to 5 years ago, when Brandy was 12. It had been subtle but Brandy caught him glancing at her ass & looking up at her tits whenever he was close to her. Despite being 3 times her age, Whiskers was less than half her height, not counting his ears.
It had been like this the whole first season of their show. Brandy had brought up her discomfort to her mother/manager, but was brushed off with a quick- “You’re imagining it”- Brandy’s mother chose the money over her daughter’s happiness. In her own head, the Botox-preserved trophy dog, named Trophy, justified her own inaction with the thought.
“If the studio didn’t want that to happen, they wouldn’t have hired a dude in his 30s to play a 7-year-old.”- Trophy’s own dreams had been a failure; she wouldn’t let her second chan- er, daughter, fail too.
During the first season, Whiskers didn’t try anything, no inappropriate touching, & nothing less than appropriate conversation. Just some inappropriate staring, & some slight personal space issues. If anything, Whiskers was much the Gentleman with a charming wit & a smooth voice. It made Brandy feel much more comfortable, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something felt unnatural and artificial.
For her part, Trophy was glad her daughter had stopped whining. This show was a lifeline & god knows they needed the money. Thirteen years ago, Trophy had been a young, dumb 19-year-old stripper & aspiring singer living in Daytona Beach, Florida, working to make ends meet while pursuing her music. A small-town girl with good looks & big dreams, looking to make it in the big city; & everything came crashing down on a slow Saturday in August.
Sitting at a table, Trophy growled in frustration, wearing a black sequin bikini. The blonde dog with the double-G’s had made very little money that night, thanks to some dumb religious holiday. Downtrodden & annoyed, Trophy was about to call it a night when a handsome chocolate lab sat down at her table. He bought a lap dance & since the place was dead, Trophy spent her whole shift with the guy, making close to $ 400. The whole time, they drank & talked together; the lab proclaimed that he was a music producer in town on business. As her shift was ending, the now extremely drunk Trophy found herself propositioned by the man, asking her if she’d like to head over to his hotel room.
For a moment, Trophy hesitated, sure, she’d slept with the clientele before, why not? The sex felt good & she was making money, besides, she always used protection. But that was with regulars, guys she’d scouted out, making sure they weren’t disgusting &/or creeps. But this guy was a music producer & he was offering 500 bucks making $900 total, enough for rent, gas, groceries, & pot. Shrugging her shoulders, Trophy agreed, the guy didn’t seem like a psycho, what's the worst that could happen?
The worst that could happen was Trophy stupidly getting drunker & drunker on wine, then cheap beer. The worst that could happen was Trophy not running at the first sight of the Lab’s monstrous bull cock. The worst that could happen was Trophy not backing out the moment she saw how old & yellowed his condom looked. The worst that could happen was Trophy stifling her screams as the massive bull cock split her open, stretching & even slightly tearing her labia. The worst that could happen was Trophy taking it as the Lab rutted her like an animal, slamming against her cervix like a hammer, stretching her love tunnel to fit his girth. The worst that could happen was the Lab keeping this up for almost an hour. The worst that could happen was Trophy feeling the bull cock bottom out as it breached her cervix & rammed her womb. The worst that would happen was Trophy, her eyes narrowing to pinpricks, feeling the Lab’s cock swell, his balls tighten, & him unleashing a howl as he sprays a torrent of cum. The worst that could happen was the feeling of burning goo inside Trophy as the old condom burst, flooding her womb with vile, viral mutt seed & attacking a defenseless Ova. The worst that could happen was the extremely drunk Trophy passing out moments later, allowing the Lab to clean up & slip out unnoticed, satisfied at victimizing another sucker.
In the morning, Trophy awoke with a splitting headache & a bad hangover. Blinking rapidly, it took several seconds for her vision to clear & several more before she could think straight. Only then did the events of last night come flooding back, & horror welled up inside of Trophy. Horror quickly turned to anger as Trophy quickly pulled her phone out of her purse, grabbed the business card the lab gave her from her panties, and she quickly dialed. Out of service, frowning, Trophy tried again, but nothing. She didn’t understand; the lab had given her that card after she had sung to him. He loved her voice & wanted her to record with him. Why would? The numb realization struck Trophy like a cluster migraine; the lab wasn’t really a music producer, he’d just said that to better his chances of sleeping with her.
Already several hours outside the city, the lab smirked, he couldn’t believe how easy that was. All he needed to do was pretend to be a music producer, act nice, & put up with th at dumb bitches singing. Honestly, she wanted to be a singer. That dumb bitch sounded like a slutty Fran Drescher. Well, whatever, it was worth it, he’d gotten the bitch in bed with him & there was no way that breeding didn’t take, bitch had just started her heat. Maybe pregnancy would suit her? He knew her tits would get bigger, painfully so. Personally, he hoped she’d get obese, that pregnancy would wreak havoc on her. There was nothing he liked better than ruining stripper lives.
Chapter #2: Well, the breeding definitely took. A few days after Trophy gave up on tracking the lab down (she never saw him again), she started experiencing morning sickness. One pink stick later & it was official Trophy was having a mutt’s bastard.
Fortunately, the club owners, a very sweet elderly lesbian cat couple, had no issues with Trophy working there while pregnant. Still, they did have a policy of no dancers with young children, as it was deemed too great a risk of a travesty occurring, much to Trophy’s chagrin. Her breasts started ballooning in size almost immediately, as the lab expected. It got so bad that after like a month, Trophy was buying bigger bras & bikinis every week. After that, she reluctantly began wearing nipple pasties as several of the other large women did. Extremely sore & tender to the touch, Trophy’s dances devolved to mostly walking around the pole in an egregiously slutty manner. Predictably, Trophy’s weight began to skyrocket as her pregnancy progressed but it wasn’t all baby weight. While a massive taunt ball was growing off Trophy’s chest, the rest of her was keeping pace. Seemingly unable to stop eating, Trophy swelled up like a blimp, her soft skin lumpy & squishy to the touch from all the fat beneath it. Rolls growing to smother & cover up other rolls, legs so fat they pressed together like a trunk. Arms with bingo wings so big they blew in the wind & created drag. A large dust ruffle of fat skirted around the bottom of Trophy’s huge stomach & hung down to cover the massive FUPA pushing up against it.
Wearing pasties & white bikini bottoms long stained brown that showed off her pockmarked cellulite ass. The morbidly obese, 9-month-pregnant Tropy, walked slowly around the pole, sweating like a flood & panting from the mild activity. She hated being up there, her feet hurt, walking made her sweat, she looked gross & despite being huge her bikini bottoms dug tightly into her flesh, fat spilling over the sides, almost covering them from view. Holding back tears, the 450 lbs dog knew the clientele was here to laugh at her; they didn’t find her sexy, no one thought she was talented, she was a freak, a spectacle. The upside was that Trophy went from making $500 on a good night to making over a grand on the regular. That's why she continued to do it. Hell, she only knew what she weighed because everyone was betting on it & Trophy made a dollar for every pound. Nine months in, she’d made over a million dollars except:
1.) Trophy never kept track of how much she was making &
2.) blew almost every dollar she got.
Whether it was on the massive amounts of food she consumed, the new, bigger condo & the parties she threw, or just the gaudy overpriced clothes she wore, (The ruined bottom’s Trophy had on where part of a 40k bikini set, the top half of which she couldn’t even wear.) Beyond that, it was gaudy designer jumpsuits to cover up her gross body & gaudy jewelry to distract from her massive size. After everything, Trophy was still a dumb bitch who no longer wore condoms while she fucked, not seeing a reason. All in all, Trophy had about 60k in savings, instead of over a million.
That night at the club was going like any other; Trophy was glad her session was almost up. Beyond her normal discomfort, her stomach was killing her for some reason. It hadn’t felt right since that morning but it was too dumb to put two & two together. Trophy took some Pepto & did her best to ignore it. Fortunately, the pain was worth it; she’d made a killing that night. But just as her last song was finishing, a ripple of pain shot through Trophy’s stomach, causing her to groan and double over, holding her stomach. Another ripple dropped her as the crowd went from cheering to gasping, to silent & confused, to laughing as a third ripple hit Trophy & a spray of greasy fluids soaked her ruined bottom. She’d just gone into Labor & everyone was laughing at her.
Well, a quick call to 911 & an ambulance ride later, Trophy was in stirrups on a hospital bed, completely naked as no hospital gown could fit her huge frame. Her fat leg rolls were taped up so her browning, used pussy could be roughly shaved & accessed, & her massive tits were held up by cuffs hanging from the ceiling. Eighteen hours later, Trophy was holding the crying Brandy, named after her favorite drink, the drink that had started this whole mess.
After that, everything began to go downhill. Unable to strip now that Brandy was born, Trophy had to pick up shifts bartending instead. Now, while the owners paid her $19 an hour & she still got tips, it was nothing close to what she used to make. The clientele’s new toy syndrome had evidently worn off. Unable to afford her lavish lifestyle on her now meager earnings, Trophy scaled back massively but was still hemorrhaging her savings. Her pay barely covered babysitting & food much less the mortgage or bills. For that reason, Trophy got Brandy into baby modeling, & figured she was a cute kid, so she might as well. It's not like she hadn’t met multiple legit producers in her unconventional 15 minutes of fame.
Well low & behold that idea worked, & baby Brandy was modeling diapers, baby clothes, & life insurance before she could walk. Miracle ass-pull that it was, Brandy’s job was enough to pay the mortgage & utilities. Brandy didn’t see much of her mother in her first formative years. With both of them having jobs & her mother working at night, Brandy spent most of her time with a handful of sitters. That changed at age 5 when Brandy’s career began getting more lucrative, prompting Trophy to quit bartending & become her daughter's manager full-time. Trophy had changed a lot in 5 years. Miraculously, she lost the weight (liposuction & spoiled white-girl meth) though she still suffered from stretch marks, lots of loose skin, cellulite, ass dimples, & she just couldn’t get rid of rolls on the back of her legs. Beyond that, Trophy’s breasts shrank some but sagged a lot, leaving her stuck wearing a huge old-lady bra, something she hated, growing up her whole life despising becoming older and undesirable. That, & the fact that the Trophy was stuck with cheap velvet or nylon tracksuits, contributed heavily to her chip on the shoulder, 'the world owes me' attitude. The Karen-pixie cut sealed the deal.
For the next 4 years, Trophy took Brandy across the country, landing whatever acting gigs they could find. Despite treating almost everyone as if they were beneath her, Trophy made a genuine effort to be a good parent to Brandy, even if her bad tendencies were starting to rub off on her. The problem was, that Trophy was still a narcissistic idiot who thought she knew everything & was better than everyone. Combine that with being 24, feeling like a failure, & needing to live vicariously through a child she saw as a mini-me & you have a recipe for disaster.
Disaster struck a few months after Brandy’s 10th birthday. Her modeling jobs had mostly dried up, a few here & there but Trophy was once again tapping into her savings to meet travel expenses. It was hectic, & Trophy was a bit panicked but she had a plan. At the time, Tween pop stars were all the rage, following the model of Hanna Montanna, Ashly Tisdale, Britny Spears, Lindsey Lohan, ETC… In Trophy’s mind, she figured Brandy was cute & blonde, what the worst that could happen?
After a few months of singing lessons & Trophy “cashing in some favors”, Brandy had gigs as a backup Singer/ Dancer. Once again, Trophy’s weird luck held. This lasted for a solid 8 months until January, a few months before Brandy’s 11 birthday. At that time, Brandy had done another modeling job as part of her music career. Doing a “bad girl” style photo shoot, it was Brandy in a pink Adidas half-jacket, matching pink booty shorts, & $Inc flip-flop pumps. Squatting in a position that popped her booty out towards the camera, Brandy looked over her shoulder making bedroom eyes & a pouty face, so simple, yet it would change everything.
Chapter#3: Having thought very little about the photo shoot outside the money & a new outfit for Brandy, Trophy was shocked when the ad blew up, the photo was everywhere & everyone was talking about Brandy, including one Anthro who just couldn’t get enough, framing in & hanging it on the wall of his trailer.
With dollar signs in her eyes, Trophy’s first thought was to cash in on the ads, attempting to launch Brandy’s solo music career, burning a lot of bridges in the process. This culminated in Brandy’s first & only album, Pink Party! Using the ad photo as the album cover. Well, through the miracle that is fad trends, a pop album of a tween in leather signing risque slut songs made platinum. Things were good for a while after that, The money was rolling in & Trophy could get back to the life she loved, leather, parties, & drugs. On the flip side, Brandy was getting everything she ever wanted & was loving all the attention and popularity. She was a nice girl, very sweet but was rapidly developing a bratty demanding personality, quick to anger when she didn’t get her own way. Things were good for roughly a year until the fad ended, & Brandy’s album sales tanked… off a cliff. Having spent most of the year parting, Trophy was caught off guard, unprepared for Brandy to lose the limelight.
A second album was rushed to market but was critically panned & saw few sales. Trophy tried to rekindle old relationships in the music & modeling industries but meaningful, steady work failed to materialize. Leaving Trophy & Brandy hopping from one odd job to another as they struggled to make ends meet. It seemed Trophy’s monkey paw luck had finally run dry. But then there was a lifeline, an old client, a literal fat cat who had a thing for Trophy. A producer for low-budget kid's cartoons, he was more than willing to work with a faded child star & a retired stripper Karen. Sending over a script for a kid’s sitcom almost as soon as he & Trophy got off the phone.
It was about this time that Trophy got Botox. After years of watching her face grow grooves & baggy eyes, so old, so tired, & always insecure about her looks & age, she needed something to regain some feeling of control. She’d now looked somewhat younger, though her cheekbones looked weird as if her face was stretched out rather than rejuvenated. Her lips were thicker & her jawline retouched, it was enough… for now at least.
The show, whose working title was Claira & Whiskers, had a simple premise: a girl & her pet bunny going on wacky adventures, usually learning a lesson of some kind in the process, while keeping the focus on the slapstick & gags. It was cheap, quick to produce, & filled a time slot. It wasn’t glamorous or star-making, but it was a steady paycheck.
Season 1 consisted of 13 episodes. The show, renamed Brandy & Mr. Whiskers, performed about as well as expected, even better in the 4-12 female market. Brandy’s name recognition, though not very big, was a nice boost to an otherwise 4/7 show. Unfortunately, this left Brandy a niche, early internet micro-celebrity, someone only famous in a small, relatively obscure fandom. This served to make Brandy a bigger brat, unable to handle not getting her way & affronted when anyone talked back to her. The effect on Brandy’s mental health was evident. But her mother’s greed left her blind to it & the producer was the kind of man who would hire a perv like Whiskers. Currently working on a kids’ show to “wash” his image after his… “unusual” comments some months ago, after a hiatus.
After a paid month off, thanks to high DVD sales, filming for season 2 started. Winter in FL, but summer in the southern hemisphere. Brandy & Mr. Whiskers season 2 would kick off with a bang. A 1-hour special that would start with Brand & Whiskers parachuting into the Amazon, a few hours outside of Rio. Trophy & Brandy had reservations at first, mostly to do with parachuting without a certified guide but some smooth talk from the producer & some fat stacks made everything copacetic.
With travel plans taken care of, Brandy, Trophy, & Mr. Whiskers were off to Brazil. After a few days in Rio, a fan meet & greet, celebrating Brandy’s 14th birthday, & filming some B-roll in the city; Brandy & Mr. Whiskers were on a plane & soaring over the jungle. It wasn’t until a day later that the public learned that their plane dropped off the radar & went radio silent over the Amazon River. It was originally planned for the rescue services to hold the news from the public, but rumors got to some journalists who leaked the rescue operation. And now it was everywhere as an international tragedy, as a 14-year-old pop star & actress was now missing in the dangerous Amazon. The news hit her mother the worst, as she couldn’t believe her daughter was alone in the jungle if she didn’t die on impact. Fortunately, Brandy & Mr. Whiskery survived the crash, but the pilot did not. Furthermore, the plane crashed in one of the numerous deep ponds found in the northern regions of the Amazon, far from civilization. Having jumped when it became clear the plane was going down, Brandy & Mr. Whiskers watched in dismay as the plane disappeared, below the water. The first thing Brandy did was cry from the shock, she didn’t fully understand what was happening but it scared her & she knew this wasn’t part of the show. Whiskers, well he saw it as an opportunity. All alone, with a child full of despair, surrounded by massive walls of solid jungle. With no cameras, fans, or producers following every step of his cotton tail for the next controversial take, he would inevitably have.
The next 3 years went by in a blur, every attempt Brandy & Whiskers made at rescue failed, & they went on Actual crazy adventures as they navigated the day-to-day of their new lives. The pair made new friends & became part of the community, slowly but surely learning life wasn’t so bad. Most of the bad habits Brandy got from her mother, she unlearned rather quickly, having a nasty attitude when she didn’t get her way didn’t get her very far without devoted fans. Maybe it was for the better. Brandy became a much nicer, caring dog after learning a few hard lessons. To Brandy’s dismay, she learned why Whiskers seemed so fake, the sophisticated suave rabbit was an act, & the wacky, unhinged bunny he played on TV was as real as it got, which lined up for the almost satirical scandals he would get in now & again, articles so nonsensical, things Mr. Whiskers only could get away with before the rise of social media.
For Whiskers, all this was a dream come true; it was his chance to get closer to the cutie he got to work with without others third-wheeling their fun. It was a slow process but Whiskers slowly but surely became a trusted friend & a source of stability & comfort, even more so because of the intense situation Brandy was going through. Such a young girl, far away from everything she ever knew, thinking she’d die without seeing her mother again. The problem was, that it became apparent to Brandy that Whiskers had a crush on her, or what Brandy’s young brain comprehended as a crush at the time. It made her uncomfortable, more so as she & Whiskers inevitably grew closer out of necessity. Brandy started off too uncomfortable & embarrassed to tell Mr. Whiskers she didn’t have feelings for him. Then too guilty later on. Whiskers was aware of this but he saw it as an advantage rather than a reason to stop. But Whiskers wasn’t a monster, he wouldn’t do anything until Brandy was legal, that would be wrong. He’d just psychologically conditioned her to trust & depend on him for years until she was legal & willingly submitted to him, perfectly above board. It worked too, Brandy couldn’t say no to him, & couldn’t tell him to stop. She knew he was doing it, she hated it, but she couldn’t stop it. Day by day, bit by bit, Brandy found herself belonging to Mr. Whiskers more & more.
Over the next 3 years, Brandy developed into a young woman much the same as her mother in her youth. A fact that dismayed Brandy as she blamed her mother for ending up like this & didn’t want to think of her every time she looked in the mirror. At 17 the shapely blonde dog had a lithe body full of hard-coiled muscle from life in the jungle. Despite her low-fat, high-protein diet, Brandy sported a massive bubble butt & Double-C breasts. She was a smoke show, & Brandy knew it. She adored the fact that all the boys flirted with her & all the girls were jealous of her, she may hate her mother but god damn she used to be good-looking. The downside was, again, that her looks only served to make Whiskers want her more. Now, Brandy knew what sex was; she had “Friends” her age, they talked about it, some had it, & Brandy wasn’t so ignorant as to not learn what it was. She’d never had it, Brandy didn’t want to, she really had no interest in her friends or neighbors, & certainly not with Whiskers. But more than that, Brandy still hoped to get rescued one day; she feared that if she became too ingrained in the jungle, she’d never leave. But if Whiskers asked her to, ordered her to have sex with him, Brandy feared she wouldn’t be able to deny him, not for long, at least.
It was a week before Brandy’s 17th birthday when Whiskers pushed the beds together. Despite technically being “winter”, the jungle weather was sweltering. Brandy was down at the river bathing under the waterfall, trying to wash her fur while watching out for anyone trying to watch her. More than once Brandy caught someone watching her & suspected more than once she didn’t. Stepping out from under the falls & out of the river, Brandy quickly dried her fur & her hair, looking wistfully at a small rapid a few yards away. That was where the plane hit the water; she & Whiskers had traveled a day & a half to find the crash site. When the plane hit the water it splintered, sending most of the plane crashing into the jungle & burying the cockpit in mud. Thankfully the river was rather shallow; otherwise, Brandy doubted she & Whiskers would’ve noticed it.
With the help of the locals, they’d recovered as much as they could from the wreckage, salvaging plane parts to build a shelter & carve out the rather modest life they lived now. Getting dressed, Brandy’s outfit consisted of a simple, makeshift bikini with a pink & black spot pattern. With her large assists, it was easier than trying to make new shirts & pants every few weeks.
Chapter#4: Once Brandy returned to the treehouse, she found Whiskers sweeping the floor, kicking up a surprising amount of dust. Brandy kept the place quite clean. It only took a moment to notice why Whiskers had pushed his & Brandy’s beds together in the center of the room, directly in front of the TV. A large bedspread covered the beds. Proof this wasn’t just to clean under them.
“Whiskers, wh- wh-what's this?”- Brandy asked in a shaky voice moments after she saw it.
“Oh, I just figured pushing the beds together was a good way to make room for… other things.”- Whiskers, manic, childish, voice took on a smug, teasing tone as he said the last part. The 40-year-old rabbit no longer attempted to hide the fact that he was eye-fucking Brandy, unabashedly staring at her tits, ass, & crotch. Often rubbing her shoulders or patting her ass, Mr. Whiskers didn’t care how many times Brandy caught him sniffing her dirty underwear; he wasn’t going to stop.
“O-oh… you think we need more room?”- Brandy’s heart sank; she instantly thought of a crib, then 2, one on either side of the room. Mr. Whiskers was gonna do it; he was going to have sex with her. The thought filled her with dread.
“Yeah, I figured it was about time, I mean, corner beds are kids’ stuff.”- The way Whiskers was speaking, his shit-eating grin, Brandy had seen it before; she was about to go into heat.
“You don’t mind, do you?”- Brandy wanted so much to say yes.
“Y… No, I don’t mind.”- Brandy just couldn’t do it, & she hated herself for it.
The coming days seemed to drag by as mortifying fear filled Brandy, growing worse by the day. Mr. Whiskers threw her a surprise party on her 17th birthday. Brandy returned home that afternoon from fruit hunting, a deep pit of dread filling her stomach. She’d seen Mr. Whiskers cock before; it wasn’t very big but she still didn’t want it inside her. Opening the door, Brandy was bemused to find the inside dark. Turning on the lights, Brandy nearly screamed when her friends yelled surprise, standing up from behind the furniture, & Whiskers was standing in front of a massive cake. Brandy forced a smile as she pretended to be happy, thanking her friends for the surprise. Sweets & greasy food wreaked havoc on Brandy’s stomach & intestines. Whiskers knew this; he knew Brandy didn’t like surprises. He’d just wanted to upset her & do it in such a way that she couldn’t express her displeasure.
The party lasted late into the evening, Brandy had no choice but to pretend to have fun & despite her best efforts; Brandy ate much more of the rich coconut cake than she cared to remember. After the party, Whiskers cleaned up while Brandy spent the next two hours turning the toilet bowl into a molten hellscape. Which led to a pitch-dark bath in the river, Brandy didn’t care if anyone was watching as she tried to soothe her burning anal cavity. When she returned home, Brandy went straight to bed without saying anything, just wanting the day to end. Whiskers climbed in after her, lying behind her. Whiskers wrapped his small body around Brandy’s back. Terrified Whiskers would try to fuck her, Brandy tried to stay awake but exhaustion soon overtook her & Brandy slipped into a fitful sleep. That's when the nightmare began.
Brandy was lying on the bare mattresses, the heat was sweltering & a thick smell of sickness, pus, & rot filled the air. Flies buzzed in the thick, green miasma that saturated the room. Brandy’s body felt heavy & sore, everything below her waist burned, culminating in her pussy. Every breath was labored, lungs feeling compressed as if a great weight pressed down upon them. Ears ringing, Brandy heard a disorderly cavalcade of crying, yelling, & whining filling the room. She smelt rot, filth, old grease, old urine, dirty genitals, old shit, fresh shit, & a whole dumpster's worth of smells between.
“You’re doing great, kitten!”- A husky voice said from Brandy’s left. Turning her head, Brandy’s face was inches from the bloated purple genitals of an obese rabbit smelling of death. Smegma dripping from his bloated cock, Whisker's fur was stained yellow from grease & shone in the light. Beyond him, Brandy nearly choked at the sight of a dozen rabbit-dog mixes. All ranged from chubby to obese, from babies to tweens, & Brandy’s dread, from not pregnant to about to drop. Brandy didn't know how she knew they were pregnant; she just did.
“You’re doing great, don’t forget to push.”- Attention snapping back to Whiskers, Brandy tried to ask him- “the fuck.”- Instead, Brandy let out a low moan as sharp pain spiked in her stomach & crotch, & despite her best efforts, she began to push.
It was then Brandy realized, the thing pressing down on her body was her massive stomach. She realized her labored breathing was her multiple chins compressing her windpipe, & the painful weight pulling her towards the floor was her massive, bloated, mutant nipple breasts. Brandy realized she was giving birth. Unleashing a primal wail, Brandy’s morbidly obese body thrashed, rancid sludge sprayed from her bloated nipples as she begged for death. Death never came; however, the baby did, after a lot of pushing, grunting, pain, sobbing, begging to stop, & a loud pop, new high-pitched crying joined the discourse. Carrying the newborn into Brandy’s line of sight, Brandy screamed at the sight of the puppy Whiskers held, a white puppy, newborn but already chubby, its stomach had the hard and unmistakable bulge of pregnancy. Just as she felt another start to descend, the screaming Brandy awoke with a start.
That happened every night for a week, every time Brandy awoke in a cold sweat, & every time she found her pajama pants soaked in a sticky fluid. That night her heat had started & Brandy didn’t sleep the rest of the night because of it. She looked around in the dark room. Mr. Whiskers was hugging her from behind, his paws enveloping her belly like a belt. She was showing a bit of belly, but she needed to pinch it to actually notice. The room was so warm and Whisker’s hug really wasn’t helping her. She could feel him tightly pressed against her butt, his bulge twitching lightly. Too afraid of waking Whiskers up. Brandy lay still as a statue for the rest of the night, praying for safety.
Sipping a cup of water & watching the stars, as Brandy thought back to that first night a week ago, she wondered why Whiskers hadn’t tried anything yet. She was glad he hadn’t, make no mistake but she wondered why. Her heat had been going on for a week, Whiskers knew that better than she did but he just kept rubbing up against her & trying to keep her in sight. Brandy’s heat would reach its apex tomorrow. After that Whiskers would’ve missed his shot; there was a small window for breeding hybr-. Brandy stopped mid-sip as she instantly realized Whiskers’s plan. He was waiting until tomorrow, when her heat was strongest, giving him his best chance to conceive. Cold fear began coursing through Brandy’s veins, turning the sweltering night air to ice. She couldn’t let that happen, even if she could say no, Whiskers would just force her, despite his small size he had the strength of a grown man. No, if Brandy wanted to avoid living her nightmare, she had to escape.
Disheartened, Brandy put her cup in the sink, but how could she escape? She & Whiskers had tried everything, & she couldn’t just go running off into the jungle at night, she’d end up dead or worse. No, she had to think of something new, something she’d never thought to try before. Maybe she could rebuild the plane? No that wasn’t it, a hot air balloon? There wasn’t time; maybe the emergency distress signal would do something? It was a long shot; she & Whiskers hadn’t bothered to try it, what good was a box that instantly sent out your location & a signal to be rescued via a direct satellite feed to the nearest military base? It was crazy but Brandy had to try something, if only to say she tried.
Chapter#5: Sneaking over to the curio cabinet, Brandy undid the latch, eyes gilded by moonlight. Reaching inside, she grabbed the small gray box with a single red button & an antenna on top next to a small indicator light, the word “Distress Signal” written down the side. Taking a deep breath, Brandy hit the button. The box lit up with a red light to indicate it had turned on, then changed to yellow, and the message was being broadcast. A moment later, the light turned green, signaling that the signal had been received. Brandy wondered “Now what?” for an instant before the treehouse was lit up brighter than the sun with a strident noise & a gust of wind, as an American SWAT team climbed down in ropes on helicopters down the basin into their home. They carried first aid, checked the place & grabbed Brandy, rushing her out; she was, after all, a former minor celebrity after all. Mr. Whiskers quickly came back into role after three years, pretending he was so glad the rescue teams finally arrived, thanking them so much as he kneeled crying, when he was actually seething that he missed his chance with Brandy. But there was no point in it; he’d have to trash his plan and go back to civilization. Sitting in the helicopter after being checked for injuries & infections (they held up really well after being stranded for three years), Brandy looked out the window as the jungle canopy she had called home reluctantly for years zoomed out & shrank with distance, seeing how huge the rainforest was as it extended for thousands of miles into a green tapestry. They were going first to Brazil, then taking a trip back to Florida, & then they could finally call this adventure over.
Stateside, Brandy was placed in a waiting car at the airport and sped off. She looked out the window, watching as the airport, the life she’d known for three years, & Whiskers shrank into the background. Oddly enough, Brandy wasn’t taken to the home she’d known; hell, she wasn’t even in the same city. Instead, Brandy found herself in a gated seaside community. Full of manicured lawns, the cookie-cutter McMansions looked nice but to Brandy, they seemed fake & artificial, just like Whiskers when they first met.
The car pulled up to the last house in the exact middle of a deep cul-de-sac, bigger than the rest, with a brick walkway instead of a limestone one. Noise could be heard inside & kids' toys littered the lawn. Brandy got out, staring up in bewilderment, the car sped away before Brandy thought to ask any questions. She carried a small suitcase with her, a cheap one that had an extra set of clothes she had purchased in Brazil before her return. It was nothing fancy, but it was better than being naked or dressed like Tarzan. Heading up the walk, Brandy hesitantly knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect.
Several sets of footsteps, coming & heavy, gradually grew louder as they approached the door. Opening the door was the fattest woman Brandy had ever seen. Easily 500 lbs, wearing a huge gown, big enough to actually cover her, sporting huge legs barely smaller than the custom door frame. Dressed in a stained muumuu a blonde dog stood in front of Brandy, her face bloated & distorted by fat & botox. Her breasts were so large & sagging, almost competing, yet falling behind her ass in width, with one of her fat arms holding something bulging out below her shirt and the other one rubbing her heavy belly as she struggled to breathe. Brandy was barely processing what stood in front of her when she was snapped back to the present as the dog Yapped: “Well, the hell do you want?” And if Brandy was being honest, not even she knew. She saw the dog’s floppy ears, her eyes, & some of the roots of her hair below her very plastic & glimmering gold locks. Then it finally hit her, it was Trophy! She finally found her mom after three years! Upon this realization, Brandy almost broke down & went to hug the huge woman, sobbing as she felt her fat belly, soft like a deflated mattress, yet oddly firm, then the smells of her mom hit her, & then the annoyed woman’s protests wanting an explanation, & then, squirms under her shirt, below her massive boob, as big as her head. Gagging, Brandy let go of the angry woman, too busy yapping to close the door on the stranger’s snout. Brandy began to tear up, overwhelmed by the situation, only stuttering: “M-mom?”, she had to repeat it louder a couple of times just to get through Trophy’s thick skull, then add “Mom, it’s me! It’s Brandy! You remember me?!”, really starting to sob as it finally clicked into her mom’s dense brain & the yelling stopped after all these years. Her daughter was alive. She then hugged her with her huge arm, her bingo wing covering her as she began to cry on the door frame. This joyful reunion took a good while before a deep voice inside called. “Are you ok dear? Who’s at the door?” This made Trophy snap back to reality and ask her daughter to come inside with her belongings. Brandy admired the new place her mom was living in, it was quite big & adapted to her huge frame, the living room had a big TV (for 2008 standards) in front of a curved couch with a huge crater on it, which would quickly be filled by Trophy, sitting down as she lifts her shirt, revealing a big Doberman baby suckling from her. Brandy stared for a good minute or two, still processing, watching her mom’s obese body naked, breastfeeding her two-year-old half-sister she’d just learned she had.
“Trophy, who’s at the door?” The deep voice sounded annoyed now, clearly not used to being ignored. In walked the fat-cat TV producer in charge of Brandy’s show. Brandy didn’t know the story but that Doberman wasn’t his cub.
“Trophy, I asked you a question, don’t ignore…. Oh, hay!!”- The producer’s demanding tone faltered, switching from scolding to an awkward greeting the moment he saw Brandy.
“...Hi…”- Brandy responded in a small voice, as shocked to see him as he was her. Brandy has never cared for the producer; he felt slimy & creepy, like the worst parts of her mom made manifest, & his shows sucked. But Brandy’s surprise quickly faded; this whole situation wasn’t surprising. It had been evident that the show was Brandy’s last chance at stardom, & her mother had bet the farm on it. Brandy was her meal ticket after all. Once Brandy was declared missing, Trophy was left spiraling, grasping at whatever straws she could to keep her feet from the flame, refusing to be a failure.
“It’s so good to see you! We were so worried!”- Almost instantly, the fat cat producer switched to shmooze mode, already trying to suck up to Brandy. Internally, he was celebrating his good luck. He’d made sure the bitches plane had gone down in the Amazon with that psycho-predator rabbit but here the brat was, standing in his living room. He didn’t care how Brandy survived the crash; he was just glad she did, because, in his short-sightedness, the producer hadn’t thought to use Brandy as Trophy’s replacement until it was too late. - “Isn’t that right dear?”- Mr. Producer purposely laced his hand with Trophy’s bloated, sausage fingers. Brandy doubted her mother could form a fist if she wanted 2. His plan had been almost perfect: remove Brandy from the picture, save Trophy from a miserable spiral into bankruptcy, & STEP 3: profit, albeit at the loss of Brandy. Truthfully, the producer had fallen in love with Trophy the moment he saw her morbidly obese waddle slowly around the pole. Roughly, half the money Trophy made from pregnant stripping was from him & the producer knew he had to have her.
When Brandy was born, the producer was heartbroken, seeing his beloved Trophy forced behind the bar. This only got worse once Trophy quit, losing weight & betting on her daughter's budding stardom to pay her bills. That was a hurt too far & when the producer thought up his plan in earnest. So it was gratifying to see Brandy’s music career burn bright & quickly, leaving her & Trophy in the vulnerable position he needed.
Once Brandy disappeared & the show was canceled, Mr. Producer quickly became a source of strength & comfort for Trophy, a shoulder to cry on, she took gladly. From there, it was as simple as paying Trophy’s bills, funding her extravagant lifestyle, moving her in with him & popping the question once Trophy had no choice but to accept. Ironically, Trophy had believed she’d been the one pulling the strings, getting this fat old simp to do whatever she said & buy her whatever she wanted. Right up until he popped the question, Trophy realized she had no feasible choice but to accept, having grown entirely dependent on the fat cat for her lifestyle. It was a weird feeling, Trophy discovered, to realize you’d lost control of your life & were at the mercy of another to uphold said life. Trophy didn’t like it.
Chapter#6: The first thing the producer did was work to get Trophy fat again, putting the blond dog on a 10k-calorie-a-day diet of nothing but saturated fats, cholesterol, & high-fructose corn syrup. Trophy didn’t even realize he was doing it either, until one day, Trophy, having just finished five deluxe shit-burgers, rocked herself off the couch & realized two things: 1) she was sweating from simply eating & standing up, no, it wasn’t the Florida heat. 2.) Her noticeable muffin top had become a certifiable gut, spilling over the waistband of her pink stretch pants & down towards her crotch, blocking Trophy’s view of her freshly painted nails. Ever since the producer had outfoxed her, Trophy’s mind had felt sluggish & slow, not realizing she was being tricked or manipulated until it was too late.
One year after Brandy had disappeared, Trophy had gained 100 pounds. Her Juicy sweatpants barely fit over her cellulite-covered, dimple-filled ass. Her small gut had become a small blanket of flesh hanging off her small frame. Her tit’s had swollen up to the point that Trophy’s normal bra squeezed her so tight, pockets of fat oozed out from around the sides. Most days, Trophy no longer wore a bra, & if she had to, it was a shamefully maternity one. Beyond that, Trophy always felt sore & tired, her feet tingled & hurt, she sweated constantly, & had an annoying double chin. Now, one would think that 100 lbs in two months was good progress, but not for Mr. Producer; he wanted Trophy to be a near-immobile blob & he wanted it now! It was evident that he had to get her pregnant; the producer had wanted to wait, but Trophy’s disappointing growth rearranged his timetable. What came next was cruel, even for the producer but he loved it all the same.
Ordering Trophy to dress up for the club, Mr. Producer grinned as she came downstairs dressed in a black bra band that used to be a full shirt, a red leather skirt that couldn’t be zipped on the sides & bulged out the front trying to contain her gut, lest it hang over the front. Her fishnets had fat oozing through them & her flip-flops cut into her sausage toes, due to the outfit’s ahem, tightness, Trophy had to forgo a bra & wear a thong, things she suspected she would come to regret. Trophy looked so embarrassed, she hated how her body had changed after the pregnancy, & it was why she always wore jumpsuits. Everything she had on was from her clubbing days but none of it had fit properly since Trophy was 19. She hated this fact, but Mr. Producer loved it.
Already feeling embarrassed, Trophy’s shame only grew, when they arrived at the club 16-candles. She remembered this place; it was a club for young adults, with hot furries looking to get down & dirty. Thanks to its location, 16 Candles had gained a reputation for being where rich bitch’s go to spend daddy’s money & raise their tails, more than one shame-baby had been made in the club's bathroom.
Trophy honestly had fond memories of the place. Before she started stripping, Trophy had done escort work as a “Sugar-Baby”. She'd taken her “Dates” to 16 Candles a lot, looking to spend their money & hang out with the other girls doing the same thing. Now, looking up at the sign, all Trophy felt was dread, terrified that someone would recognize her, despite being 100+ pounds heavier & 14 years older. As the pair walked towards the door, it occurred to Trophy that, back when she was stripping, the fat cat producer had asked her out on several occasions. Even suggested 16 candles, trying to make it clear he wanted to be a sugar daddy but Trophy always had an excuse. Looking down at the old, balding, pot-bellied cat, Trophy wondered if this was a sick punishment for never going out with him.
Admittedly, Mr. Producer did feel a bit of schadenfreude, finally taking Trophy to 16 candles but this wasn’t revenge for the past; this was punishment for failing to meet expectations.
“More like 14 candles.”- Trophy thought glumly, the moment Mr. Producer opened the blackout door & the woosh of air washed over her, it became clear things had changed.
The music was louder, the lights dimmer, the DJ sleazier, & the clientele sluttier. The biggest change & what stuck out to Trophy the most, was that all the girls looked younger, significantly younger. 16 Candles had been a young adult club, a smattering of 18-19-year-olds, & the occasional underage fur who snuck or bribed their way in.
Now though, the average age looked to be 16, befitting the name, with a small selection of older anthro women keeping themselves separate from the rest of the crowd & chatting amongst themselves. Besides that, if Trophy was guessing the fading spot patterns right, there appeared to be a healthy mix of furs ranging from barely legal to as young as 8. She wasn’t sure; she’d fucked her way through high school, learning was for losers. Most of the girls Trophy saw, for that, is what they were, girls; they dressed in some of the most gaudy & revealing outfits Trophy had seen outside the strip club.
First & foremost, none of the clothing looked cheap or fake; these girls weren't wearing costume jewelry or knock-off brands; it was all real & all designer. Second, nothing the girls wore left much to the imagination, with microskirts, micro-shirts, and micro-shorts being the main highlights. Everywhere Trophy looked, girls were doing whatever to show off thongs or lack thereof, bras or lack thereof, or just bragging about being great in bed. A few were even trying the innocent native virgin routine, dragged to the club by friends, pretending not to know why everyone was being so nice to her & buying her drinks, fucking barf.
Following Mr. Producer deeper into the club, Trophy wasn’t shocked to see the degeneracy getting worse. Staring into the club's multiple shadowed corners, Trophy witnessed the normal making out but also bore witness to multiple fingerings, several hand-jobs, straight oral both ways, gay oral both ways, & even one lion cub who looked no older than 10, getting gaggle-fucked in a corner by the bathrooms. Firstly, everything north of making out was to be done in the single-occupancy bathroom or the handicapped stalls in the men's or women's rooms respectively. Secondly, Trophy had to crane her neck to get a good view of the fucking couple as Mr. Producer ushered her into a reserved booth. It was a lion cub. Trophy was sure of that but it was harder to tell what was fucking her. Her curiosity getting the best of her, Trophy excused herself, & waddled off towards the bathroom. The fucker as it were, turned out to be a morbidly obese old goat who looked to be in his mid-70s. Trophy recoiled a bit when she noticed his face resembled a pig more than a goat. Despite being less than 2 feet from them, neither acknowledged Trophy’s existence & everyone entering/exiting the bathrooms seemed not to notice the pair.
Observing the couple, Trophy assumed they had to be an escort couple, their differences in… everything were too wide a chasm to bridge otherwise. This wasn’t surprising; it was a known fact, at least in Trophy’s world, that barnyard animals, specifically livestock, loved hooking up with predators & carnivores. It hadn't been uncommon for Trophy’s “dates” to show her off, treating her like a literal Trophy. It was a power fantasy thing, subjecting those you envy as your betters. Rich predators simply got girls naturally.
From the look on the lion cub's face, she was experiencing pain, fear, regret, & longing to be anywhere but there all at once while simultaneously pretending she loved it. It was an expression Trophy had seen on many a “friend’s” face after they took that next step, moving past hand jobs & oral to actual fucking, be it a need for money, sexual thrill, or a bizarre crush. Most girls regretted it instantly, often quitting escorting entirely, falling off Trophy’s radar. The others, be it a genuine need or just a sex freak, burned bright but burned out fast. For a few weeks or months, all their bills would be paid, as well as for new clothes, cars, and other expenses. Even the girls who vehemently disliked escort sex admitted the perks seemed worth it. However, those girls tended to drop off the map just as quickly as they rose to prominence.
Oftentimes Trophy would see them around town, usually escorted by their husbands. Commonly fat to downright obese (a hard blow for the fitness fanatics), the girls seemed dead inside, eyes dull & lifeless, makeup done haphazardly, dressed either like a frumpy bitch, a slut in unflattering, ill-fitting designer clothes, or Floridan trailer trash. Looking at their wedding or engagement rings like nooses around their necks, Trophy found that if you talk to them, their voices had a dreamy almost ethereal quality to them but not a good dream, a waking nightmare, as if they were lost far away & couldn’t find their way back through a thick & misleading fog. The biggest tell though, was the massive pregnancy gut or young child the girls always sported & talked about like the child was the reason their life was ruined, often while a sugar-turned-baby daddy smiled smugly.
Those clients tended to have a massive cock, & it was apparent the old goat on the floor was no exception. When he pulled back to thrust, Trophy could see his bruised, purple-colored member was immensely wide & if the bulge inside the lion cub was any indication, just as long. Trophy also saw, as the lioness did her best not to cry, the goat was raw dogging her. She considered intervening at that point. It was clear that this goat was looking to mate with this 8-year-old cub, cubs making cubs as it were & there was no way a cub that young knew what they were getting into. But Trophy thought better of it; she doubted the lioness would express gratitude, and the goat-man for sure wouldn’t. If it weren’t tonight, it would be tomorrow or the next day. The lioness made her choices, whether she was capable of understanding them & their consequences, Trophy knew not but she hoped the cub could at least live with her actions, if not…
Lost in thought, Trophy didn’t snap back to reality until the Goat let out a bleat & the lioness a whimper as his dick swelled, balls contracted, & he unleashed a torrent of cum inside her. What exactly happened next, Trophy was not sure but with the smell of shit & the ripping of fabric, the lion cub lay on the ground, groaning as she seemingly gained several Lbs nearly instantly, all her clothes ripping from her tits expanding & her ass & hips growing. Once the goat got off her, the lioness struggled to her feet, panting from the effort, her new gut obvious with her crop top. & the pair disappeared into the crowd together.
Chapter#8: The bathroom’s Trophy came to find out it was absolutely quiet & spotless, a mockery & insult to the 16 candles established traditions. In any event, it gave the poor dog a moment to think & rest her sore knees. Exiting the bathroom & now knowing what to look for, Trophy scanned the club again. She found the lion cub almost instantly, sitting at a VIP table on the old goat's lap in the company of a variety of other old, fat barn animals, each with a girl on its lap. Around the same age as the lioness, each girl at the table was a predator; like the lioness, each girl was struggling to smile, pretending to be happy to maintain the illusion. Moreover, each girl was noticeably heavier than expected; their club clothes stretched tightly over small frames, some of which had to part fur, revealing angry red stretch marks as their skin struggled to contain their fat flesh. Almost as if the girls' bodies were too big for their frames, gaining weight at a pace that outstripped their muscular & skeletal system growth. A few of the girls' clothes looked as if they had been freshly ripped, as if they had suddenly gained weight almost instantly. Just like what Trophy had seen with the lioness, lending credibility to the idea she wasn’t just hallucinating or delusional. Swallowing hard, Trophy hoped that wasn’t the case.
Beyond that group, Trophy found her findings rang true across the club, much to her dismay. Many of the younger “dates” wore ill-fitting clothes incompatible with the shape & size of their bodies. All seemed uncomfortable & awkward in their movements, too much body on too little frame. What Trophy had taken for extreme sluttiness seemed to be clothes that no longer fit and revealed more than they were intended to. That's not to say a lot of girls weren't massive sluts still, just because your clothes didn’t fit, didn’t mean you had to shove your genitals in the face of anyone who walked by.
The older the clientele got, the less Trophy noticed this problem. The group of adult women, now talking to a pack of pugs over in their corner, looked perfectly proportioned, that is to say, no single aspect of their appearance was freakishly out of place compared to any other. Another thing Trophy noticed was that most of the girls looked drained, not emotionally, but like the youthfulness & vitality were slowly leaching out of them. Looking back towards the lioness, Trophy was shocked at how haggard & tired she looked, dried out & lacking energy, as if she had just worked a 12-hour shift as a Walmart cashier. The goat though, well he was practically glowing, looking like he felt fit enough to move a mountain. The other cubs & “dates” at the table looked much the same, respectively. Finally, at least a few girls, especially the youngest ones, sported stomachs that looked too firm & rounded just to be a gut. Dread creeping down her spine like ice, it occurred to Trophy that if Sugar-Babying had devolved into full-blown prostitution, then it wouldn’t be wholly uncommon for the girls to get pregnant, no matter the age, if the old goat wasn’t using a condom, odds are the other old furs weren't either.
Heading back to her booth, Trophy was still baffled at how 16 candles & the Sugar-Baby lifestyle devolved into this. The sad reality was that this was the desirable outcome. Being a sugar baby was great to start. Money, clothes, & cars from lonely men looking for attractive company. But it never lasts, the girls age, lose their looks, clients start demanding more & more for less & less, etc… leading to a spiral of aging girls tumbling down the hill of less lucrative clients, jumping from one to the other faster than the last & doing more just to make less. Eventually, it would reach a point where the type of clients & the perks one would get were worth less than the effort needed to get them. An entire industry summed up by a cost-sunk fallacy.
Trophy had been smart-ish, she realized escorting wasn’t for her, quit being a Sugar-Baby & started stripping, extending her looks & value by several years. But those who didn’t end up bitter & spiteful, filled with regrets & often trapped in relationships with kids they didn’t want. Be it trying to look like a trophy wife while raising some 80-year-old’s brat or as a single parent trying to make ends meet because they fucked some D-bag behind a bar after trying to down their sorrows, no Sugar-Baby got a happy ending. The best one could hope for, the best outcome, was a decent relationship, a steady job, & a family they didn’t constantly loathe, all while missing the money & regretting being a sudo-whore in an age where social media exists.
With those parents, 1 of 2 things happens: 1. The parent(s) (Mom(s)) secretly/ openly resent the kid, & blame their misery on said kid. Often pushing them to seek affection, attention, & validation from others; be it acting out, committing crimes, pushing themselves to be better than others, or dating rich old perverts for money, like mother like daughter. Option 2.) The parent(s) (Mom(s)) see their kid as a way to achieve all the things they never did. Pushing them to do whatever to reach fortune & fame while living vicariously through them cough, Trophy, cough. This, combined with a constant drag about how things used to be, how they were rich, just pushes furs younger & younger into the same, destructive, 'shine bright, burn fast' lifestyles. Resorting to drastic measures to stand out amongst an ever-growing crowd in an oversaturated industry, just to make money rocking an old pervert's jollies. It wasn’t helped that the upper 5% who mainly consumed these services, weren’t well aware of this destructive, multi-generational spiral; they encouraged it. Coercing girls, attractive or not into the industry with promises of money, & designer everything, just to ruin them. The girls, blinded by promises of everything they ever wanted, agree almost immediately, not realizing the industry’s dangers & how limited their futures are because of it. Artificially oversaturating the market to get girls willing to do more younger, having a sex pet in the single digits was no longer considered an oddity. Reaching the point where girls were getting bred like designer pets for pleasurable characteristics, an industry fueled by eugenics & using furs as currency.
Finding her booth, Trophy was surprised & somewhat alarmed to find Mr. Producer still sitting there, but now surrounded by a pack of Dobermans. Trophy hadn’t thought much about the club's male clientele because they hadn’t changed much. Rich perverts show off their hot (& now underage) pieces of ass, normal furs just out for drinks, sex pests & greasy pervs hitting on anything with a pulse & a vulva, & the college jocks & frat bros looking to score with model-level bombshells. The ratios may have changed but the guys remained the same & were not really worth taking note of. Though looking at the Dobermans, Trophy wished she had.
It was a well-known fact that Dobermans tended to be aggressive, pushy, short-tempered, overall low-class, & tended not to take no for an answer. It was also a well-known fact that Dobermans could interbreed with other dogs far more easily than with other species & mixed species pairings had no issues breeding any more than normal. For context, a Doberman could nut in Trophy’s thong & knock her up if she got a wedgie or simply sat down too hard.
“Ah you’re back” The producer said as a scared Trophy sat next to one of the large dogs.- “I’d like you to meet my associates, the Fallbrook University Chess Club.”
“H… Hi.”- Trophy squeaked out, still looking terrified & getting several grunts of acknowledgment & a few small waves in return. Trophy knew the producer had been upset with her over… something recently, & she knew guys like him were big into punishment. Would he throw her to the pack for it though?
Long story short: Mr. Producer would & did, though he at least got her drunk first. He & Trophy spent the whole evening, drinking, laughing, talking, & dancing like nothing was wrong. Soon Trophy felt like she may have misjudged the situation, maybe the Producer wasn’t mad at her & planning some sort of horrific punishment. However, the pack of Dobermans in a consistent, very loose, line-of-sight circle around the pair wasn’t helping.
Chapter#9: Partying late into the night, it was closing in on midnight when it occurred to Trophy, as the rum-soaked sludge that was her brain sloshed pleasantly, Mr. Producer had drunk very little, a mild buzz at best. But, he’d fed Trophy shot after shot, insisting in a joking-not joking kind of way, nearly forcing the alcohol down her throat. All the while, the debauchery all around them only grew. Sex became more prevalent, not just slyly in dark corners but on the dance floor as others danced around them, seemingly ignorant of the carnal pleasures happening by their feet. Younger cubs soon began arriving & Trophy couldn’t tell if dates or owners accompanied them. Predators accompanied by prey, though surprisingly, the reverse became more commonplace as the night wore on. Cubs as young as 6, morbidly obese & barely dressed, struggling to support stomachs so taunt, stretched, & round, they were undeniably pregnant.
Now being drunk enough to taste colors & sitting in their booth, Trophy couldn’t be sure this next part was true & for her sake, she hoped it wasn’t. Many of the younger cubs looked, in a word, wrong. At first, she thought they were hybrids, not unheard of. But that wasn’t it, no, the cubs weren't hybrids, they looked to be changing, their bodies warping into something… In many cubs, it was subtle, ears seemed wrong, muzzle too wide, or eyes deformed. But in some, it was glaring & undeniable. They were predators, they had that kind of presence but their bodies… their bodies were warped & twisted, obese & pregnant, missing large patches of fur. Trophy prayed she was hallucinating, but swore they looked like prey, a variety of farm animals & rodents, bodies bloated, youth & exuberance drained, vitality gone. Looking at their owners, Trophy’s pupils shrank; they appeared as predators, bodies shedding the years, growing in height, bodies morphing into proud sleek forms. Their glossy fur practically glowed over huge muscles.
Horrified, Trophy tried to speak but found she could not; she tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t work; she tried getting the producer's attention but only managed to throw herself to the floor. Trophy wasn’t drugged; she was just really drunk. Noticing the commotion, Mr. Producer looked down at the drunk bitch on the floor, & a look of sadistic satisfaction crossed his face. The truth was, Mr. Producer had wanted Trophy all those years ago, not to show her off but to drain her of everything she was worth. Mr. Producer had wanted to leave Trophy a bloated & rotten shell, a foul blob, good for nothing but making more bitches, or livestock. Sure, Trophy was older than many of the girls are now in 2006, but in 1991, you couldn’t do much better than a Trophy. Now though, having a kid & aging like an upper-middle-class Karen dipped in milk didn’t leave much worth stealing. Now the producer just wanted to ruin Trophy for his amusement & figured he could at least get a puppy-mill breeding bitch out of the deal.
With a look from the producer, the Dobermans all converged, forming a tight, obscuring circle; two of them hefted Trophy between them. Following the producer, they cut through the crowd & headed out of the fire exit & into the alley. There, as Mr. Producer watched on & ate KFC, the Dobermans proceeded to rape Trophy until the sun came up. 2 in her mouth, 3 in her ass, 4, in her pussy. Nine Dobermans, seven tightly packed on the ground in an odd horseshoe shape, two standing at 56-degree angles on either side of Trophy’s head. Trophy was roughly pulled into a sitting position, forcefully spreading her sausage legs & lard-ass, snapping her sweat-stained, vaginal-discharge-soaked, pube-covered, discolored red thong. Picking up the broken garment, Mr. Producer proceeded to tie the thong around Trophy’s face, making sure the small crotch triangle was pulled tight against Trophy’s nostrils.
To the Doberman's credit, they weren't savages. They made a point to lube up, even the two standing. Whole lotta good that did Trophy though; it served to allow 3 & 4 cocks to squeeze together in her ass & vag respectively. It failed to make it any less painful as Trophy had her pussy & most certainly her ass stretched further than ever before. Honestly, since Brandy had been born, Trophy had partaken in very little sex, mostly just fucking some old, small-dick, studio executives. So it came to pass that her genitals, all holes, had stiffened, hardened, & shrunken. Not tightly or firmly but dried out & burnt like microwaved pork.
Opening her mouth to scream, Trophy was assailed by the last 2 Dobermans, shoving their cocks down her throat. Only then did Trophy learn that the “lube” was rotten bacon grease heated to a liquid. Thrashing & mumble-screaming, Trophy prayed someone in the club would hear her; Mr. Producer knew no one would care if they did. This was what clubs like this were for, & this is what disposable whores like Trophy got.
Either highly focused or highly trained, likely both, the Dobermans fucked Trophy with mechanical precision. Pumping in & out of her like pistons, each thrust, recoil, & pump was perfectly even & perfectly in sync. Each Doberman fucked in a stagnated pattern, so Trophy would have a cock burrowing into her guts from both ends simultaneously & perpetually, while the two standing pumped in a constantly fast motion. Her body aching, Trophy lost all sense of time & self, so drunk & shocked she blacked out. This did nothing to stop or even slow the Dobermans.
They kept raping Trophy, cold & emotionless, with no passion, just precision, machines designed to impregnate whoever or whatever they were tasked to, no matter how young or unwilling. They didn’t take long either, draining their balls with nary a grunt or twitch. They weren't done, though. Mr. Producer paid for the full package. The Dobermans switched places & began all over again, dumping load after load into Trophy, now directly in her womb as her cervix got battered open.
As the sun crept into the sky, lighting up the predawn gray, Trophy moaned, still unconscious, her body burned so bad, ached so bad. The Dobermans had saturated her in cum to the point it oozed from her pores as she lay panting. Inside, Trophy’s colon, womb, & stomach were full of burning, malice-filled cum, it oozed out of her nose, mouth, ass, pussy. Inevitably, an Ova had shaken loose during the violent raping, just one but that one was a lamb sent to slaughter. First: Sperm from all 9 Dobermans crashed over the Ova like a tsunami, pulling it under as it screamed & begged for salvation. Second: shattered its shell & burrowing into its insides until the Ova threatened to shatter from the pressure. Third: The Doberman sperm dissolved into spermatozoa, ripping into the Ova's vulnerable DNA, they ripped the poor girl apart, forcing her back together as a wretch completely infused & infected by Doberman DNA. The single-minded programming ensured that the child would be: Female, with mostly Doberman characteristics. Bratty, unsupportive, spiteful, manipulative. Dumb, violent, a bully, gullible, gluttonous, easily manipulated. Slutty, trashy, low-class. A near non-existent metabolism, extremely fertile, & cock-crazed from a young age. Obese trash is meant to pull others down, eat, breed, & make society & the world worse off for it.
Chapter#10: Unconscious, Trophy couldn’t feel what was happening but her mind sensed it, the violent raping, the burning seed, the trauma & terror. Her mind interpreted those feelings as thoughts; inescapably, Trophy found herself watching a highlight reel of every bad decision she had made in her life. It started with kissing a little kitten boy in kindergarten before transitioning into her giving that same kitten a “handy” in second grade. From there, it was a montage of Trophy sucking & fucking her way through school. Every handy she had given a nerd to do her homework, sucking off the popular boy, then the jocks for clout as the years passed; finally every time she fucked a teacher, be it in a bathroom, car, or classroom, for a passing grade. The scene shifted again, and Trophy found herself reliving every fight she ever had with her mom. Every argument over what was appropriate for a girl her age to wear- usually something gaudy & revealing- about who she couldn’t date, when she had to be home, & why school mattered, etc. The last fight was about college; Trophy’s mother was adamant that she go, & Trophy was adamant that she didn’t. Her mother insisted that she get a good education so she could get a good job, but Trophy insisted that she go right to work, so that she could help out & pay the bills. A lie, of course, Trophy only wanted a job to fund her own partying & drug habits & to keep her mom off her back. Once again the flashback leaped forward, Trophy in her dorm room, screaming at her mom through a phone receiver. Trophy had been skipping class, the blond dog spent most nights partying & couldn’t be bothered to make it to class in the morning. A letter of academic probation had arrived for Trophy at her mother's home that day, opening it as any mother would, she immediately called & confronted her daughter. Trophy had just screamed at her mother, not even trying to explain, just stating she hated her, wanted nothing to do with her, & to stay the fuck out of her life. That phone call would be the last time she ever spoke to her mother. Packing her belongings & dropping out that same day, at the age of 18. A montage of Trophy partying her way down the East Coast from Seaside Heights NJ to Daytona Beach FL came next. Then the sugar-babying, stripping, the clientele sex, the night she got pregnant, her utter despair at finding out, getting morbidly obese, having Brandy, trying to be a star, agreeing to the TV show, & marrying the producer, all bad decisions.
Trophy awoke in that alley around mid-morning, her head screaming, she tried to process what had happened but everything from arriving at the club onwards was a blur. Her body was bruised & sore, everything was tender, her mouth & genitals stung, & a burning heat filled her, emanating from her crotch. Opening her eyes, Trophy immediately moved to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun, then instantly vomited from the motion. Milky white vomit formed a massive, foamy puddle on the asphalt around her & Trophy didn’t stop puking until her stomach was empty & she lacked the strength to dry heave. Part of her thought she should just lie down in her vomit and die. Regardless, she kept trying to struggle to her feet, over & over again.
Struggling to breathe, she felt like something was clogging her nose. Reaching up, Trophy pulled the ruined thong off her face, looking despondently at it, & then threw it aside. Now able to breathe, Trophy rose to her feet, head still splitting. Holding her head in her hands, Trophy learned 2 things: 1.) the only clothing she had left was the tee-shirt stretched super thin over her tits & 2.) The place was deserted, the club closed & locked up. Not sure what happened but upset & scared, Trophy spotted something else, a piece of paper at the edge of her vomit puddle. Reaching for the paper, Trophy found $20 & 2 simple words written inside: “Cab fare.” Confused & upset about why she was left behind, Trophy, trying to keep her head as still as possible, took a few tentative steps towards the alley’s open end. When she did, Trophy felt her inside shift, expecting to vomit again, she was surprised as something gushed out of her stinging cooter & down her legs. Looking down, Trophy, expecting piss was confused at the puddle of frothy, milky-white fluid forming around her feet. That’s when it hit her, the night in the club, the Doberman Pack, the weird cubs, & Mr. Producer getting her drunk so she’d be easy to rape.
Cold fear washed over her as Trophy remembered last night; it had been a punishment after all. For what, she did not know. Looking down in fear at the money clutched in her fist, Trophy considered splitting town, running away like she did from her mom & responsibilities. But… she couldn’t, Trophy wasn’t some hot 18-year-old pedigree puppy anymore, she was an old fat, washed-up, slut who failed not only herself but her daughter as well. Stumbling to the edge of an alley, Trophy hailed a cab. Believing she had no choice, she quietly got into the cab, handed the driver the money, and gave him the address, sobbing silently as he drove her back to Mr. Producer's home, back to what girls like her deserved.
Pulling up to the McMansion, Trophy got out, left the rest as a tip, & shambled up to the front door. Trying her best not to cry more, Trophy knocked. Mr. Producer answered, silently. He pulled the door open & stepped aside, allowing a shamed & crestfallen Trophy to enter before closing the door as silently as it had opened.
To MR. Producer's delight, the plan worked as Trophy’s weight quickly began to skyrocket. 100 Lbs in a year? Trophy blew past that in 2 months, gaining 200 lbs in a quarter of a year. The rapidly ballooning Trophy began eating to numb her horrible life, the rape opening her eyes to what her “husband” thought of her & what he would do to her. Soon she began eating to distract herself from how much weight she’d gained, only exacerbating her problems. Even still, the few times Trophy wasn’t stuffing her face, mostly on the toilet, the producer would often make her eat & Trophy feared him too much to disagree. Trophy used to think she was above him, but now it was clear he owned her.
Things got really bad once it became clear Trophy was pregnant when the test came back positive. Almost 6 months after she’d been raped, the first signs of pregnancy were visible despite Trophy’s weight & size. The fear of having another child, not just the strain of raising one, but the fear that she would fail it like she had failed Brandy, was too much. She began just consuming incessantly, no longer caring about hygiene, her appearance, or her freedom. Trophy just didn’t want to be, didn’t want to think about her problems, she wanted the world just to swallow her up & erase the sad stain that was her existence.
Her life would only go downhill from here. Feeding herself like her growing problem, sitting in stained gowns all day as she eats ice cream and watches TV, too overwhelmed by hormones and her “new” situation, still coping after months. Buying clothes meant nothing to her because they didn’t last long before her sweaty body stained them on the armpits & where any of her (many) fat rolls touched, a disgusting brown color. Growing so fat, her body lost shape, becoming a near-formless blob. By this point, Trophy had grown to Mr. Producer's desired size & then some, thanks to her pregnancy. It was at this point that Mr. Producer began abusing her sexually in accompaniment to physical, mental, & emotional abuse. He began pushing Trophy, who was powerless to fight back, over whenever he felt like it. Forcefully spreading Trophy’s massive legs, pushing aside slabs of fat & having 2 of the Dobermans (they were always around) hold her gut up. While Mr.Producer raped her sewer-hole cunt with his bloated (10x normal), dark purple-colored cock & balls designed to steal the best traits of its victim while replacing them with its master's worst. Not even bothering to take off Trophy’s Muumuu, just climbing under it as needed. Other times he would just blow a massive load on Trophy’s face or body, often when she wasn’t paying attention, leaving her sputtering or whining. However, the producer's favorite trick was to nut in Trophy’s food, never in front of her but in whatever was in the fridge & cabinets. Knowing Trophy would clean out the kitchen as she did every day, Mr. Producer took a sick pleasure in the thought of Trophy unknowingly ingesting his cum.
But the most common were the orgies. A nightly ritual, the morbidly obese, horrifically bloated, Trophy was forced to eat endlessly, far past even her own limits. All while Mr. Producer & the Dobermans rape her. She really wished she could stop, but there came a point where her hunger grew beyond her capacities, needing to eat more food the more miserable she felt. She had no control, no friends, no support. Only Mr. Producer, his Dobermans pumping her womb, drinking her milk, biting her breasts, & leaving her watching TV & eating while she waited for it all to happen over again. She knew there was nothing she could do, but at the same time, dreaded the inevitable. Feeling the first kicks of the bastard inside her, growing stronger every day, her stomach firmer & harder. Soon, Trophy believed she was having a litter, a genetic holdover from generations past & rare to occur. The idea of having a litter of puppies, an entire litter born into this world like lambs to the slaughter, or worse: Huge males like their daddies, born to bring more abuse in her life. Those thoughts filled Trophy with genuine fear. Yet, she only felt one set of paws kicking out, only one mass squirming within & that was the most alarming.
Chapter#11: The day Trophy’s daughter was born wasn’t special, nor did the sun turn black & the apocalypse didn’t start like Trophy imagined in her constant self-loathing, nor was it a magical experience that turned her life around. No, it was a plain, no-frills, ordinary day, if only because Trophy wasn’t worth the minuscule amount of effort the universe needed to make something happen. Around 4 in the afternoon, Trophy felt the inevitable pains that would come to mark this as one of the worst days of her life. She hadn’t felt comfortable for a good while since she felt that big head sit firmly on her cervix; it only made her feel more unprepared. She really hated waking Mr. Producer up from his nap, but she needed someone to take her to the hospital. She didn’t have the option to move off the couch because of her weight & he’s not a heavy sleeper, so that he would wake up easily. She disliked sharing living space with someone as sleazy as him. A Doberman was hugging her massive ass, his cock already hard as if he was waiting to push it in. She knew he would be cranky all evening & tomorrow if she woke him & who knows what his take-back would be. She felt a contraction, a painful one, reminding her of the urgency of her situation, but worse, it reminded her of the first time this happened. Instead, Trophy began shoveling food down her throat again, hoping to appease her hellspawn for a few hours at least, time to plan, time to think. But the stupor wasn’t coming, the anesthetic calm of digesting grease wasn’t working this time, & her only option was to force herself into further denial, try harder, trying to pretend that her rape child was just hungry. But another cramp in her stomach proved her very wrong, that thing wanted out, & wouldn’t even wait for her to rock herself off of the couch as her crotch became soaked with a disgusting smell, as if an old trash bag was ripped open under the summer sun. She left out whines of pain as she felt her cervix dilate and her quivering legs spread against her will.
The massive slabs of fat parted, revealing a nasty snatch, gaping with its brown colors, despite Trophy trying to force them to close. Her stomach was thrashing now, Trophy doing her best to keep the producer asleep, forced to cover her mouth just to muffle her whines and cries of sharp pain. More contractions came & soon Trophy felt her cervix dilating & a mass came pushing through, spreading her cervix further as her body coerced her to push. Her face turned red from the struggle & effort this was, even if it wasn’t her first time, & even if her pussy was about as tight as a trash bag. It was an experience to see her obese belly being thrashed around, despite its size and thick padding. She was making every effort she could to distract herself from the problem at hand right now. She found out rather quickly that even her well-worn-out pussy was still too tight for this, as she felt the little bastard very slowly squeeze through her pussy. Every inch forward felt like war for her as she was clenching her teeth with a deep red face, as she cried for her life. Trophy didn’t even have time to think about what would come next. Abandon it? Sell it? Gift it? She never had a baby shower & had no plans to give the baby a name. Since she knew she was knocked up she saw this brat as nothing but a bag of exhaustion; her only hope was that this brat knew how to sing & dance like her previous failure. It wasn’t long before she was gasping for air like a chain smoker. Her heart rushed so fast trying not to pass out. Trophy slid off the couch & onto the floor. She didn’t want to push; she tried not to, but her body was so loose, her muscles so atrophied, that she couldn’t stop. All Trophy could do was lie there, fist in her mouth, so her sobs wouldn’t wake Mr. Producer or alert the Dobermans. The monster slowly slid down her birth canal, every inch an eternity of agony.
Mr. Producer found Trophy on the living room floor 2 hours later. Despite her utter loathing for him, Trophy gave him a pleading look, silently begging him for help, begging him to save her. The producer simply walked away, leaving Trophy to suffer alone. Minutes later, just when Trophy was about to start screaming out of spite more than pain, the Dobermans began entering the living room. Trophy’s first believed she was getting raped while birthing but instead, they began dumping armfuls of food by Trophy’s head.
Insulted, Trophy was about to unleash one hell of a verbal tirade but the moment she opened her mouth, it was stuffed with something from the growing pile. To her horror, Trophy didn’t want to eat but found herself unable to stop. Sausage fingers stuffing slop in her open maw despite using all her willpower to try & stop. All night, the Dobermans continued their cruel treatment, ensuring Trophy had food so she would keep eating. Occasionally, Mr. Producer would come & watch, silently checking on Trophy’s progress, before meandering off somewhere else.
2 days later, & Trophy was finally, blissfully, on the cusp of ending this nightmare of pain & misery. Stuffing her face & wallowing in filth for 2 straight days; Trophy finally felt her labia stretch apart. Painful to the point she was sure it would tear, Trophy wailed between the mush filling her overworked mouth, tears still leaking out of her pinched eyes. For what felt like hours, Trophy’s labia stretched, wider & wider until, blissfully, Trophy gave one last involuntary push. With a pop & a rush of air, Trophy felt the thrashing mass leave her pussy. Left lying on her back in a pool of mess, Trophy panted in exhaustion, wanting nothing but to slip peacefully into unconsciousness. But annoyingly, a nasally, husky crying filled the air, keeping Trophy awake & wired, exhausted yet wide awake. Unable to move, Trophy was helpless to try to silence the infant. Thankfully, one of the Dobermans walked by &, seeing what had happened, placed the child on one of Trophy’s fat ugly breasts, snickering as he did so. Latching onto a fat, rubbery nipple, the baby began to drink deeply, silencing its wails & allowing Trophy to rest.
The next 2 years passed in a blur; Trophy only left the house when Mr. Producer demanded it. Usually taking her & her daughter out to dinner at the fanciest restaurants, or high-society events, dressing them in slutty, revealing outfits that only accentuated how fat, disgusting, & dirty they are. If the producer was feeling especially mean, he’d make Trophy take their daughter, Kandi, to the Pediatrician. Just so she would break down & cry as the doctor reprimanded her for letting her daughter get so fat, for not caring about her little girl's health, & demanding she see a doctor herself for the incalculable amount of health & hygiene issues she clearly had. Otherwise, Trophy spent all day on the property often found gorging herself on the couch. Watching this trashy TV show called “Jersey Shore” set in her hometown of Seaside Heights, or in her bathroom, taking rancid monster shits. Besides those two, Trophy could be found in the marital bed she & Mr. Producer shared; her side was cratered & flat. Or in her massive lawn chair, sunbathing in the front yard.
Trophy hated the producer, no question, but having a new baby was rapidly draining what little intelligence she had left. So in her infinite wisdom, Trophy figured she’d just do the opposite of what the producer asked of her to spite him, reverse physiology. But seeing as Mr. Producer wasn’t a halfwit, he saw through Trophy’s attempt at rebellion almost instantly. Orders such as “Sunbathe in the front yard” became “Don’t sunbathe in the front yard”. Now, Trophy spent hours cooking herself under the Florida sun, stinking up the neighborhood in a small bikini overflowing with fat. “Stop eating so much” Trophy stuffed herself past capacity to the point of pain, all to not give the producer what he wanted, unable to understand she’d become his clown.
Chapter#12: It wasn’t till after the birth that Mr. Producer began fucking Trophy with absolute intensity. Contrary to the obvious, Mr. Producer wasn’t a monster, not really. He gave Trophy time to recuperate & recover before whipping his cock out one night in bed. Deep purple verging on black, Mr. Producer’s cock & coconut-sized balls pulsed with a searing heat that Trophy could feel through the ungodly humid Florida night. Bigger than any of the Dobermans individually, the producer's cock reminded Trophy of the goat she’d seen in 16 candles; that seemed like a lifetime ago.
Trophy tried to protest but a hard smack across the stomach shut that down immediately. Forcing Trophy onto her back, the producer spread her massive thighs, plunging his cock into Trophy’s foul cunt with a loud “SPLORT!” & using her foul pussy grease as lube. Trophy forced her bloated, fleshy fist into her mouth to silence a scream. The producer’s dick seared her pussy, sending burning, white-hot pain throughout her body but she refused to wake the baby by screaming, anything but that.
Unlike the Dobermans, Mr. Producer wasn’t a machine; he was a deranged animal, rutting Trophy like a beast in heat. Despite their size difference, the producer shook Trophy’s obese, well-used body like a leaf in a storm. Slamming their crotches together with a sound like thunder, Mr. Producer buried himself balls deep in Trophy with every thrust. His foul cock burned away at the fatty flesh of Trophy’s vaginal walls, turning her love tunnel into a love cavern, one in extreme disrepair. Tears streaming from her eyes, Trophy could feel her burning body rotting & twisting under the power of the producer’s cock; powerless to resist the malicious & vile changes he wrought across her body.
It didn’t take the producer long to cum but he more than made up for a lack of longevity with copious amounts of potency. Over a gallon of brown cum, thicker than oatmeal & more hazardous than a carcass in Chornobyl. Trophy felt the burning liquid rush from the producer's swollen cock & constricted balls. It flooded through her life fire, Trophy began to sweat in earnest now, feeling like her skin was simmering as the producer foul seed burned away anything untainted & clean in her cunt, leaving only the rancid & vile, warping & corrupting whatever remained. Not caring if she woke the baby anymore, Trophy could feel this heat, this fire was eating away at her soul, searing away any defense she had. Trophy could feel Mr. Producer's cock, sucking up & stealing every bit of vitality & potential Trophy had left.
Mr. Producer fucked Trophy consistently after that. It was more akin to rape, as the producer jumped the middle-aged blob dog whenever & wherever he could but Trophy never made a move to stop or resist him, so… In any case, day in & day out, Trophy could feel Mr. Producer’s cock stealing away what little remained of her good qualities. Stealing what he could for himself while leaving Trophy to rot. Every day, Trophy thought about running away, wanting so badly to leave the producer behind & start a new life. But where could she go? What could she do? Trophy was an obese, middle-aged, trashed housewife with a blowout vag & a baby. No one would want her; she had no sex appeal left & had blown her favors & burned her bridges. Where would she even go? Her mother's? Trophy hadn’t spoken to her mother in nearly 20 years; she had no idea if she’d be willing to take her in, hell, Trophy didn’t even know if her mother was still alive. Besides that, there was still the baby. As much as Trophy objectively loathed her second daughter, she wouldn’t leave the little girl to the producer or the Dobermans; she couldn’t bear it.
So here she was, a bloated, useless, housewife with no money & a fat, finicky baby. Trophy knew she had no choice but to stay & chastised herself for thinking of running away again as she did every day. The same scenario would play out in Trophy’s dull mind every day for the next 2 & a half years. Every day, Trophy would care for the child until it fell asleep, then get what blissful rest she could before the baby inevitably woke & demanded to be cared for. & every time, Trophy would care for it, stuffing her face as she did so. Despite the little Doberman girl growing up fast, Trophy never stopped breastfeeding. The girl put up too much of a fuss if she tried & Trophy was way too tired to fight her so it just continued.
The producer & the Dbermans paid little heed to what Trophy was doing when they wanted to fuck. Whether it was sleeping or caring for the baby, Trophy would feel them start groping her before inevitably trying to shove their dicks in her abused pussy or stretched asshole. That's not to say the producer or the Dobermans were anything but kind to the girl; they spoiled Trophy’s daughter like a Hamilton, the Dobermans attending to her, & the producer buying her everything a small child could want. Perhaps that's what kept the tantalizing allure of escape coming back: the idea that her daughter would be safe. However, Trophy refused to trust those monsters again, never.
Day by day, Trophy felt more & more of herself being stolen by the producer, never the Dobermans but with the producer, Trophy could feel her soul withering. For his part, the producer was happy he was finally fucking his Trophy, shame it didn't happen sooner but the producer was happy all the same. She didn’t have much left, little of the energy, vitality, & youth that the pretty young stripper had years ago remained which was a shame but the producer was determined to suck Trophy dry all the same. Soon, Tophy’s weight began to balloon again as her body gave up; the things that had remained on her thighs and were contained by sagging skin fell under layers of new fat. Leaving Trophy looking like a 500-pound melting wax statue, only able to dress in unflattering muumuus to conceal her rotten form. Next was her mind, despite being dulled, Trophy retained a sharp wit, a keen, predatory wit, & a level of sophistication. But all that began to rot, festering & foul, it all congealed together in a brown, vile sludge that was now Trophy’s brain. Leaving her thinking & sounding like a rural Floridian, wallowing in the muck & filth like a filthy farm animal, dimwitted & unintelligent. Finally, Trophy’s soul, her hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears, everything that made Trophy well… Trophy, the producer stole. She felt it, her very being leaving her one night as the burning fires of the producer's cum managed to pry her soul loose & suck it up Mr. Producer’s cock. Leaving her hollow & void, unable to have dreams & feelings beyond the most basic, unable to grow, learn, & understand. Forever stagnant & festering, unable to progress & existing as a sad echo of life more than a living being.
When the door opened on a fateful day, Brandy couldn’t recognize her mother not because of her size but because deep down, some instinctual part knew that she wasn’t her mother. That wasn’t Trophy & that part of Brandy had been right. What had stood before her wasn’t her mother; it was a hollow shell, the bloated, putrid husk of what had been Trophy, unable to experience life & fill the void within itself. What stood before Brandy was a creature that should’ve died long ago but persisted in rotting above ground, simply because its biological systems continued to function.
Chapter#13: Shell-shocked, Brandy plopped down onto the couch next to her mother, trying not to vomit. It looked new, but the massive crater Trophy sat in seemed to insist otherwise. Everything in the living room looked new, in her shell-shocked state, Brandy began to notice small details like that as a distraction. The carpets, chairs, & TV. All looked freshly replaced within the month, yet everything had a coat of grime & wear to it as if it was several years old at least. Moreover, a stench of rot, spoilage, & filth filled the air, despite the house seeming quite clean, save for a few small pink sticks littering the living room floor. Only when Mr. Producer's & Trophy’s voices faded, drowned by the ringing filling Brandy’s ears did she realize the smell was coming from her mother. Trophy looked clean, her pulled-up gown, though old & plain-looking, had seemed clean, & her fur, while greasy, seemed free of filth & the telltale signs of disease & skin infection. Bemused, Brandy pondered the mystery momentarily, her brain doing its best to block out the two adults praising God for her being “home” safe. It occurred to Brandy that her mother might be exuding the smell, not in a swamp-ass way (something Brandy knew far too much about) but like a leaking trash bag, slowly spilling its rotten & fetid contents.
Not wanting to focus on that disturbing thought, Brandy’s focus then turned to the little girl firmly attached to her mother's engorged teat. At least 2, by Brandy’s estimation, she’d never seen a fatter toddler in her life. Dressed in a pink Dora shirt & pink shorts, both were stretched painfully tight over the young girl's bloated frame, warping & stretching the photo of Dora into something unrecognizable. It wasn’t a mystery as to why. Girls her age weren't meant to be her size. Despite being around 2 the Doberman puppy had to weigh at least 150 lbs. If she had been a pig then maybe, but a Doberman, an animal meant to be lithe & agile? No chance.
The girl regarded Brandy with an uninterested glance, similar perhaps to how one would regard an inordinately large piece of lint or a new stain. Disregarding Brandy once again, the girl reached one bloated hand down the crack of the couch below her, pulling up a handful of snacks clutched in her sausage fingers. Despite her hand’s size, the girl appeared to have phenomenal dexterity as she opened a packet of Twinkies with one hand without looking down & still clutching her other snacks. Pulling her mouth off the nipple for a moment, the girl shoved both Twinkies in her mouth before returning to sucking, swallowing the whole mess as one big mushy mess. She then did it again & again until the entire handful was gone. Every time she pulled her mouth off Trophy’s nipple, a different foul smell would fill the room, nearly gagging Brandy as she watched a yellow sludge trickle from her mom's breasts onto her daughter's stomach. It was no wonder this girl was so fat; all she consumed was nutritionless slop & breast sludge.
As if responding to Brandy’s thoughts. The girl’s shirt began to rise up as her gut swelled, digesting her meal at ludicrous speeds as her stomach bloated outwards. The large, hard ball of flesh melted into a sagging gut of soft fat that flared out on the sides, giving a dust ruffle of lumpy fat sagging towards her crotch. Now, only covering half the girl's stomach, the Dora shirt seemed at its limits; it wasn't made to hold back that much fat. Despite being a Doberman puppy, she had large, fatty breasts that sagged off her stomach. Nothing more than extra lard storage, they still forced the shirt to stretch outwards in all directions. To no one's surprise, the telltale ripping of fabric soon cut through the air but to Brandy’s surprise, it wasn’t the puppy shirt; it was her shorts. Massive rips formed on the sides between the waistband & cuffs, soft fat quickly squeezing through the gaps as the girl's hips swelled. Already massive, they stretched until the puppy's hips pushed against her mother’s stomach & the arm of the couch. The girl's arms & legs didn't seem to grow fatter, but small patches of cellulite grew in size, covering her limbs in rough flesh & lumps of fat, & minor stretch marks lengthened & deepened. This wasn’t particularly visible under the girl's short brown fur.
Brandy didn’t like this girl; she wasn't jealous of or felt threatened by her, nor did she see her as a rival for her mother's affection - the girl could have it for all Brandy cared. Regardless, something felt fundamentally wrong about the girl, almost like a living blight on the world, something from which nothing good or productive could come. Living stagnation & degeneration was the best way Brandy could describe it. This wasn’t the first time Brandy felt like this; most anyone had at some point but that natural feeling of revulsion had never been this strong. Not even around Whiskers or the Producer.
“Brandy, Brandy? Hello?”- Brandy snapped back to reality, suddenly aware of the hand waving in her face & the producer giving her a concerned look.
“Wha- OH! Sss, sorry, I was thinking about something, what did you say again?”- Quickly backing up, Brandy stuttered out her response, trying to sound embarrassed instead of terrified.
“I said, I'll have someone escort you & your bags to your room, once you're settled, we can discuss everything over dinner.”- The producer’s switch from annoyed to loving older parental figure had been almost an instant one, a skill he’d long perfected. It was clear Brandy didn't like him; he knew that the moment they met. But now she feared him, equating him with her past crash & 3 years of hell, despite the lack of evidence. Fear was effective; the producer could utilize it.
“Oh… Ok.”- Brandy wanted to protest for a moment, desiring to spend more time with her mother. But something told her “No” wasn’t an option.
The Producer hit a button on an old-school pager, & moments later, 2 Dobermans in black suits & mirrored sunglasses walk into the living room. Startled, Brandy was about to ask what the deal was with the gruesome twosome. But her mother started rattling off something about a university chess team or something before she could ask. Ushered away with her mother still rattling off to empty air like an absent-minded fool, something Brandy knew her shrewd, manipulative mother hadn’t been. She wondered if one of them was the father of the Doberman toddler.
Escorted deeper into the massive home with the other Doberman carrying her bags, Brandy saw several other Dobermans in suits, many with earpieces, walking what appeared to be set routes. Looking out one of the mansion’s towering bay windows, Brandy noticed several Dobermans roaming the property or guarding entranceways. She couldn’t be sure but Brandy swore some had rifles in their hands, not to mention all the security cameras. Trophy had said something about a chess club but to Brandy, the Dobermans looked more like an army. Beyond them, Brandy saw maids, cooks, & a whole litany of other staff, all of whom were female, but all Dobermans.
Her room ended up being on the third floor though it wasn’t so much a room as it was a suite, having its own living room, bathroom, kitchenette, & master bedroom with a walk-in closet. Staring in wonder, Brandy stepped into the room. The suit wasn’t just huge, it was bigger than her mom's old apartment. The second Doberman set down her small bag; then, as quickly as they had arrived, the Dobermans were gone. Left alone to explore the space, Brandy gave herself a quick tour, plopping down on her new bed, in awe of how plush it was. Afterward, Brandy chose to take a shower, having not bathed since she left her hotel for her 9-hour flight from Rio, during which she sat next to Whiskers the entire time. Yeah, despite Brandy being 17, Whiskers was still assigned as her “Responsible legal guardian” until they were safely back in Florida.
“Adults could be so stupid” thought Brandy. Then it occurred to her that she was almost an adult.
Chapter#14: Stripping out of the black tank top & high-cut micro booty shorts (All the rage in Brazil). Brandy examined herself in the mirror. Smiling, the 17-year-old blond doggo flexed, three puberty-filled years in the jungle leaving her rippling with lean muscle, a toned body & a fabulous sun-drenched complexion. Though that last one could be maintained in Florida, Brandy was sure. She’d made it out of the jungle without many noticeable scars, unlike Whiskers who had started looking like the grizzled bad guy in a Stallone movie. However, Brandy couldn’t help but compare herself to her mother again. Standing naked in front of the mirror, Brandy looked so much like pictures of her mom when she was young, ones that now hung on the wall downstairs.
But while Brandy was once afraid of being like her mother, she was now terrified of becoming her. Seeing Trophy downstairs, the dumb, morbidly obese, creature Trophy had become. Wallowing in her filth, fetid & stagnant, a spoiled, festering, bloated carcass, seemingly moments from ripping open & spewing its rancid, rotten insides all over the carpet. Only alive because no one had the courtesy to let her die, not to mention the obese tumor of a toddler seemingly glued to her teat.
Whenever she closed her eyes, all Brandy could picture of Trophy was that fetid carcass, patchy fur falling out, skin muddled & marred with rot & disease, reeking with the stench of death & sickness, & her lifeless eyes staring into her soul. It was what Brandy had seen when the door first opened: the creature hiding behind the veneer of Trophy, & it was straight out of Brandy’s nightmares.
A warm sensation running down her thighs snapped Brandy out of her delusions. Looking down, the fur on her inner thighs was damp & discolored with fluid. Reaching down, Brandy ran her hands through the warm thin fur. A clear sticky fluid stuck to her fingers.
Sighing, Brandy made a fist; she was so sick of her fucking heat; sure, she wasn’t moaning in bed unable to sleep because of her burning body as she did in Rio. But she still hated gushing at anything less than a puritan thought. It had to be almost over right? It had been over 2 weeks, none of Brandy’s other heats had lasted this long, though she supposed she had never been 17 before either. Turning on the water in the massive shower bath combo, Brandy was pleased to see a variety of feminine hygiene & beauty products waiting for her. Stepping under the warm water, Brandy’s thoughts turned back to her heat. Whiskers must’ve known how bad this heat would be; maybe he smelled it, maybe all girls had a bad heat at 17. Brandy didn’t know. It bothered her she didn’t know, Brandy had been homeschooled for most of her life & that went out the window after a few modeling gigs & her mom trying to make her a star. She’d had no formal education & even less sexual education, but Brandy knew what genitals were, she knew what her heat was, & even what pregnancy & birthing were. But that had come from a handful of jungle colloquialisms, dirty jokes, & one nice old bear lady who’d lived in civilization at one point but was much too embarrassed & flustered to tell Brandy more than the basics.
Shampooing her hair, Brandy wondered why her mom never told her any of this, but smirked; that was a dumb thought. Trophy hadn’t told her any of this, so she could exploit her, keeping Brandy young & dumb until she needed her. Most likely as a bargaining chip, trading a night with the “Innocent young pop star” for favors & or assurances from sleazy producers, slimy directors, & old-money project funders, the real people who ran Hollywood.
“Always another sucker.”- was what Trophy always said, & Brandy was her pawn. Brandy was sure that if the producer hadn’t readily agreed to cast her, her mom would’ve had her sitting on his lap until he agreed.
The worst part though, was that Trophy was grooming her to be exactly like her. Brandy hadn’t noticed back then but Trophy’s bitchy attitude, snobby mannerisms, undeserved sense of self-importance, trashy tastes, inability to accept no as an answer, & need to be the center of attention; Brandy had been copying all that. She’d noticed it in the jungle, how awful & entailed she acted like her mother, it's why she hated looking at herself. But only now did Brandy realize the different dangers she’d been in if the plane hadn’t gone down over the Amazon.
Rinsing her heat off her inner thighs, Brandy popped open a bottle of feminine wash & began cleaning herself out. If there was one thing Brandy had missed, it was actual hygiene products & not just “all-natural” jungle soap. That was one thing her mom had taught her, how to keep clean & keep perfect makeup, again, teaching her daughter only enough to further her own goals. This made Brandy wonder what would’ve happened if she had stayed; nothing good, she was sure. Her best bet was ending up on some cheesy sitcom or trashy reality show & getting labeled B-list at best. Other than that, Brandy saw a life of jumping from small part to small part, chasing fame until it destroyed her. Possibly getting some internet clout by entering into a loveless relationship/marriage with a minor celebrity. If that failed, Trophy would’ve had her on the pole at 17 for cash, prob pimping her out in the back, especially with how her body looked now. Still, those were some of the better possibilities.
Brandy didn’t want to think about the worst, nor did she want to think about the outcome. But she couldn’t help but think about the outcome; its visage was buried in her mind, that fetid, living corpse, a blight upon whichever land it treads. Brandy had nearly become her mother & if she wasn’t careful, she could again. Brandy was determined not to let that happen. Finishing her shower, the blond doggo washed her butt & thighs before turning off the water. Stepping out & drying off, Brandy was pleasantly surprised at how everything had been perfectly prepared for her. It was without a doubt that her mom & subsequently, the producer learned she was alive & coming home once rescued. But get all this ready in less than a week? Brandy didn’t think it possible, her Hotel room hadn’t been this nice & that was the Four Seasons Rio. Dropping her dirty towel in the laundry basket, Brandy was about to bust out the clean set of clothes in her suitcase when a thought occurred.
“If towels, shower supplies, & this suite were waiting for me, I wonder what else is?”
Chapter#14: Sashaying, yes sashaying, nude across the master bedroom, which conveniently opened into the bathroom, Brandy threw open the double doors of the closet. As she thought, but far beyond what she expected, the closet was a whole-ass dressing room. Complete with a full makeup table & backlit vanity mirror, the closet featured its own wardrobe & large dresser, as well as a large glass cabinet where several beautiful dresses were displayed. Opening the wardrobe revealed several different designer outfits with matching heels (both traditional & boot), some pumps, a pair of high platforms, & some comfortable-looking “Black Air Force 1’s”. Better than the dresses, but not what Brandy was looking for. Finally the dresser. To Brandy’s relief, the top 2 draws were filled with socks & panties/bras respectively. Under that were thongs, lingerie, blouses, tee shirts, skirts, shorts, long pants, long shirts, & a variety of pajamas & bathing suits. There was no winter gear but in Florida, who’d need it?
To her dismay, Brandy soon realized what kind of wardrobe the producer had bought her. Everything was either white with gold accents, black with pink highlights, or some shade of pink, red, or blue so no matter what, Brandy would look like a pastel goth Barbie doll. Beyond that, everything was revealing to some degree. The difference between the panties & thongs was a few centimeters of fabric at best. The blouses were all low-cut and slightly transparent, & the bras were small & lacy, which for most was fine, but would be hell on Brandy’s double C’s. Each T-shirt was cropped to reveal the entire midriff, most of the long shirts weren’t much better, & all had bedazzled slogans on them like “pull my hair”, “camera shy”, & “ jail bait”. The shorts were much the same as the ones she’d flown in with. Booty shorts wrapped around her waist looking almost like a diaper, save for the thigh slit that went from the cuffs to the waistband, leaving the thighs fully exposed. The pants, some slacks, other jeans, etc, were low cut, leaving half of Brandy’s ass jutting out & tight enough to contour everything she’d want to cover, leaving very little to the imagination. Though the swishing bellbottoms did Match Brandy’s style, so there’s that at least. Following the previous trends, the skirts were, of course, all micro, ranging from standard small to sashes that Brandy was sure couldn’t cover her crotch from her waist. As for the rest, there wasn’t much to say. The lingerie & pajamas were lacy & revealing. The swimsuits looked more suitable for a porn shoot than a day at the beach. At least the socks were normal, cutesy & designer, but not too out of the ordinary.
Sighing, Brandy chalked the wardrobe up to one more than to “thank” her loving mother for. The producer’s credit cards may have paid for everything, but there was no doubt in Brandy’s mind that the clothes came straight from her mother; however, she was sure the producer had approved.
Picking through the apparel, Brandy chastised herself; she shouldn’t be mean to her mother. Sure, sure, Trophy had been an obnoxious narcissist but she loved her. If she hadn't, why would she go through the effort of picking out a wardrobe for her? Brandy knew this, but had spent so long blaming her mother for everything, it was hard to think about & judge her without contempt. It just sucked that she’d been back a day & Trophy was already trying to live through her; everything was something Trophy would’ve worn at her age. But what choice did she have? Trophy or thing appearing to be Trophy was ruined & worthless. Brandy had seen it time & time again, older stars famous for their looks as cute, slutty-looking teen stars (Hanna Montana, Hillary Duff, Ashley Tisdale, etc) desperately clinging to their fame as they aged, doing whatever possible to preserve their fading beauty for just a few more months on top. Entering a death spiral of desperate, degenerate, & depraved acts for smaller & smaller parts. Until, finally, nothing was left, just like Trophy. Most parents trying to live vicariously through their children were subtle. Trophy’s brain had melted & leaked out her ears, so Brandy wouldn’t hold that shotty attempt against her.
“If that old pervert wants a show, let's give him one,” Muttered Brandy, setting aside what she wanted to wear.
Sitting at the head of the dining room table, Mr. Producer drummed his fingers listlessly against dark wood, impatient for Brandy. The staff was still setting the table but they were almost finished & what food was already set out would soon start getting cold. Plus, there was another issue… Looking up, he gave a weary glance at Trophy & Kandi (the Doberman girl, whom he had named himself). Both were sitting, backs straight, hands clenched, staring at the food with the intensity & ferocity of an unchained predator. If Brandy didn’t come downstairs soon, Mr. Producer wasn’t sure how much longer he could stop Kandi from going sicko mode on the ham.
Groning, the producer wondered why nothing seemed to go right with his love life. He’d wanted Trophy for years, but couldn’t own her until most everything of value was gone. Sure he’d gotten her personality, intelligence, & whatever scraps of youth, innocence, & purity were left but it wasn’t much. Now the bloated carcass sitting at his table wasn’t good for anything besides being a warm septic tank for cock. The producer could’ve used Brandy as Trophy’s replacement. Sinking his hooks into her at an impressionable age so she’d willingly fuck him & he could steal her vitality. Instead, he’d intentionally crashed her plane to trap Trophy. Now that she was back, it dawned on him that he didn’t need her; he had Kandi. The fat brat would have more vitality & being the soft bitch she was, would be easier to steal from. Instead, he’d welcomed Brandy into his home with open arms, only to instantly discover she didn’t like & or trust him & come to the realization, she’d be a major cock block to have around. Finally, Trophy was pregnant with his daughter, he had Kandi & soon a spare hole for whatever tickled his fancy. Brandy was just a 3rd wheel. Annoyed, the producer concluded he’d need to get rid of Brandy again, send her somewhere she’d get lost or kidnapped. Anything to keep her away long enough to drain Kandi like a battery, after that he’d be too powerful for her to stop. Chuckling to himself, the producer pictured Brandy walking in just to turn around & walk out, how whimsical.
Chapter#15: Mercifully, a Doberman led Brandy into the dining room moments later. Later, it occurred to the producer that he probably should’ve ordered the Dobermans to escort her downstairs. But for the moment, the producer's jaw almost hit the floor. Gone was the scared, half-starved, girl who’d been dumped on his doorstep less than an hour ago. In her place stood a beautiful young woman, makeup done perfectly, clothes accentuating & complementing her muscular supermodel body, & the producer knew he’d get none of it.
Smirking, the look on the producer’s face had been worth it. Brandy had spent nearly an hour doing her makeup; it took a few tries but the issue of Cosmopolitan in her suitcase was a godsend. From there, she’d put on a cherry red, lacy thong & a black leather mini-skirt, consisting of 2 leather rectangles to cover her crotch & butt, pink accents on the waistband, & a gold zipper to expose differing levels of upper/inner thigh. Brandy, of course, had this completely unzipped, exposing her thigh & thong from the side. As for the “skirt” itself, the 2 leather rectangles mostly covered Brandy’s crotch if she stood up straight but if she stretched… boom, exposure city. Complementing this was a thin, white blouse with an intricate, gold-thread pattern. When light struck her at the right angle, the blouse became wholly transparent & Brandy neglected to wear a bra.
Strutting into the dining room with the confidence of the billionaire club princess she looked like, Brandy greeted Trophy & Kandi in turn, learning the young girl's name in the process. She then did something unexpected, walking up to the producer, & gave him a big hug as Trophy & Kandi began devouring dinner like ravenous beasts.
“Like thank you for the totally awesome new wardrobe!” Brandy said in her best Valley Girl voice as she squeezed the short, fat cat's massive gut. The voice was a trick she learned from her mother, acting like an airhead would get anyone to drop their guard & agree to whatever while distracted. It was one of the few things Brandy found useful in the jungle, having perfected the trick in the last year or so.
“You-y- you’re welcome bbbb-but thank your mother, she picked everything out,”- Said the clearly flustered producer, pointing a stubby, fat finger at Trophy who was busy snorting as she ate an entire roast goose.
“Yeah, but I know you paid for it & I’m like, really really grateful.”- As she spoke, Brandy, hugged the producer from the side, making sure her back was to her mom. Placing her hand on the producer’s thigh, she slowly slid it forward until it was grasping the producer’s steel-hard cock through his crisp tan loungewear. A second later, the fabric turned warm & sticky as the producer squirted pre.
“Make a sound & I'll scream.”- Brandy’s tone was ice-cold now.- “Wouldn’t want mother to find out you’re perving on her little girl, either of them.”- Brandy whispered in his ear.
“You fucking bitch.”- Mr. Producer whispered back, enraged she’d managed to get him in such a vulnerable situation so easily. But yeah, Trophy was an idiot but if she knew the producer wanted to fuck her kids she’d be incensed.
“Everything you ever wanted, right here in front of you & you’ll never get it.”- Brandy’s tone took on a cruel edge then, as she squeezed Mr. Producer’s junk harder making him squirm.- “& if you ever try anything, I'll crumble your entire world to the ground.”
The producer didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to, the rage bubbling just beneath the surface was painted all over his face. Releasing his bulge, Brandy made a showing of sucking his pre off her fingers before going & taking her seat to his left. Smirking, if her mother had taught her one thing, it was to be unpredictable, always keeping her opponents guessing & off balance & once they were vulnerable, strike. Brandy believed she’d just done that but little did she know the kind of hell the producer was about to unleash.
Seething, the producer was furious, who was this bitch to treat him like that, coming into his home, acting like she owned the place, that she made the rules, that she was in control? No one was in control but him. Mr. Producer wouldn’t let the insult stand; Brandy would suffer for what she’d just done.
“So Brandy, Ya should know, I’m expecting,” Said Trophy, pausing her gorging to speak & pat her stomach, breaking the silent tension filling the air.
“Oh, you are? Congrats.”- Brandy tried to sound cheerful, she’d suspected since she arrived & first hugged her mother, & she despised the idea.
“Yeah, it will be our first.”- Trophy reached out one bloated hand & grasped the producers, their wedding rings intertwining. Distracted, the producer didn’t react to Trophy touching him without his permission.
After that, everyone went back to eating in abject silence, save for the occasional cough, sneeze, & Trophy & Kandi eating like starved pigs. Still fuming, the producer was further enraged by the fact that his cock refused to deflate, demanding attention & refusing to relent until it achieved satisfaction. It didn’t help that Brandy was sitting directly in the evening sun, so every time the producer looked up, he got an eyeful of Brandy’s firm, round double-C’s.
“If you’ll excuse me!”- The producer said, getting up suddenly & shuffling awkwardly into the small bathroom across the hall as Brandy smirked.
“That fucking cunt.”- The producer growled, slamming himself down on the toilet.- “Thinking she can act like this in my house? Acting like she's a head bitch? I’ll fucking end her!”
Dropping his pants, the producer began cranking his shaft, giving into its demands for satisfaction. Bittersweet as it was, it was an angry, loveless, rub-n’ tug in a tiny bathroom. The producer had planned to get rid of Brandy by sending her to boarding school, somewhere she’d inevitably get knocked up & humiliated for it. But now, it wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice. But what to do? He couldn’t kill her, Trophy would be furious, not to mention the inevitable investigation & media coverage. No, murder was too messy, too loud, Mr. Producer knew he needed to be more subtle… After cranking his cock in silent compilation for 10 minutes, the producer was running out of ideas. He’d gone over everything from a drug overdose to a bad boy BF he could pay to destroy Brandy just like Trophy. But everything he thought of had complications both in terms of practicality & unpredictable variables. No, only one thing made sense here, the one thing Mr. Producer's mind kept returning to—an old-school orchestrated kidnapping… Grinning, the producer finished his wank & went back to the table without washing his hands.
Chapter#16: “It would be simple, the world knows Brandy’s back in the States & that she’s living with me. I’m rich & she’s currently high-profile, who wouldn’t kidnap her for ransom? It would be easy, have a couple of the Dobermans grab her, stuff her in the trunk of a rental car & drive her far away.”
The problem was, if they just dumped her, she'd undoubtedly tell someone, & Mr. Producer knew he’d be the first one she’d blame. That left but a few options, have her killed & buried in a field far away, ship her to a different country, or keep her imprisoned. Out of the three, Mr. Producer figured that three was his best bet; one & two had too much risk. Though if it weren’t such a logistical nightmare, the producer figured shipping Brandy to Cambodia to be a puppy mill for the cub trade would be really, really funny.
But no, unfortunately, it's better to keep her alive & imprisoned, that way the cunt would be controlled & alive if he needed her, win-win. But where to send her? Obviously, the producer wouldn’t risk keeping Brandy close by, not in the state, at least, though not so far that he couldn’t recall her within a few days. More than that, Mr. Producer needed someone he could trust to be Brandy’s long-term keeper, she’d be fighting to escape, & they needed to be able to control her.
Growing more frustrated as he watched Brandy flirt with an uncomfortable Doberman. The producer decided he’d send Brandy to the South, the deep South, “safe & cared for” by an associate of his, an old boar by the name of Hamilton. The producer didn’t know Hamilton’s history & he didn’t care to ask. If he needed someone roughed up, sabotaged, or murdered & he needed it done ugly & gritty—Hamilton was his man. Mr. Producer had only met him on 3, rather unpleasant occasions, but knew he had a thing for Brandy. He had a poster of her album cover framed on his wall and loved the signed DVD copy of the show's first season, which the producer had gifted him. The only problem was, there wasn’t a snowball's chance in hell he’d ever get Brandy back in the same condition he’d sent her in. Kinda like renting a car for a demolition derby, not a good idea. No, Brandy would have to be a gift, one that the producer understood he’d never get back unless he needed Hamiliton thrown in prison. But could he do that? He could live without Brandy sure, but compared to Hamilton, the producer suspected death would be a mercy. Looking up, he saw Brandy opening her blouse, revealing more than just some cleavage to the Doberman. Yes, he decided, yes he could live it.
His plan was simple from there, simply slipping Brandy a small dose of diluted Rohypnol in a cup of spiced hot cider after dinner. Three hours later & Brandy, after taking a shower, was lying atop the covers of her bed, butt-ass naked in an attempt to beat the sweltering Florida heat, something she’d done many times in the jungle. At least before Whiskers started getting… Touchy that is. In any event, the Dobermans waited until about 1:00 a.m. to make their move, thereby maximizing the amount of time Brandy would sleep. The producer loved the Dobermans, a private militia at his beck & call, professional & unquestioning, it still baffled Mr. Producer how Trophy still believed they were a chess team. 4 Dobermans lifted the 4 corners of Brandy’s comforter, keeping it stable so they could move her with as little motion as possible. Having spent many a night in a hammock, the mild swaying didn’t even make Brandy stir.
From there, it was as simple as carrying Brandy downstairs & placing her in the backseat of one of the many black Escalades littering the property. Three Dobermans, two in front and one in the back with Brandy, took off, gunning it north up the freeway, heading for the interstate & Alabama.
The trio & their “cargo” crossed state lines around 3 am & headed into the interior. The Dobermans knew nothing about this Hamilton guy, nor did they know where they were going; all they had were some GPS coordinates for an unspecified location in Bibb County. This was fine for them; the Dobermans didn’t ask questions, they followed orders, the one Brandy had flashed, wined for a bit about giving her what she deserved, but fell in line soon enough. As fast as they were going, one would expect them to worry about getting pulled over, considering they had a drugged, 17-year-old, minor celebrity/ popstar who was hours away from being reported as missing, passed out in the back. Fortunately, the producer had foreseen this, their route was clear & so long as they stuck to it, cops wouldn’t be an issue.
Watery, gray, pre-dawn sunlight was streaming through the trees & through the Escalade's tinted windows when Brandy first began to stir. Having traveled at breakneck speeds all night & stopping for gas only once, the Dobermans managed to cross half the state in roughly 3 hours. Currently, the Escalade was rattling slowly down a pitted & run-down dirt road. Looking like an abandoned logging trail, it (seemingly) was the only route through a large Pete bog, still draped in Night’s shadow. That may not sound dangerous but cars that had gone off-road were known to sink in Pete bogs in mere minutes. Not to mention the crocodiles, various other predators, & parasites/bacteria, if one wasn’t careful a place like this would be one's tomb.
Unable to open her eyes, Brandy groped one hand blindly into the darkness; she felt weird. Like her whole body was stuck in slow motion & she was slowly returning to normal speed. Her hand struck something warm & she felt it shift rapidly under her touch. She heard someone mumble something, but her ears felt filled with cotton; the sound was watery & distorted. Someone further away mumbled something back but that too was unintelligible. Confused & upset, Brandy felt her hand slowing once more & she slipped into unconsciousness. The Doberman in the back had nearly hit the ceiling when Brandy had smacked his leg, scaring the shit out of him. He’d informed the two of them upfront that she was waking up, but the one in the passenger seat told him to relax, as they had about an hour before she’d wake up fully & that they were nearly there.
True to his word, about 15 minutes later, the Escalade rounded a corner & the road turned into a strip of land connected to a small island in the swamp proper, though it was hard to tell with the water so chock-full of trees. Looking like a clearing more than an island, the green mound rising out of the water had a short wire fence surrounding it. The inside was a small parking area, a thatched hutch overflowing with trash bags. Some were fresh, others so old they were crumbling under the intense sun, a rotten, fetid mush swarming with flies & maggots spewing out. Finally, an old Fleetwood camper up on blocks dominated the center of the tiny island. Crude attachments made of rough wood & random bits of metal served as accessory structures containing a beat-up old washer & dryer. Wires running through the trees attached power & cable to the trailer, one pipe pumped sewage into the swamp, & one drew in water to fill a large water tank atop the trailer, which filtered & fed water to the trailer from the swamp.
Pulling into the small parking lot, the 2 Dobermans up front opened the door & instantly gagged. The air stank of rot & death, intertwined with the fetid stench of the cesspool swamp. The heat was worse than in Florida, soaking them in sweat & the insane humidity, not to mention the mosquitoes. Coughing and sputtering, the two Dobermans struggled to pull themselves together as they heard the Fleetwoods’ screen door slam open. Out trundled this weird contradiction of a pig; he was fat yet muscular, bald, yet hairy, looking like some drunk swamp trash yet a trained killer. Without saying a word, Hamilton nodded to the Dobermans, opening the back door he nearly salivated at the sight of his prize. Gingerly, Hamilton lifted Brandy out of the Escalade. Without a word, he turned & carried her back into the ruined camper, the screen door slamming behind him like the door to a crypt.
Chapter#17: Brandy could tell she’d been moving; she didn’t know why or how & she was terrified. Very much trapped in an “I have no mouth yet I must scream” scenario, Brandy was wholly paralyzed, unable to move her hand. She’d woken when the Escalade hit a particularly deep pothole. Groggy, she could barely make out the words of some country song on presumably a radio. When the car stopped, Brandy really began to worry. Trophy had told her never to let them take you to the second location. The smell hit Brandy roughly the same time as she heard the telltale hydraulic hiss of a door opening up. If she could move she would’ve vomited; the smell was worse than the rotting remains of predator kills in the jungle. A pair of rough hands reached under her, lifting her bridal style & carrying her… somewhere. Brandy wanted to scream, fight, vomit, but she couldn’t. Still paralyzed, her world was shrouded in darkness, powerless to stop whatever sinister plans these unknown fiends had for her. She heard a door slam before slipping back into unconsciousness from the smell.
Pulling out a small cell phone, the Doberman in the driver's seat hit one on the speed dial. After two rings, he simply said, “It's done” & hung up. Turning the Escalade around, the 3 Dobermans rattled back down the pitted road, happy to be leaving. Smiling, Mr. Producer sipped his coffee while Trophy & Kandi gorged themselves on breakfast a few feet away. Everything had gone perfectly, Brandy was gone & Trophy believed she’d been sent away to protect her from kidnappers. That meant no cops, no alibies, & no chance of getting caught. Sighing, the producer was pleased that everything was falling into place.
It took another hour for Brandy to fully wake up. When she did, she found her eyes were crusty, her ears were ringing, & her nose was swollen shut. Forcing Brandy to take long, ragged breaths through her mouth, causing her head to pound like a jackhammer. Forcing open her eyes, Brandy wished she hadn’t. Shutting her eyes quickly to block the bright sunlight & inflicting more pain on her head, Brandy slowly reopened her eyes, dreading what she might find. She wished she hadn’t. Looking back, Brandy would come to regret not dropping dead here & now. Her first thought was that a bomb had gone off; the place was a mess. But with growing horror, Brandy realized it wasn’t just stuff strewn across the floor; everywhere she looked, piles of filth & garbage rotted on the floor, crawling with insects. Trash bags, yellowed & brittle with age, spew their fetid contents across the compacted brown nylon carpet. Rotten food, random refuse, & even clothes, cemented into filth rocks, were strewn across the trailer. Webs hung off the lights, rotten dishes filled the sink, & paths cut through the rot & filth, creating a disturbing map of the pig's migratory habits.
Moments later, Brandy vomited, violently, as if she rejected simply the concept of having something inside her stomach. She’d caught a whiff of the pig's bathroom, far worse than even Trophy’s nasty fupa; never had Brandy been more disgusted & terrified in her life. Instantly, Brandy was back in the jungle, her body lumped across the filthy mattresses, pumping out Whiskers’s baby, reliving her nightmare over & over again. Brandy vomited again & again, long past what was considered normal, puking until she was just dry heaving, her stomach had long since emptied, & Brandy was sure she’d only stopped because she couldn't smell the bathroom through the thick mucus filling her nostrils. Panting & now covered in chunky brown vomit, Brandy began to hyperventilate, pupils shrinking, sucking in oxygen faster. The realization of her situation & her fear had begun to set in. Brandy was alone; she didn’t know where she was, how she got there, or how to leave. It was the jungle all over again, except now, Brandy didn’t have friendly bumpkin animals to help her or Whiskers to keep her company/ in fear for her virginity.
Just when she began to cry, Mr. Pig left his small bedroom & returned to the living room. There he beheld Brandy, sobbing & throwing a tantrum, nonsensical stuff about wanting to go home & wanting Mommie. Grabbing a 6-pack from his dirty fridge in the small kitchenette, Hamilton was more than content to watch Brandy howl. To watch her sob & argue with an uncaring universe, going through the stages of grief, not knowing or understanding just how bad her life can & will get. Hamilton had polished off 3 six-packs by the time Brandy finished her tantrum, painting & hiccuping, having long since run out of tears. Hamilton could’ve interrupted her any time; he chose to wait simply to witness the moment. Watching as cold reality crashed down on Brandy, the realization that her bratty attitude & demands wouldn't save her now. Forced to accept her situation as fact, despite emotionally still wanting to deny it outright.
Now quite tipsy & feeling oh-so-violent, Hamilton waited until Brandy finally opened her red, puffy eyes, snot coating her face. Swiftly, Hamilton strode across the small living room, grabbing Brandy around her small waist, he lifted the struggling teen doggo off the floor. Despite being 90% wiry muscle the struggling dog couldn’t shake the grip of the massive pig, despite wriggling like hell. Scared & confused, Brandy opened her stinging eyes to see a massive pig storming towards her. He’d grabbed her & despite her best efforts overpowered her like a child. Eyes rolling & sweating frozen bullets, Brandy’s mind reeled in terror at the possible plans this monster had for her.
With a shit-eating grin, Hamilton carried Brandy a few feet to his beat-up recliner. Sitting down, Hamilton draped Brandy over his lap, and with an odd amount of precision, he began spanking the blond dog. Grimacing in pain, Brandy’s terror had subsided; pain was a good distraction, she supposed. Honestly, the spankings stung at most; it was the motion of rocking her head & exasperating her headache that really upset Brandy. Honestly, what she really needed was water. Well, Brandy didn’t get it; instead, the pig handed her a generic silver can labeled “non-alcoholic beer”. Squinting hard, Brandy looked at the can with a look of sheer audacity, could the pig read minds? Was she so basic that he predicted she needed a drink? Did he think her so low that he could buy her with a can of store-brand? Ultimately, Brandy cracked the can, as without alcohol it wouldn’t further dehydrate or debilitate her. As expected, the room-temperature beer was watery & bitter. Brandy’s natural Southern charm allowed her to finish it in one go, though, so there’s that at least.
Seeing several just lying on the floor around the chair, intent on drinking as a distraction from the now oddly relaxing spanking. Sipping another beer, Brandy would eventually be rocked to sleep by the bizarre pig.
Hamilton for his part was in heaven. Watching his shows while the girl of his dreams was sprawled across his lap being rhythmically spanked? Perfection. Looking up at his wall, Hamilton smiled at his signed poster of Brandy, a framed promotional material from the launch of Brandy’s first album. The producer had gotten it signed for him after a job, and Brandy hadn’t thought anything of it as she did it, save for finding it odd that someone still had this old poster. To Hamilton that poster had been everything, his desire for Brandy, to love her, to covet her, to dominate her, to destroy her. His entire life revolved around her & now all his fantasies could come true.
Brandy awoke a few hours after sunset, a cavalcade of insects & frogs croaking serving as white noise from the swamp. She had curled up in the pig's recliner, an undignified position for a dog person if ever there was one. Sniffing the air, Brandy noticed a new smell, strong enough to cut through the rot & filth. Her stomach began rumbling loudly & painfully, & it occurred to Brandy that she hadn't eaten since dinner the day before. The problem was that the smell, while delicious, reeked of grease, fats, salts, & everything else unhealthy. Brandy hadn’t cared for fatty foods before her time in the jungle; now she was sure she’d have no tolerance for them. Brandy assumed whatever the smell was, it was what the pig was making for dinner. Her first thought was to ask for something else, but then Brandy considered that the pig had spanked her to sleep. He didn’t seem like one to give normal or predictable responses to simple requests. Adjusting her position, Brandy was dismayed to find her ass hot, stinging, & painful to sit on. Hopping up, Brandy was horrified to see the pig, bent over a small stove, nude except for a rough burlap apron. Covered in coarse black hair, round & tall, he looked like a troll from Swedish mythology. Unprovoked, the pig swiveled its head to look at Brandy, two giant orbs in a massive, bloated face, casting a sinister orange light over the nude dog.
Chapter#18: Transfixed in terror, Brandy nearly shit herself when the pig smiled, his fetid grin splitting the rough pink skin, revealing jagged, yellow, rotten teeth. Her throat instantly tightened; her mouth was a desert. Brandy did the only thing she could think of.
“Excuse me but where is the bathroom?”- Brandy croaked drily, her voice choked with fear. The pig simply pointed to a small closet door near the aft of the RV on the left-hand side.- “T… thank you.”
Her headache having dissipated, Brandy slowly crotch-walked her way to the bathroom, trying to prevent her hot, stinging ass from rubbing up against anything. Disgusted as her oddly large feet cut a path through the layers of trash covering the floor, Brandy winced every time something crunched, squished, or wriggled beneath her toes. As she approached the small door the pig had indicated, Brandy braced herself for the god-forsaken smell, the one that caused her to vomit uncontrollably, the remains of which were drying in her fur. She smelt it, muted by the smell of the pigs cooking but the smell wasn’t coming from the small door Brandy stood in front of. Looking towards the very back of the RV, Brandy could see the foot of a dirty bed & another small door next to it. From there, the smell derived.
Opening the closet-like door in front of her, Brandy found a small closet-like room containing a sink cabinet combo, a mirror, a toilet, & a shower. All were small, all were dusty, but otherwise looked clean & relatively unused. Shutting & locking the door, Brandy plopped down on the toilet, sighing wearily. She sagged, as if melting, the weight of the last several hours crushing her. In any event, Brandy did have to shit, so she did that while thinking of what to do next. Years of living in the jungle had taught Brandy that sitting around feeling sorry for yourself & moping was apt to get you killed. Since she wasn’t a quitter & was still riding high from telling off the producer, Brandy began to think up a plan. She didn’t know where she was & didn’t know how she had gotten there, other than the producer had something to do with it. Nor did Brandy know how far she was from civilization or how to get back if she could figure out where she was & how to leave. Okay, so… there were lots of negatives, but Brandy wasn’t a quitter; every problem in the jungle had a solution, & this was no different. She began going over what she had to work with. Brandy had no money, so no help there. She considered using her ahem… well-developed assets to persuade someone to help her. But that required Brandy to make it to a road or someone’s home, hoping they wouldn’t just shoot on sight or call the cops who’d deliver her right back to Mr. Producer. Moreover, if someone was willing to hear Brandy out they’d still need to agree to help her & most anthros who’d agree to help a naked teenager run away without contacting her parents or the police weren’t the kind of folks with the best reputation. Finally, she was a naked teenager stumbling through the swamps at night; if she didn’t die of exposure then there was a solid chance of getting raped, murdered, or worse by some swamp freak. As it stood, Brandy’s entire plan revolved around getting a ride for nothing more than oral & she doubted that would fly or that she’d be free to make that offer to anyone else.
Now that left the pig, Brandy’s biggest & most pressing unknown. Make no mistake, Brandy didn’t think the pig was an unknown ally or some grizzled badass savior. Nor did she believe she could easily manipulate him to get her way considering how poorly she mishandled the Mr. Producer situation. No, the producer had sent Brandy to the pig because he believed she couldn’t escape him & Mr. Producer wouldn't've trusted him if he believed the pig so dumb as to get easily tricked or manipulated. The pig was Brandy's jailer, that much was obvious, & she wouldn’t escape him easily. Moreover, the spanking & bizarre gentleness with which she was handled, coupled with the fact that the pig seemed to take no issue with Brady getting up & moving about on her own, only added to Brandy's confusion about his feelings & motivations. He was a wildcard, one Brandy had to be cautious of, lest she set him off somehow.
Finishing up on the toilet, Brandy cleaned up with some dusty toilet paper before turning on the old-looking shower. For a moment Brandy could hear the pipe shaking & shuttering, then water began to spray, turning the dust coating the shower into a gray mush that washed down the drain. Stepping in, Brandy let the hot water wash over her, letting her tense muscles relax for the first time in hours. Using a dry bar of yellow soap, Brandy scrubbed the vomit from her fur, rinsing the taste from her mouth with water from the shower head. It tasted metallic but that was better than acidic vomit by far. Once she was finished, Brandy was grateful to find a dusty but otherwise clean towel on the rod next to the shower.
Stepping out of the bathroom, the smell made Bradny’s stomach twist but this time she held it together. Having not thought of any realistic way to escape, Brandy decided to simply ask the pig if he could leave. She’d hesitated before because she didn’t know how he’d react but what other choice did she have? Walking back into the living room, Brandy found the pig setting a small table with bowls full of a thick, brown mash-like stew.
“Can I leave?”- Brandy asked simply, intending to gauge the pig's reaction to her request. Surprisingly, he just smiled & waved in a dismissive motion.
Surprised but not wanting to give the pig time to change his mind, Brandy quickly opened the dented & rusty door, & she stepped out into the night. Instantly, she was greeted by a wall of suffocating blackness as the door closed behind her, the quire of frogs & night creatures was unbearably loud, putting the jungle to shame, & instantly, Brandy found herself covered in mosquitoes trying to eat her alive. Ripping the door open, Brady rushed back inside, slamming it behind her, leaning up against the door hyperventilating, covered in bug bites. Eyes wide, Brandy slowly shifts her gaze to stare at the pig. Grinning Hamilton simply pointed to the empty spot at the table, indicating for Brandy to sit down. She couldn’t escape & he knew it. Picking her way through the piles of trash to sit down, Brandy sat silently in shock, for the second time that week. There was no way out; the swamp would eat her alive if she tired. Not wanting to look at the pig, Brandy picked up the brisket on the plate next to her bowl, & she absently mindlessly dunked it into the stew & took a bite. It was delicious, & almost frantically, Brandy began stuffing the stew into her mouth. The mushy stew was salty, greasy, sweet, thick, & rich; part of Brandy knew how bad this was for her, nothing healthy tasted this good. But for now, Brady licked the bowl clean & asked for seconds, which she got. By the time Brandy had finished eating, the pot was empty, & Brandy had three bowls to the pigs' one. The pig simply added their dishes to the pile in the sink. Afterwards, Hamilton half-dragged, half-escorted Brandy to his recliner, where instead of spanking her, he sat her on his lap. For the next 3 hrs, the pair watched Wheel of Fortune. Despite having slept most of the day, Brandy quickly found herself nodding off, shaking herself awake every time. Her tiredness would win out in the end though, Brandy slipped off to sleep in the pig's lap. Picking her up, Hamilton carried Brandy to his bedroom, getting naked & spooning her.
Chapter#19: Brandy didn’t dream that night; if she did, she didn’t remember for which she was grateful. In the morning, she forced her crusty eyes apart, finding herself curled up in a beam of streaming sunlight on the pig’s bare, filthy mattress. Trying to breathe, Brandy found herself taking ragged gasps through her mouth, her nose red & swollen shut, dripping snot, a side effect of sleeping near the pig’s horrific bathroom. Getting up, Brandy looked out the grimy window across from the bed, with growing dread, her fears from last night were confirmed. Past the peninsula’s small fence, the swamp stretched as far as the eye could see. Choked with weeds & trees, the dark water mixed with the dense foliage & hostile wildlife to create a natural barrier. Brandy knew she couldn’t cross it. Brandy had learned plenty of wilderness survival & tracking skills in the jungle sure. But even then, the reason she & Whiskers never tried hiking out was because they understood just how dangerous the wilderness could be. Brandy didn’t know this swamp & more importantly, didn’t trust it; unless something changed, she’d be at the pig’s mercy for the foreseeable future.
Sipping a cup of coffee, Mr. Producer watched as Trophy lazied around the backyard. Her massive stomach rose & fell with labored breaths as she ruined the 50k bikini she was wearing with sweat, simply from tossing a ball for Kandi to waddle after, happily clapping & cheering the whole time. Sighing, the producer loved his little family, moments like this, his obese daughter happy, his morbidly obese wife happy & pregnant with the first biological kid he’s sticking around for. Shame Brandy couldn’t be part of their little world but she had her chance. Brandy just had to be a good little girl & she would’ve gotten everything she’d wanted. Clothes, wealth, fame, anything Brandy would’ve asked for. Brandy could’ve asked him for a ski vacation to Switzerland for the express purpose of railing Coke off of hunky ski patroller's dicks & the producer's only questions could’ve been when she wanted to leave & how long she wanted to stay. He would’ve even paid her way when she inevitably got knocked up by some unknown rando while doing something stupid, sex in a waterslide, or something like that. In hindsight, Mr. Producer realized he’d never have gotten with her; she saw through him the moment they met, even if she hadn’t known it then. All Brandy would’ve been was a loud, living expense simply to keep Trophy happy, & the producer would’ve been fine with that. Now, Trophy believed Brandy had been put into witness protection due to “dangerous, Colombian dog smugglers” being after her, & Brandy got to live with Hamilton. Proof that actions had consequences, if Mr. Producer ever needed one, though; he did wonder what Brandy was up to now.
The answer, as it turned out, was monopoly. After curiosity & a desire to escape the bathroom smell (which she could taste) overcame her, Brandy wandered back out into the small living room/ kitchenette combo. There, she found the pig cooking much like he had last night. Breakfast wasn’t much different from dinner, a brown mush that tasted bizarrely amazing. Instead of being stew-like with brisket, breakfast resembled more of grits or porridge; the pig had even put berries on top. Considering their small size & that Bradny didn’t recognize them, led her to believe the pig had simply picked them in the swamp. Like dinner, Brandy ate three portions to the pig’s one, vaguely considering slowing down & eating less, especially once her stomach felt painfully bloated. After breakfast, the pig handed Brandy a list of chores. He didn’t say anything; he just handed her the list, telling her what to clean & where the cleaning supplies were. Brandy read the list, looking aghast not just at the number of things to do but also at the amount of trash she’d need to move to accomplish it. Looking up at the pig, Brandy opened her mouth, seemingly to argue or complain about the list but a raised hand from Hamilton shut her up immediately. The pig didn’t say much but he didn’t have to; some signs were universal.
As Brandy cleared the table, Hamilton got up & headed outside. A few minutes later, Brandy heard a truck roar to life, looking over her shoulder, she watched an old, rusty, beat-up Toyota Land Cruiser rattle down the dirt strip that connected the small island to the mainland. Again, Brandy considered making a break for it but again, her better judgment won out & she irritably started washing dishes. Unfortunately, almost everything in the sink was crusty, rusty, or moldy, much like the sink itself. It took Brandy nearly an hour to finish the dishes. She had to wash everything with scalding hot water, degreaser dish soap, & scrub with steel wool before putting the dishes in the drying rack, which had to be washed in itself first. Once the dishes were clean, Brandy had no time to rest; however, she had to get the trash picked up. Normally, if Brandy had been handed a list of chores by anyone other than maybe her mother, she’d’ve told them where to shove it. Even in the jungle, Brandy had been confident enough in her skills to get her out of any confrontation she found herself in. Now though? Now, something seemed off; it wasn’t just feeling vulnerable in isolated imprisonment, but also the pig. Something about that pig scared Brandy; it wasn’t just his size & looks - he had a dangerous energy about him. Brandy knew nothing about him, but genuinely believed that if he wanted to hurt her or worse, he could. Though Brandy figured she was safe if she didn’t piss him off, making her safest bet to do what the pig said.
Picking up the trash proved to be far more unpleasant than doing the dishes. Despite her best efforts, Brandy hadn’t been able to find a pair of gloves or even an apron or something, leaving her butt-butt naked. This, combined with the crumbling, rotten trash bags, meant Brandy had to restuff the rotten trash sludge into new bags by hand. Digging through years of rotten filth while trying not to vomit & trying to ignore the swarms of insects infesting… everything. All the while rot & filth began coating her fur, leaving Brandy feeling greasy, dirty, & disgusting once she finished, three hours later. Not to mention moving all that trash had kicked up the smell, which left her reeking like the pig's bathroom. Her nose had begun to clear but all that meant was now Brandy could smell the rot as well as taste it, no longer able to escape it.
Once all the trash had been bagged or rebagged, Brady piled it up in the small, open-walled hutch next to where the pig’s Toyota had been, as indicated by his note. Hesitant to open the RV’s door, Brandy braced herself for the bugs but quickly found the swarm from last night nowhere to be seen. Overall, it took roughly 30 minutes for Brandy to haul all the black bags to the small hutch. She was only bitten a few times & the sounds of the swamp were much quieter than they had been the night before. But Brandy was no fool; she could sense them out there, the swamp creatures, hiding from the light, barely restrained predators waiting for the sun to set so they could attack their prey. Shuddering, Brandy was actually pleased to be back inside & away from the tree line.
With the trash done, Brandy decided to take a lunch break. This turned into an hour of watching Jeopardy while drinking Mountain Dew & eating microwaved burritos. Scratching herself, Brandy figured if she was gonna live there, the pig would have to expect her to eat the food right? Hamilton didn’t care about Brandy eating his food; truthfully, he’d want her to eat more. Brandy was a smart dog, but her intelligence outstripped her general knowledge. Living in the jungle, she’d simply eat when she was hungry, opting for unprocessed, natural foods. Brandy simply knew nothing about nutrition, moderation, or the dangers of processed food & added sugars. In Brandy's mind, if it tasted good, eat it. After lunch came the laundry. Fortunately, Brandy had seen the washer & dryer outside, & fortunately, both worked properly. But that was where the good luck ended. The pig’s filthy clothes were strewn all across the RV. Brandy had already tossed a bunch of shit away, having been too rotten & filthy to be salvageable. The rest, Brandy gathered in an old sack she found before packing & tamping the washer with the clothes & an entire bottle of detergent. Fortunately, Brandy just had to wait to put the clothes into the dryer & take them out to finish the laundry. Unfortunately, she had to put everything away next, which required clearing out trash from the pig's dresser & flipping the bare mattress, as Brandy had no hope of cleaning it. The pig’s sheet was leopard print, oddly enough, & according to the tag was featured in the “BRATZ” movie. Brandy would’ve loved to voice act that show, she remembered Trophy putting out feelers on it but nothing ever came of it.
Finally came the hard part. The dishes were washed, the trash was picked up, & the laundry was put away; now all that was left was general cleaning. To start, Brandy scrubbed & dusted all the furniture & appliances, dusting the TV & furniture while scrubbing the shit out of the cabinets, fridge, sink, kitchen floor & bathrooms. Those last 2 were especially nasty. Not only did Brandy have to clean out countless years of accumulated trash so foul it should qualify as a war crime; but she also had to scrub through what seemed like decades of blackened, calcified filth off of every surface of the pig’s bathroom. It quickly became apparent that some or all of the calcified filth was shit because when Brandy doused it in hot water & dish soap to loosen the filth up, the smell of freshly laid shit filled the air.
Chapter#20: Now, her bathroom took all of 10 minutes; a good dusting & wipe down was all it took. The pig's bathroom… Brandy lost track of the hours. It didn’t help that Brandy had to wait for it to soften once the filth was soaked before attacking it with a putty scraper she found. Just to crack the outer calcified shell & get to the black, tar-like substance full of chunks underneath. All the while vomiting repeatedly into the toilet, each time she got a fresh whiff of hell. Brandy had all the windows open but if it weren’t for the rusty can of Lysol she’d found under the sink she’d have never finished cleaning the bathroom without passing out first. Again, it's poignant to reiterate how afraid Brandy was of the pig. After being kidnapped & forced into what Brandy believed may be a new ring of hell he was the first thing she saw & had been her only companion up to this point. So far, the pig had been nice but with the strange energy, he exuded, not to mention the aura of violence that hung about him like a cloud, & the fact that he’d threatened Brandy for simply thinking of back-talking him. Well, let's just say Brandy wasn’t keen to find out what was to happen if she upset the pig, perhaps by failing a chore he assigned her.
From beneath the shit, smell rose a foul odor of old, stale cigarettes rose, painting a disturbing picture for Brandy of what she was cleaning & what was caked to her fur. Eventually, she could cut through enough layers of black filth to find the bathroom underneath. Unsurprisingly, the pig's toilet & sink were the same white ceramic porcelain as everyone else’s just stained a dark yellow from years of cigarette smoke and tar. Clicking her tongue, Brandy didn’t know what she expected to find, certainly not this, not something so ordinary. This was in defiance of the fact that nothing so far had indicated the pig's bathroom to be anything less than normal. Truthfully, Brandy had wanted something to be wrong, to be different, anything to further justify her fear of the pig. She wanted reasons to continue to hate the pig, or at least dissociate herself from him, so she wouldn’t start to sympathize with him. Worst case scenario, the pig did something so heinous, that it would drive Brandy to brave (& probably die in) the swamp just to escape him.
But there was no escape & there was nothing to indicate this as anything but an ordinary, albeit filthy bathroom. Once the filth was gone, Brandy tried to de-stain the toilet & sink to little effect, then moved onto the mold growing up the walls to be a bit more productive. A black mold, densely packed along the walls, forming a tight-knit, almost fur-like mass. If this filth made Brady sick, then this made her shudder, recoiling from the mold even as it recoiled from her touch. Fortunately, it proved as simple as digging in the putty scraper, then running it along the walls so the mold peeled off, & dousing everything in bleach to kill what remained after. With growing dread, it became apparent that the mold was growing out from under the shower door, the one thing Bradny hadn't opened yet. Trepidation mounting, the lean dog girl opened the shower, quickly stepping to the side in case something leaped out at her.
Fortunately, nothing did & strangely the shower wasn’t that dirty. The mold had grown up & out of the drain before going straight under the door & spreading up the walls. It was apparent why.
“So much for normal.”- Brandy muttered to herself, examining the shower.
To start with, the shower wasn’t original; that much was obvious. No RV came with a double-wide, stainless-steel prison shower. Second, to reiterate, the shower wasn’t that dirty, sure the stainless steel was pitted with small rust pockets & there was a layer of soap scum over everything. But other than that, no rot, no more mold, no trash, no calcified filth, did the pig shower? It would explain the shower’s state, but what creature that bathed regularly could live in such a state of decay? Even at their lowest, Brandy & Whiskers never let their treehouse get remotely close to this bad. God, was she starting to miss Whiskers? Brandy shuddered. Now, there was a scary thought. Cleaning the Pig’s shower was simple enough, just using bleach & a rag to remove the soap scum & mold, while taking the rag and the scraper to dig the rust out of the shower divots. It was by far the easiest thing she’s done in that room.
Once the last rust spot was gone, Brandy got off her knees, wiped her forehead, and returned to the kitchenette, having just one last thing to do. Grabbing some Pop-Tarts as a snack, Brandy set about sweeping, mopping & vacuuming. Sadly, that proved to her the longest chore, the amount of filth & god knows what else, the pig had ground into the floor over the years was immense. Pockets of grim formed behind & under almost every surface, shit was caked into everything & ground into the carpets. Adding insult to injury, Brandy had to clean up her own dried vomit. She couldn’t remove the stains or hardened grime with the vacuum until she soaked them in water first; even then, the carpet was still brown. Cleaning the pig’s bathroom floor proved almost impossible as hardened chunks of black shit on the floor wouldn’t come up even with the putty scraper. Bizarrely, they wouldn’t break free until Brandy pulled them up with her teeth, something she discovered by accident, I assure you. Surprisingly, the chunks had no taste & stayed together when bitten, so Brandy, wanting this to end just did it after cleaning the rest of the floor. It took almost no time at all.
Once everything was done, & I do mean everything, Brandy collapsed in exhaustion, splayed out over a two-person loveseat she’d unearthed under a mountain of trash. She’d never worked this hard in her life. In the jungle, everything you did had a purpose; every action was to further a goal or complete an objective. No meal was guaranteed in the jungle; you had to save your strength, expending energy only if necessary & never burning excessive calories. Hell, some of Brandy’s friends & neighbors even criticized her daily bath; citing that a body's natural oils & musk helped to ward off predators but for Brandy, the risk of getting eaten was worth it over being another dirty, dumb, jungle savage. Reaching weakly for a glass of water she’d gotten (hopefully the pig’s tap water is safe) Brandy took a massive gulp. Panting, she had never been this tired before. Brandy’s lithe, muscular form was the result of a primal diet of raw fruits & veggies, supplemented with charred, unsalted meat, often still on the bone. She’d never committed to any form of purposeful diet or exercise routine in her life; her supermodel physique was a product of her environment & genetics. Though claiming Trophy had given her something outside of an inferiority complex, a superiority complex, & an entitled attitude made her queasy.
Having never worked this hard in her life, Brandy’s muscles ached, her body not accustomed to long periods of slow energy expenditure & short periods of rest. Brandy was accustomed to rapid movement & sudden, explosive bursts of energy, followed by long periods of rest. Brandy was a sprinter, not a marathon runner. It occurred to her that if the pig or anyone else for that matter walked in, they would see a full frontal of Brandy's jungle bush. Sighing, Brandy wished she’d shaved when she’d had the chance. Having hit full puberty in the jungle, Brandy’s bush had started growing in less than a week of humid jungle heat. Unable to do frankly fuck all bout it, Brandy just lived with her pubes like everyone else, getting so used to them she essentially forgot they existed. It never occurred to her to shave at the hotel in Rio or at the producer’s house, even when she put on that rather regrettable thong.
But what did it matter if someone saw now, though? Brandy had been naked since she arrived. It was less than 48 hours since she’d first arrived at the producer’s home before he kidnapped her. But now that & leaving the jungle seemed like a lifetime ago. The pig had already seen her naked, he spanked her for Nurgle’s sake so this was nothing new to him & just from his vibe, Brandy didn’t take him as one for company. But so what if he did? Was she worried that some other swamp hermit would see her? Brandy snorted with grim amusement, downing her glass of water; her only real gripe was the color. She could live with a thick bush but she had sandy-blond, short fur. Why did it have to be jet-black & always feel oily? This massive tuft of black hair started at her crotch, spreading partially up her stomach, down her thighs & around her ass. Not to mention the 2 jungles under her armpits. God, Brandy had to touch both spots to clean them; how hadn’t she thought to shave?
Shoving her troubled thoughts aside, Brady flicked on the TV, disappointed that the pig only got 8 channels. It occurred to her that this was one of the first times since the crash that she had downtime & alone time simultaneously. In the jungle, most free time was spent planning out your next day or going over stuff you needed to do to ensure your continued survival. Not very relaxing. Or you were with others, laughing, eating, playing a game, etc, fun but not private. Even after getting rescued, Brandy was constantly bombarded with questions while trying to recover. Now though, no one was here & Brandy had nothing to plan or do. It was weird; she’d almost forgotten what being bored felt like, fighting for survival would do that to ya, Brandy guessed.
Chapter#21: Absent-mindedly, Brandy began to fondle her breasts, a habit she’d picked up in what little private time she had. Letting out a small bark, & a puppy-like whimper, she loved feeling the soft warm flesh of her big titties. Despite the jungle's best efforts they were massive, taunt & firm yet subtle & soft. Unlike some girls, Brany’s tits didn’t bounce when she jogged or shook; no they had heft to them. Brandy’s big naturals would make a solid thunk if dropped on a surface & had solid force if they struck something; she’d done both. However, Brady could bury her paw-like hand into the malleable warm flesh. It was a heavenly experience; Brandy felt her entire body fill with a comforting warmth, and her heart fluttered. With her other hand, Brandy reached down between her legs, digging through her pubes until she found her warm, bloated slit. Brandy’s legs were soaked in her heat. Briefly, she wondered when this would end, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Brandy had never been this alone before, never had this much time to just relax & unwind. Rubbing her warm, bloated slit, Brandy slowly but steadily worked her fingers into her pussy. Only half an inch in & Brady was in heaven. Years of jungle living had flexed & tightened her core until it felt like her fingers were being compressed. She figured she could crack a coconut… or at least an apple with her, ahem lady bits. This lasted maybe a few moments longer before Brandy, inexperienced as she was, felt a jolt of electricity run through her from tip to tail.
Fear of the unknown bloomed in Brandy but was quickly quenched by decadent waves of pleasure. She didn’t know what this was, but it didn’t matter; it was everything she needed—and more, a reward for all her hard work. Fingers still twitching inside her iron box of a snatch, Brandy slipped into an unconscious state of pleasure from her first real orgasm.
That's where Hamilton found her, arriving home about an hour & a half later. The sun having long set, Hamilton, a look of grim determination plastered on his face, exited the truck & bum-rushed Fleetwood. Throwing open the door, Hamilton scurried inside, trying to keep the door & his body between the outside at all times. Even with his leathery, sun-baked skin, the mosquitoes always got a few good hits in, usually his eyes. Hamilton tried to make a point of coming home before the sun set; unfortunately, that didn’t always work out. See, despite being an old swamp hermit, Hamilton was a fairly active & involved member of the community. He was on the LaDuke town council, the secretary of the PTA, and was always organizing community events. He volunteered at the church soup kitchen on Saturday nights & spoke the good word on Sundays, being an ordained Protestant minister. Most of the community saw him as an older Uncle figure, someone to seek out in times of need or when advice was needed.
Looking around the RV, Hamilton marveled at the state of the place; it hadn’t looked this nice since he bought it. Sure the furniture was shabby & needed replacing but he didn’t see a single giant hissing cockroach which was nice. Then he spotted Brandy. Filled with sudden panic, Hamilton rushed to Brandy’s side with surprising speed. Fear gripping his mind, Hamilton worried if she was alright, was she breathing? Did she hit her head? He didn’t know & it was killing him. Fortunately, a quick visual inspection was all it took to see Brandy was unhurt & breathing. Suddenly feeling weary, Hamilton meandered over to the fridge & grabbed a beer, non-alcoholic of course. He was old, not that old by modern standards but older than a man like him had any right to be.
Born in a small fishing village in southern Chile on May 5, 1964, Genoveno “Hamilton” Princip grew up in a small but loving home with poor but loving parents, the oldest of eight. Living a quiet, pious life, Hamilton was raised a devoted Spanish Catholic, regularly attending church & serving as a choir boy. Oddly, Hamilton found little success working the nets off the coast with his father; instead, he preferred to work with his mother, finding success in planting & knitting. His life was humble but fulfilling & Hamilton seemed set for an unremarkable but happy life. Unfortunately, the rise of Augusto Pinochet & the 1973 coup brought all that to a screeching halt. Hamilton spent most of his late teens and early 20s working with the far-left, liberal resistance, working to restore democracy to their besieged nation. Originally serving as an army chaplain, though unordained, & a medic, he quickly made a name for himself as a brutal killer with little remorse & a cold indifference to death. Flash forward a few years & it’s the summer of 1989, the dictatorship is crumbling & the resistance has all but won. All that was left to do was sign some papers, shake some hands, & do some photo ops while quietly clearing out the last pockets of dissenters as everyone celebrated the new democracy.
But with a new democracy came tough questions, such as what to do with men like Genoveno Princip. Sure, heroes of the resistance would be celebrated but Hamilton & the men like him were a shame & a liability deemed unacceptable. Well, nothing like that stays secret for long, & having cut ties with his family long ago, Hamilton booked it for the border, intent on reaching the U.S… The journey wasn’t easy but in March of 1990, as his country rang in democracy, Hamilton crossed the border into Texas.
Hamilton spent the next several years working odd jobs around Texas, lotta landscaping. Well, that turned into working security, then bouncing, & finally a debt collector for some less-than-reputable people. That was how Hamilton met Mr.Producer, collecting on a few debts the fat rabbit owed. They hit it off like a match in a gas tank, Hamilton quickly becoming the producer’s go-to guy for… discreetly brutal work for the next 20 years. The jobs took Hamilton all over the lower 48 before sending him around the world to deal with high-profile individuals on Mr. Producer's bad side. Hell, the job even took Hamilton back to Chile, a horse by the name of Harold Rivaria, a former member of the regime who’d gotten a bit too greedy with the optimum trade. Hamilton even got to spend some time with his sister, Prince, which was nice.
It was during these 20 years that Hamilton found himself, becoming a born-again Christian, swearing off alcohol, illegal drugs, swearing, & men. So now when Hamilton sat on the foot of a flea-infested mattress atop an old box spring in a rat-infested, predator-den motel while sipping his non-alcoholic beer & smoking his cigarette, he could feel good about himself, knowing he was living as God intended, while a toothless whore he’d just smacked gave him a Bj two feet from the pimp he stabbed. This also marked the point in his life when Hamilton became an Ordained minister; he already knew the rights & had his papers from the Democratic militia, though they were considered unofficial. It was mostly just paperwork & ceremonial stuff to complete then boom, there ya go.
Anyways, Hamilton had nearly retired when he first became aware of Brandy, having gotten her poster when he bought the album as a gift. Having moved to Alabama it was for a girl's first communion. Spoilers, it sucked, but the poster - God Damn, Hamilton found the girl he wanted to marry. Flash forward a few years, Hamilton is retired, a pillar of his community & a spiritual leader if ever there was one. The way his face lit up the moment the producer told him about the continuing job he had for him, all he had to do was keep Brandy, the girl of his dreams, secluded & at his mercy. What could be better? The poster had been one thing but this was a dream come true.
Turning on the stove, Hamilton was so happy with how things were shaping up. Reaching into a small reusable bag of things he’d bought that morning, Hamilton pulled out several items, lining them up on the counter. They were all foods, though not the kind you’d expect, mostly additives, thickeners, MSG, condensers, & an odd Russian jar of some bizarre chemical designed to be as addictive as heroin but only functioned as a mild sedative. All this, Hamilton began slowly adding to a mixture of meat, grains, & starchy vegetables. It was a twist on an old recipe of his mother's except now, Hamilton was adding enough growth hormones, metabolism blockers, & calorically dense fillers to start an illegal beef farm. A hog farm was a more appropriate analogy, but Hamilton’s sensitive.
Looking over at Brandy, Ham smiled, the poor dear looked exhausted. He didn’t care much if the RV was cleaned or not; it would get dirty again anyway, & the cockroaches were a good source of protein. No, this was a test, Hamilton needed to see just how subservient & agreeable Brandy was. Any good wife needed to be both in spades, & Ham wanted to “Physically correct” any rebellious spirits, heretical thoughts, or any unagreeable opinions Brandy happened to foster. Better to do it now rather than later, saving such unpleasantness for rare, unfortunate, occasions. Setting dinner to simmer, Ham walked over to Brandy, one leg raised up & over the loveseat, jutting out her hairy vagina for all to see. A litany of impure thoughts flooded Ham’s head. But unlike some, he did not reject them or even try to dispel them. No, Hamilton embraced them, for why would God, pious in all things, plague his creations with the sin of temptation if they weren’t meant to embrace it? Ham believed God was best worshiped through embracing indulgence & excess, following your base instincts & intrusive thoughts. Now combine this belief in doing what feels right, & a strong focus on love, family, & community with a soulless autonomy while committing some of the most brutal crimes imaginable. Well, it becomes pretty clear why Brandy got such a bad vibe from Hamilton; it also paints a grim picture of what the future holds.
Chapter#22: Worried if touching Brandy would wake her, Hamilition lightly tapped her leg, when she didn’t so much as stir in her sleep, Hamilton lowered her leg. Sliding Brandy over a bit so he could sit next to her, his hairy bulk pressed against Brandy’s thigh; she was so warm. With delicacy usually reserved for a china shop, Ham slowly began stroking Brandy, running his thick, calloused fingers through her silky fur. She was so warm, even in the humid air of a sweltering, swampy night. Running his hand lower, Ham ran his hand through Brandy’s pubes, delighting in their wiry, greasy feeling. Already, his cock was harder than a diamond in his shorts, threatening to rip them apart. Hamilton wanted more than anything to mount Brandy immediately; he was going to be her husband after all, so why not exercise his god-given rights? But no, Ham knew he’d break her; if he wanted Brandy for anything other than short-term fun, he’d need to put in some setup. Speaking of which, Ham got up, dropping his old basketball shorts & taking his massive Pig cock in his hands, he unleashed a torrent of vile brown cum all over Brandy's body after just a few pumps. She stirred & snorted in her sleep but she otherwise didn’t react or awaken.
Feeling satisfied, Ham pulled up his shorts, thinking his stew should be just about done. The last 2 meals had been a mash Hamilton made from mushy garbage he found half-rotten in his fridge. Brandy seemed to love it as she ate so much of it so Ham figured he’d need to make his dinner separately. Brandy wouldn’t leave any leftovers. Just as Ham stepped foot into the kitchenette, his egg timer dinged, indicating his stew was done. Pulling the pot off the heat, Ham added some pepper & cheese on top & started making himself a sandwich as he waited for the stew to cool. It took a few minutes but Ham had his sandwich & was firmly shaking Brandy awake.
She awoke rather peacefully, the shaking rising Brandy evenly from her slumber, a few hours of rest proving sufficient to soothe her aching muscles. Admittedly, Brandy was rather surprised when the large pig handed her a warm pot of hot food but she didn’t complain. This meal was different than this morning, less mushy. Brandy could now pick out individual ingredients, and the flavor, while still delicious, was different; the strange, greasy, fermented, & slightly spoiled aftertaste was gone. As Ham suspected, fresh ingredients were the key as Brandy finished devouring the entire pot in roughly the same amount of time it took Ham to eat his sandwich. Afterward, the pair watched Wheel of Fortune & once again, Brandy fell asleep. Hank carried her to his bed & spooned her until he fell asleep.
This routine went on for roughly 2 months & in that time, Brandy never once left the pig’s well, Hamilton’s little island. Ham hadn’t said much but Bradny was able to get a name out of him. Every day, Brandy awoke to the smell of Ham cooking breakfast & every day it was a mushy, grits-like substance. Now, Brandy didn’t mind as it tasted phenomenal but what she hated was Ham leaving her alone every day. He would leave in the mornings, return in the evenings, usually with a few groceries, & start dinner. Leaving Brandy alone to clean, but now there was very little to do, just a few dishes, some laundry, etc. Leaving Brandy bored & with nothing to do but snack & watch Ham’s eight channels. This wouldn’t be so bad, but Brandy was completely trapped, had no relevant knowledge about the outside world, & couldn’t get any information from Hamilton. He seemed content to leave her naked, save for a replica Brandy collar from the show he forced her to wear. If Brandy talked back or acted out, Ham would generally smack her, not a playful spanking but a hard backhand across the face. Fortunately, this was usually enough to gain compliance. Brandy wasn’t dumb enough to get hit twice.
Muttering to herself, Brandy checked out her eye in the small mirror above the sink. She & Ham had gotten into an argument last night; Brandy couldn’t remember what it was about, Jeopardy or something else. Ham had been drinking, per usual & had a hair-trigger temper because of it, despite the beer being non-alcoholic. It had gotten pretty heated, Brandy remembered, escalating to screaming before Ham busted out the argument invalidator, 5 across the face. Succeeding in shutting Brandy up. She’d gone to bed still mad & her face stinging, Brandy remembered, so it was no wonder she had a dark purple shiner ringing her left eye beneath her fur. Annoyed at the black eye more than anything, her biggest complaint about getting hit was the black eye. Pulling out a small tube from a drawer, Brandy began applying mascara to try to cover the bruise. Ham had picked it up at the grocery store or something, Brandy didn’t know; he’d never told her. Regardless, Brandy had used it; she’d not used mascara since before the jungle, but now saw it as a connection to civilization & a lifeline for her dog-manity as she slowly drowned in isolation. Since Brandy used it, Ham continued to buy it, seeing it as an easy way to keep his faience happy. Satisfied with her mascara Brandy gave herself a once-over, the best she could in the small mirror. She’d need to shave again, Brandy noted. She didn’t mind having pubes, even if they did clash with her fur but she refused to have anything resembling a full bush again. The damn thing had been a nightmare to remove. Other than that, Brady didn’t want to focus on her appearance too much, mostly checking for lumps & spots.
Truthfully, Brandy felt rather uncomfortable with how she looked now. It had started with her lithe body looking… “Puffy” would be the best way to describe it. Brandy just assumed she’d eaten something that disagreed with her, or it was the heat & humidity getting to her. It then quickly became apparent that what disagreed with Brandy was her lifestyle. See, her problems extended a lot further than not being built to/used to doing chore work. Brandy was built to move, spending most of the day active & alert. This new sedentary lifestyle, consisting of sporadic movement & near-constant snacking, was wreaking havoc.
Unable to digest & process the insane amounts of calorically rich slop Brandy was eating, her body began storing large amounts of nutrients & energy, assuming she was preparing for a lot of energy-burning dynamic movement. The problem was that Brandy wasn’t going to do this. Brandy’s instincts & autonomic thought process hadn’t adjusted to living back in society, or at least not living like a caveman. Calling Ham’s trailer society a generosity it didn’t deserve. The point is, she’s a coiled muscle cable, ready to sprint & move at any second, a dangerous animal always primed for attack. Instead, Brandy’s lack of activity quickly began turning all that “stored energy” into fat.
It started with Brandy thinking her food disagreed with her, as evidenced by her puffy appearance, diarrhea, stomach cramps, and other symptoms. But it quickly became apparent that wasn’t it; Brandy began to suspect she was getting sick, feeling lethargic & low on energy, her thoughts muddled, & her sharp mind & wit dulling by the day. Less than 3 months ago, Brandy would’ve sensed the slightest movements in a 360-degree radius. Now she was startled by Ham, the large smelly pig, walking into her line of sight from her peripheral vision. That worried Brandy more than anything else, save that she spent most of her days zoning out even when she tried to focus. Jungle Brandy would’ve memorized Hamilton’s timetables & made a plan of escape for whenever the moment presented itself. Old Brandy would’ve used her charm & looks to get her way as always, despite the obvious risks. New Brandy though, new Brandy just sat on the couch drinking, now fully alcoholic beer, not caring & scratching her crotch. The beer numbed her to her surroundings & the food filled the void, as far as Brandy was concerned that was enough. She wasn’t fighting for survival or being exploited for her mother's gain, despite hating her surroundings & finding the pi-Hamilton disgusting, new Brandy found things to be looking up.
Lack of perception aside, Brandy found herself seriously debating the pros & cons of shaving off her fur. As summer dragged on, Brandy found it getting hotter by the day. Despite two months of exposure, she wasn’t accustomed to swamp heat. Brandy found herself panting from simpler & simpler shit, putting more & more energy into simply standing up, & constantly aching & sore. Denial was what kept Brandy from realizing all her issues stemmed from the fact that she’d ballooned up to 3 times her original size. Her flat stomach, now a bloated gut, her thin limbs cylinders of cellulite & lard. Her hips swelled outwards, two massive slabs of flesh fused with her thighs. Her ass sagging, filled to bursting with gelatinous lard, huge lumps of fat, dimples & patches of cellulite. Flipping back the front & Brandy needed to trim her bush again; she knew it but it seemed to be getting harder to reach. Once a tight slit from years of primal dieting & exercising, endless hours of fingering from Brandy left it… puffy much like she had been. Now, by no means did Brandy believe that touching herself (her words) would ever be as good as it was the first time; she was uneducated, not stupid. But what Brandy didn’t appreciate was the rapid rate of diminishing returns; every day it took longer for her to get there, often failing to reach the heights of electric pleasure from just hours before. Unfortunate.
Chapter#23: Sitting on the small loveseat, Brandy wriggled, trying to get off. Her fat thighs were spread wide as Brandy jackhammered her… cookie with two fingers in the manner she’d become accustomed 2, hard and fast. Her other hand was squeezing one of her now pendulous breasts. In the past 2 months, Brandy’s prize-worthy C-cups had become sagging D’s. Massive & swollen, they’d begun sagging compared to how perky they'd been previously & Brandy’s swollen fingers dug into soft flesh that no longer had a firm bounce to it. Letting out a low, muffled moan as she bit the nipple of her other breast, firmly lodged in her mouth. Truthfully, it bothered Brandy how she looked now. Sure, she’d disliked being reminded of her mother every time she looked in the mirror but she was still proud of her figure. Looking like Trophy was a hell of a lot better than becoming her. Scoffing, Brandy dug her fingers deeper into her cookie, as if that would ever happen; she was becoming curvy, not a morbidly obese living corpse.
“Yeah, it's almost like it's not healthy to live every day fighting for your life.”- Brandy figured.
She looked healthier now, if anything, right? Brandy seemed to think so, though a part of her missed her figure, a part she worked to ignore. Because Brandy knew what it’d take to get that body back, starving herself, forcing herself to exercise hour after hour out on her small island prison. & for what? To impress her jailer, the single other anthro around, or to soothe her bruised ego & wounded vanity? No, Brandy wouldn’t be doing that, any of that. Turning her head, Brandy stared hard at the poster of her hanging on the wall. Brandy never wanted to be that again. Lost in her thoughts, Brandy didn’t feel the knuckle on her middle finger slip inside until she felt it jam into her tight walls. This sent shockwaves through Brandy’s body, crackling with electricity; she passed out squirting.
That was how Ham found her, her bloating body splayed over the loveseat, spilling off & sagging towards the floor. Ham loved it, the stupid bitch was too conceited & self-centered to realize the isolation was the true punishment. Left alone all day unable to go anywhere, with a nearly limitless supply of beer, soft drinks, & snacks. Looking around, Ham marveled at how the RV was already returning to a state of filth, with dirty clothes on the floor, clutter & trash piling up all around. Ham had expected for at least the summer to end before Brandy’s need for cleanliness degraded this much. Not to mention she spent all day jamming fingers in her cunt, when Ham had first met her, she’d been this coiled knot of muscle with a snatch that could snap bone. Now she was just another sloppy bitch passed out with fingers in her cunt.
The image proved too tempting a target & like he did most days, Ham blew his load all over Brandy. Satisfied with the ropes of shit brown cum drying in her fur, Ham put away the few groceries he’d purchased before starting Brandy’s dinner. Hamilton tweaked the formula over the past two months to streamline its effectiveness. Now, Brandy ate the same porridge for both breakfast & dinner —a gruel with the consistency of lumpy oatmeal, which amounted to little more than pig feed, designed to fatten livestock and create the tenderest cuts possible. Plus the bottles of fertility, libido boosters, & estrogen twice a day were turning her loins into a waterfall. Ham had trapped Brandy in a cycle of constant heat & looking at Brandy lying there, cum covered, cunt still dripping around her two fingers. It would be tight but Hamilton believed that tonight, finally, he’d make it work.
Brandy awoke to the smell of the gruel simmering, her stomach rumbling. Dismayed, Brandy had started snacking to offset her hunger, so she wasn’t so tempted by the pot of brown sludge Ham kept feeding her. God only knows what was in it & Brandy hated herself for loving the flavor & losing all self-control when she ate it. But did Brandy hate Hamilton? An interesting question & one without a short answer. Brandy loathed the pig, but to hate him would mean acknowledging his existence beyond being a gross annoyance. Truthfully, Brandy thought she was better than him, this fat, hairy pig living alone in a swamp, who was he? Brandy was a former model, pop star, & actress; she only put up with him out of necessity. It was one of her worst traits & one she couldn't shake. Despite herself, Brandy shared the same subconscious belief of self-centered superiority that Trophy had; & despite herself, Brandy looked down on others, trying not to, but every day in the jungle, she saw her neighbors as dumb savages. Once it became clear rescue or escape wasn't in the cards, Brandy began dwelling on the future, often thinking about what spending the rest of her life in the jungle would be like. Up until she turned 17 & Whiskers amped the creep factor to 11, Brandy feared with growing certainty she’d end up married to some jungle canine, prob after she accidentally got knocked up. By the time she’d turned 16, several members of the local Bush Dog packs had casually mentioned waiting to go out with her & a few started aggressively flirting with her. Brandy disliked it & feared they would push her into a relationship with someone, at one point she thought of Whiskers so that they’d leave her alone.
Rolling off the loveseat, Brandy got up & meandered into the small kitchenette, plopping down at the table where Ham stuck the pot in front of her & handed her a spoon. Grinning, Ham didn’t even pretend that he would eat some or that Brandy wouldn’t eat all of it. She hated it but knew a smack if not a beating was coming if she didn’t eat it. As predicted, Brandy devoured the entire pot. It's hard to picture someone miserable eating something they love but Brandy pulled it off. Simply put, she was in pain, the hot gruel scalded her mouth but she couldn’t control herself to stop & let it cool. No matter how full Brandy felt, she couldn’t stop eating & despite wanting to vomit she couldn’t, rising bile pushed down by more gruel.
Hamilton was impressed. Brandy finished a gallon of food before he finished a sandwich. Burping loudly, Brandy knew she would pay for the meal later, she never vomited but the toxic shits she took more than made up for it. Getting up, Brandy picked up the pot & stuck it under the faucet, filling it with hot water & soap. Turning around, Brandy froze, her brain failing to process what was directly in front of her. Ham’s pants were off, standing butt naked just a few feet from Brandy. The first thing she noticed was, predictably, his dick. Massive in size, the monster hung down to Hamilton’s knee covered in crusted filth; his balls hung just as low looking like 2 warty, greasy grape fruits, swaying like pendulums. All surrounded by an absolute mass of gray-black greasy, wiry, tangled pubes.
Chapter#24: Frozen for just a moment, Brandy’s nightmares flooded back into her brain, trapped with Whiskers in a hell of filth and disease. Brandy bolted for the door but Ham was faster, she threw herself against a window, but it wouldn’t budge. Brandy had to get out, had to escape; her mind was racing, thoughts of terror flooding her. She’s suddenly a trapped wild animal, feverishly trying to escape. Well, when escape won’t work, fighting becomes the default. Brandy lunged at Ham, growling & snapping, intent on getting past him even if she had to go through him. Now maybe Jungle Brandy could have nimbly evaded her foe & deliver some blows. But new Brandy, new Brandy took a single big, clumsy swing which Ham avoided, causing Brandy to stumble & fall. The moment Brandy was on the ground, Hamilton was on top of her. Yelling incoherently, Brandy wriggled like a stuck roach beneath the pig's enormous weight.
Holding her down despite her struggling, Ham lined his massive cock up with Brandy’s puffy, virgin pussy & slowly began to worm around for a way inside, releasing Brandy’s screaming, crying & begging. Despite playing with herself, Brandy’s cookie was still tight & firm, not a loose hole needed for a cock like Ham’s, not to mention that years of core strength don't go away after a few months. Brandy would be tight, wicked tight, perfect for Ham, bad for Brandy. With practiced finesse, Ham used the tip of his cock to prod & poke Brandy’s opening, looking for the best point of penetration. Her begging & crying only further served to excite him. Prodding at the small opening Brandy created with her fingers, Ham gently parted the lips enough until just his foreskin was inside. Brandy hated the feeling of the pig, but was subconsciously thankful that it wasn’t worse. Then Hamilton got started. Using the bristly hairs covering his foreskin like a docking ring, he locked himself into Brandy before slowly pushing his cock forward. Slowly, Ham’s cock began sliding out of his foreskin. So purple it was almost black, the tip was followed by a half-inch-thick crust of grease, hair, & smegma, to the point that his shaft wasn’t visible beneath the grime.
When Ham’s lower head began stretching her walls, Brandy screamed like a cross between a harpy eagle & the devil. A primal thing that indicates a deep-rooted, instinctual fear. Brandy didn’t know why but this fear was much worse than death. But the burning overshadowed that, the burning of poison-searing flesh. Millimeter by Millimeter Hank pushed into Brandy, fighting the whole way. She was tight, so tight it hurt. Ham realized that if he hadn't waited, Brandy’s cunt might have actually snapped his cock. But in any event, that didn’t happen & with every second, Ham could feel Brandy’s walls writhe from his touch, softened by his poison becoming bloated & rotten to the touch. Even still it was rough going; Ham’s filth couldn’t undo years of conditioning instantly, having to take up a stop-and-start pace he didn’t enjoy just to make any progress.
It was two hours before anything different happened; the carpet beneath the pair was soaked in juices & sweat. Brandy lay panting, her muscles burning as she struggled to escape. Her vision flickered, she’d made no progress but to exhaust herself, her throat raw & sore from screaming, her voice nothing but a sore croak. Ham was just as tired. Brandy proved a lot more resilient than he’d anticipated; he should’ve wanted longer, he knew that. Ham just wanted her so bad. He was determined to keep going, though; he wasn’t a quitter. Finally, just two inches in, Ham reached Brandy’s hymen. The moment Ham stopped, Brandy was fearful, a moment later, electricity shot through her as Ham’s cock touched…. Something inside her. This wasn’t a pleasurable bolt like before; no, this was white-hot pain arching from synapse to synapse, lighting Brandy up like a Christmas tree. Her body already burned like a bonfire from the rod of molten heat threatening to rip her apart, why must she suffer more? Had Brandy been coherent, she would’ve found a ghoulish irony in her string of misfortunes but as it stood, her lizard brain screamed “BLARRRG” as it struggled to escape her primal fear.
Brandy could feel Ham’s massive cock bulging her insides; it was so tight that Ham could feel the carpet through Brandy’s skin. Excited as Brandy was terrified, Ham coiled his cock back in its bizarrely long & elastic foreskin before firing it forward like a pressurized air rifle. Years of hard living & activity had turned Brandy’s hymen into a rough, thick piece of flesh. But nothing could’ve prepared it for Ham’s force, like a battering ram; it shattered Brandy’s hymen like glass. Her face erupted in a silent scream & Brandy’s head hit the floor as she lost consciousness.
This, Hamilton found to be disappointing; he likes his prey to struggle or at least look uncomfortable, like many a prostitute pretending not to hate it. He considered smacking Brandy awake, but quickly rethought his position. She was so tight, & despite making progress, it was slow going, & Brandy fighting him at every turn wasn’t helping. So, Ham figured that while Brandy was unconscious, he could slip in, do his thing, & get out. Resuming his slow push forward, Ham found that, while his process was still painfully slow, his corruption & degradation of Brandy’s vaginal walls was much smoother, no longer starting & stopping as she clenched.
As such, Ham only took another hour to go 3 inches deeper; progress. It was at the bottom of these 3 inches that Ham reached Brandy’s cervix. Unlike her hymen, there was no mistaking this feeling; the unique flesh petals coiled tightly together, creating a porthole shut tight. Could Ham force his way in possibly hurting himself & damaging Brandy? Yes but where was the fun in that? Instead, Ham pulled out to his foreskin before pushing back forward, pushing deep into Brandy, really pushing his cock out of his foreskin, trying to expose Brandy to every bit of his dick cheese. Overexerting his every thrust, Hamilton was able to reach Brandy’s cervix in just a few pumps & under an hour this time. Rubbing up against the cervix, Ham smeared his dick filth all over it, allowing the degrading, corrosive filth to begin its evil work. Ham didn’t know how or why he had these powers, but interpreted them as a gift from God for his years of faith.
Pulling out again, Hamilton repeated this process long into the night- the sun was rising before he HAD to finish. Hank’s dick was swollen, & his balls were painfully tight. He needed to drop the load & drop it now but he wasn’t quite finished. Brandy was whimpering, moaning in fear & kicking her legs in her sleep. Despite all his efforts & all his progress, Brandy’s cervix had yet to yield to his filth. Ham had worn her down to a wicked, tight but smooth & enjoyable fuck but her now soft & semi squishy cervix wouldn’t open. Knowing he didn’t have time to keep finessing it, Ham had to try & brute force this final barricade & hope he’d done enough prep, otherwise, he’d just ruined his new toy. But as Ham slid in on his final trust, intent on pushing through Brandy’s cervix, the wilting petals unraveled creating an opening just big enough for his cock, his foreskin pulled fully back now. He slid straight into Brandy’s womb, her cervix closing slightly around his base to create a tight seal. As it turned out, Hamilton’s efforts weren’t in vain. Brandy’s immune system was so polluted that it couldn’t recognize Ham as a foreign invader & acted accordingly, opening Brandy’s cervix for an “approved” & “welcomed” guest.
The moment Ham entered the blazing hot inferno that was Brandy’s womb, he blew, unleashing a shit-smelling storm of rotten, foul cum. In her dreams, Brandy kept repeating her nightmare over & over, trapped in the jungle surrounded by & filled with disease & sickness, forced to give birth to Whisker's baby. But every time the nightmare cycled, it slowly changed; the smells & sounds stayed the same but everything Brandy saw morphed & changed. Soon she was in a swamp, not a jungle, the ruined treehouse became a trash-filled RV, Whiskers grew & twisted into Ham & the ear-splitting crying that preceded the true horror became an ear-piercing squeal.
That nightmare played on repeat for as long as Ham was fucking her, cementing Ham as her new biggest fear as he came inside her. A literal gallon of foul cum poured into Brandy from Ham’s warty balls, filling her womb to the point Brandy’s stomach began to bloat, swelling until it looked painfully tight. Once his mind-shattering orgasm finished, Ham slowly began sliding his dick out of Brandy’s womb. The vice-like grip her cervix had on his member hadn’t diminished so every bit of filth coating Ham’s dick ended up scraping off & falling into the putrid sludge polluting Brandy’s womb.
Chapter#27: The moment Ham’s cock left Brandy’s womb her cervix snapped shut trapping all of Ham’s filth deep inside. Surprised to see his dick cleaned after decoupling from Brandy, Ham failed to notice that not a drop of cum leaked out. Immensely satisfied, Ham gingerly picked up the unconscious Brandy, carried her to his big bare mattress & fell asleep spooning as normal. In the morning, Ham was gone by the time Brandy awoke. Struggling to sit up, her stomach feeling painfully bloated, Brandy’s head pounded from the force of a thousand blows, she struggled to remember what had happened, she remembered the pig on top of her… inside her- Brandy bulled over, falling back asleep after just a small excursion. Brandy woke again in the late afternoon, her stomach thankfully deflating. She had to vomit, she knew this, she wasn’t panicking, she just had to get up & do it. This proved hard as Brandy’s body was so sore, that all movement caused her pain, especially in her gut & flared her headache. Both of her legs cramped & complained as she rocked to her feet, cripple hobbling into the pig's bathroom.
Brandy vomited a brown slurry that reeked of death; she wasn’t sure if it was last night's dinner or a gutful of shit going the wrong direction. Fortunately, this made her feel better, less cramped, & her headache more manageable. Now covered in vomit, Brandy hobbled into the pig’s shower, the bizarre, metal, prison-looking thing. Since Brandy had cleaned the Ham’s shower, it wasn’t foul, but a new ring of grime & soap scum was already forming. Awash in hot water, Brandy slid to the floor, hugging her knees as the water washed over her. She wanted to cry, but felt too dehydrated. Honestly, Brandy was barely mad; she was more disappointed with herself. Disappointed that something she should’ve seen coming blindsided her & when push came to shove she was powerless to defend herself.
Standing up, Brandy grabbed a bottle of Old Spice body wash, she undid the cap & poured it over her head. Letting the blue goo run down her face before scrubbing it in, turning her whole body into a big sudsy mess. After her fur, pits, & mouth Brandy only had one last thing to clean, her… cookie. Her right paw shaking, Brandy slowly lowered it towards her pubic mound, reaching down & under, she assessed the damage.
“It could be worse” was Brandy’s first thought.
Her opening was bigger than before, she couldn’t deny that the pig’s cock had stretched her & her cookie was puffier than before. But the damage didn’t seem that bad; her pussy stung to the touch as Brandy washed it, a sign that a few splits had happened; Showing just how close Ham had been to a blowout, most likely killing Brandy if he had jumped her just a week earlier. Though Brandy didn't know any of this, just that it stung. Being naive past the basics, Brandy didn’t question why she wasn’t leaking cum or had any cum crusted on her labia. She’d been unconscious but Hamilton had been inside her; he wasn’t gonna pull out. It had been so tight, that Brandy doubted he could.
One change Brandy noticed immediately was that just the lightest touch sent waves of pleasure arching down her spine. She hadn’t been this sensitive the first time she touched herself, let alone now. Just washing off was bringing her close to orgasm but was it worth what Ham had done to her? No chance in hell! Finishing her shower, Brandy used the Pig’s crusted towel to dry off, not understanding what that crust was. Her back still sore, Brandy didn’t realize she was famished until her stomach began to growl. Meandering into the kitchen, she found the pot of gruel Hamilton had prepared still simmering on the stove. It didn’t look good but it tasted phenomenal, so in a perverse sense, Brandy figured she should thank Ham. Scarfing down the meal like a starving man, Brandy patted her full stomach before meandering over to the loveseat, having nothing better to do & determined not to let that fat fucking pig break her; Brandy flicked on the TV before spreading her legs & rubbing a finger along the length of her slit. It was electric, letting out a moan, Brandy came right there, arching her back as she sprayed juices. Unlike last time, Brandy didn’t pass out as she inserted the knuckle of her middle finger inside her… cookie, rubbing the knuckle along the bruised flesh, invoking another mind-shattering orgasm. In the back of her mind, Brandy wondered why her orgasm smelled more like vinegar than before. But those thoughts were drowned out under waves of pleasure. Brandy rocketed out 3 more orgasms before she had to stop & calm herself, getting not just the knuckle of her index finger but her ring finger as well, completely fitting all 3, allowing for a lot of experimentation.
Covered in her own juices & basking in the afterglow, Brandy was about to drift off to sleep when another rumbling in her gut caused her to shoot to her feet eyes wide. Brandy wasn’t hungry this time. Legs weak, she hobbled to her bathroom & slammed down on the toilet just as a wave of the nastiest smelling shit Brandy ever smelt rocketed out of her. Holding onto the toilet for dear life, Brandy’s backside vomited a mixture of slurry & chunky diarrhea, burning hot & forceful. She had to keep flushing the toilet, fearing the bowl would fill & overflow beneath her. This went on for half an hour & Brandy felt hollow by the time it was done. Rancid cabbage mixed with roadkill, it was the worst thing Brandy had ever smelt & so runny she didn’t bother wiping, simply rocking to her feet & stepping into her shower attempting to wash all the shit out of her fur & off her backside. It was slowly going because her fur was caked in the greasy shit slurry & it wouldn’t wash off easily. Only after several seconds of scrubbing was Brandy able to strip the shit from her fur, then wash out her asshole. While there, Brandy shaved her pubes, refusing to let them get unruly. Leaving the bathroom, Brandy got a snack, suddenly hungry & went back to watching TV, where Ham found her when he arrived home. Nervous & sweating bullets, Ham was relieved to find Brandy on the loveseat, drinking beer & watching Love Actually. About halfway through his day, while reading to kids, Ham realized he might’ve pushed Brandy into trying to escape & if she did that, she’d more than likely die before he found her. The swamp & surrounding lands were merciless & chalked full of dangerous, poisonous creatures. He figured his natural defenses were enough, but as the saying goes, desperation creates dangerous men. So when Hamilton found her, still home & still alive, he knew he’d won.
Smiling, he shut the door, loving the look of loathing Brandy gave him. Dropping his pants, Hamilton relished the look of fear plastered across Brandy’s face as he reached for his button. Knowing where this was going, Brandy leaped off the loveseat, determined to avoid Ham this time. But, she hadn’t accounted for how much she had to drink & instantly stumbled, the world now spinning. Having to hug the loveseat just to stand Brandy squealed as Hamilton grabbed her. She beat weakly against his chest, demanding he let her go but her words came out as an unintelligible slur. Dragging Brandy over to his chair, Ham sat down & forced Brandy onto his lap, spreading her legs and he started pushing his cock up into her cookie. It was tight but Ham found that slow, constant pressure had his cock pressing up against Brandy’s cervix in no time at all. Like before, Brandy’s cervix wouldn’t just open willy-nilly; Ham had to seduce it, sauteing it in his juices with long, deep strokes from his cock. Brandy kept trying to pull herself off Ham’s cock, begging him to stop, he ignored her, focused on seducing her womb. Getting fucked with long, hard strokes, Brandy’s body heated up to the point of burning almost instantly. Despite being in a better position this time, she was too drunk to defend herself, unable to stop the pig, feeling Ham’s venom polluting her soul. It took less effort than the last time for Ham’s cock to charm access into Brandy’s womb, unloading a torrent of shitty brown cum & scraping off a day’s worth of filth inside. Adding to the rotten sludge already festering in her womb.
Satisfied, Hamilton pulled out with Brandy’s cervix closing behind him. Leaving her moaning on his chair, Ham got up to start dinner. Despite her burning body, Brandy’s limbs were ice cold & she had no strength whatsoever. Splayed out like a ragdoll over the chair she could only cry as her pussy pulsed painfully. Brandy didn’t know how long she’d been lying there, or what Ham was doing; she just knew she was in pain. Eventually, Ham returned, scooping Brandy up as if she weighed nothing, & he sat her on his lap. Then, to Brandy’s horror, Hamilton began “lovely” spoon-feeding her greasy gruel, blowing on it before shoving it in her mouth. Unfortunately, Brandy’s panting caused her to swallow or choke & despite wanting to die, she couldn’t force herself to do so, so she ate the mush.
Now, all this was bad enough but then Brandy felt Ham’s cock stiffening & rubbing up against her pussy, slowly trying to work its way back inside. Powerless & Broken, Brandy couldn’t do anything except sob as Ham began raping her again, still feeding her gruel.
Chapter#28: Ham raped Brandy deep into the night, all through Wheel of Fortune & long after the pot had emptied & grown cold. Squirting one last load, Ham, his balls drained & feeling immensely satisfied, gave the now unconscious Brandy a sloppy kiss as he pulled his softening dick from her pulsating cookie. He then proceeded to carry the broken & sore dog to bed.
This routine continued for several weeks. Ham raped Brandy whenever he had a free moment, often stuffing her face while he did it & spending more time at home to fuck her more often. Every morning, Brandy would wake up sore, stiff, & bruised from the night before, though thankfully, nowhere near as bad as the first time. She’d then take a scalding shower, not caring if it hurt, trying to scrub the pig's filth off & out of her. After that, every day became a sick game of Brandy waiting for Ham to try & rape her, trying to fight him off, & suffering through it when she inevitably failed. Other than that, Brandy spent her days lounging, eating, & masturbating. She hated touching herself now, not waiting to contribute to the damage Hamilton was doing but she couldn’t help it. Her heat wouldn’t end, from the jungle to now, Brandy had a consistent burning need, waiting to be extinguished. She’d mostly ignored it but once she discovered masturbation, she’d become addicted to it, Brandy masturbating for hours because she just couldn’t control her needs. Naturally, she continued to eat & drink while she did it, so Brandy was consuming thousands of calories while doing little, even the little housework she did was slipping, & the place was a mess. More than that, Brandy’s heat had gone from a clear, viscous fluid to a yellowish slime, reeking of vinegar & old urine. Along with her weight that continued to balloon, Brandy felt more like a disgusting pig every day, she found it harder & harder to get up & do things, so it was easier to masturbate & eat on the loveseat.
Then one day her heat stopped, several weeks after Ham started raping her, Brandy noticed she wasn’t dripping a snail trail of slime when she walked, & her inner thighs weren’t dark & soaked. She was still horny but it wasn’t a burning need anymore, more like a pestering addiction. One would think Brandy would find this sudden change alarming but she was just happy not to have to clean the mess anymore. A few days after this happened, Brandy found herself alone in the RV for the first time in a long time. Ham was gone when she got up & her breakfast was simmering on the stove when she left the bedroom after her shower. By now, Brandy was barely recognizable as the girl she used to be, having reached 300lbs, her fat arms having noticeable bingo wings, fat rolls smothering her knees, cellulite filling her ass, & a prominent double chin had formed. Most shocking though & most notable was the massive gut currently hurting her back. Spilling out in front of her, Brandy’s gut hung down to touch her thighs, covered in angry red stretch marks & cellulite. Beneath it, her crotch had started ballooning into a nasty fupa covered in wiry, greasy pubes. Causing her cookie to jut forward, pushed out so that anyone looking at her would get a clear view of her abused hole.
No longer in heat or enslaved to her lust, Brandy decided to catch up on the housework she’d been putting off. Lord knows when she’d have free time from Ham & despite being trapped, she didn’t want to live in filth. So Brandy set about cleaning & despite only needing to pick up, sweep, mop, & do laundry, she was exhausted & panting within 10 minutes. Soaked in sweat, Brandy was shocked & appalled at how the smallest amount of effort drained her stamina; 20 minutes of work took her over an hour. Once Brandy was done, she shuffled slowly into the small kitchenette, hating herself as she opened the fridge, grabbed a 6-pack & a bag of chips & shuffled back to her loveseat. The stained & ripped fabric compressed & the wood groaned in protest as Brandy sat down. Swinging one leg over the back of the seat & planting the other firmly on the ground, Brandy’s body was too wide to fit, so she had to improvise. This was a clear indication of how big she was getting & it depressed her but at least it made her cookie easier to reach. Digging in with one bloated paw, Brandy tried not to dwell on the fact that her whole paw now fit in an opening she struggled to get a single finger in just a few weeks prior. Casually masturbating, Brandy turned on some brain-rotting sitcom & began drinking her beer.
Hamilton arrived home late in the afternoon, his rusty old truck rattling to a stop in front of his RV. He hated leaving Brandy alone for that long but despite restructuring his schedule to maximize his free time, Ham still had responsibilities, especially on Sundays when he preached. With that in mind, he did all his shopping & miscellaneous errands on the same day, keeping him out all day. Opening his front door, Ham was about to yell at Brandy to get the groceries out of his truck, but stopped when he saw the obese dog girl passed out on the couch ugly snoring; with 3 empty six-packs on the ground, & her paw still buried in her fuck hole. One leg was still draped over the top of the loveseat & she was drooling. Smiling, Ham went to get the groceries himself; he loved his fat fuck pig. Hamilton hated to admit it but wasn’t getting any younger until Brandy came into his life. Every time they fucked he felt the years draining away as he stole more youth & vitality from the blond dog. Brandy was overflowing with energy & would nourish Ham for years; it was no wonder the producer wanted her back, he could’ve slowly fed off her for decades. Ham had no such patience; he’d drain Brandy until she was nothing but an empty shell, a bloated living corpse of stinking flesh, void of any value. Sustained by whatever trash & scraps were left & cursed to fade into non-existence after death.
Carrying the bags inside, Ham was glad to be home; despite his outgoing personality, he was an introvert to his core. Putting away the groceries, Ham set a white and pink box on the counter. Grabbing the pot which Brandy had finally washed, he started on dinner, making the usual brown gruel for his fuck puppy. Brandy woke up to the smell of her dinner simmering, her head hurt and her vision swam. She’d overdone it, Brandy was feeling depressed & drank a lot more than she’d intended. Swinging her leg off the couch, she slowly rose to her feet, wobbling & threatening to topple over. Stumbling over to the table, Brandy, in her drunken state, could think of nothing but food; even her loathing of Hamilton was cast aside for the singular goal of stuffing her face. Looking back & much to Brandy’s chagrin, the moment Ham put the pot down, Brandy began stuffing her face, eating like a pig from a trough. Snorting as she shoved her face into the deep tail pot, the savory, salty mush was ambrosia to her drunken taste buds.
Polishing off the pot in less than 5 minutes a full & satisfied Brandy was ready to fall back into her drunken stupor right at the table. But Ham had other plans, picking the box off the counter, he opened it & pulled out a small pink & white plastic stick. See, Ham noticed Brandy’s heat had dissipated as well. With all the estrogen & livestock growth hormones he’d been feeding her, Ham had only one theory as to why.
Rousing Brandy, Ham helped her to stand, despite her protests of wanting to sleep. Calmly, Ham simply told Brandy she had to pee right there on the kitchen floor. It took Ham repeating himself several times (something he loathed doing) before Brandy got the message, though whether she actually understood it was anyone's guess. But she had to pee so pee she did, a powerful spray of a disturbingly dark yellow liquid. Ham simply plunged his hand into the stream, dousing the little stick in foul liquid. Planning ahead, Ham had bought instant tests, which were pretty basic, but they worked significantly faster than the more detailed ones. Once Brandy’s stream stopped, Ham withdrew his hand; shaking the test a few times, he looked at the little screen. Smiling like a shit-eating asshole, Ham flipped the test around to show Brandy. Already starting to doze off again, it took Brandy a moment to focus on the little test in front of her face & even more time to understand what she was seeing. She didn’t get it; what was Ham showing her, & why did the little stick have two lines? Brandy was so confused & about to drunkenly ask Ham what this was when her voice died in her throat. Pupils shrinking & breaking out in sweats, Brandy looked at the box on the counter, having to sound out the words on the side as her brain mush rubbed 2 neurons together. It read “pregnancy test.”
Chapter#29: Instantly, the nightmares of Ham bloomed in her mind, the rot, the smells, the screaming, the pain, all the horrors that Brandy feared, filling her mind & smashing her dreams. Mouth gaping like a fish, Brandy simply turned around & began waddling/ stumbling towards the door. Instead of stopping her, Ham just laughed, knowing she couldn’t get away. As soon as Brandy opened the door the smell of the rot & filth she’d removed from the RV hit her like a wave. Nose running instantly, Brandy’s eyes threatened to swell up & the sound of the swamp was almost deafening. Thankfully, at that time of year, the bugs wouldn’t be out in force for a few more hours, so Ham didn’t have to drag his fuck pad back inside just yet. Following slowly behind her, Ham watched as Brandy drunkenly wobbled across the small yard towards the fence. She had no plan, no idea where to go, & no clue how to survive but it didn’t matter. Brandy had to flee no matter what. Reaching the short wire fence, she lifted one bloated leg, fat & cellulite sagging toward the ground, & tried to climb over the fence.
Miraculously, Brandy got her leg over the fence; it hurt, but she didn’t care - she just had to escape. But as Brandy tried to pull herself over the fence, it buckled & sagged, sending Brandy sprawling to the ground, her legs tangled in the fence top, forcing her legs & ass to point straight up. Then, as if the universe wanted to add insult to injury, a geyser of diarrhea shot out of Brandy like Yellowstone. Burning like lava on the way out, it splattered down on Brandy soaking her in foul anal sewage. Laughing uproariously now, Ham grabbed one of Brady’s legs & untangling her from the fence, he began to drag her back to the RV. Barely conscious, Brandy was vaguely aware she was moving but felt like she was being dragged into hell.
The last thing Brandy remembered was something hot & burning in her cookie before she lost consciousness. Brandy awoke the next morning, hungover but functional. Last night was a blur; she could barely remember it. Brandy thought she’d run outside & remembered a burning blast leaving her ass. But looking around, she was lying on Ham’s stained mattress, her ass & cookie were sore yes but Brandy felt clean, her fur looked clean & she even smelled washed, it didn't make sense. What she didn’t know was that after Ham dragged her inside & fucked her diarrhea-splattered body, he bathed her & put her to bed.
“Was last night just a dream?”- Brandy wondered, slowly getting out of bed. She needed water but didn’t want to spike her headache.
Wandering out of the bedroom & into the kitchenette, it would have behooved Brandy to look up instead of down at feet she could no longer see but the buzzing fluorescents were more than she could bear. Grabbing a cup, Brandy took several long draughts of water. Behind her, she could hear Hamilton humming as he shuffled around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. It was the same mushy grits as always but right now the smell made Brandy want to vomit. Splashing water on her face, Brandy mentally prepared herself to face the day, to play the sadistic game of cat & mouse that Ham kept her trapped in.
Turning around, Brandy froze in confusion. Ham had hung up a banner reading congratulations, he’d blown up balloons & baked a cake. Bemused, Brandy was about to demand an answer like an entitled brat. When she spotted the decorations lining the cake, she saw pregnancy tests, all with two lines. Hamilton just grinned at Brandy’s reaction, it had been smart of him to get a cup of her piss in the shower to soak the test sticks in. It took a few seconds to click but Brandy remembered, remembered pissing on the kitchen floor & remembered Ham’s sadistic sneer as he showed her the positive result. Ham expected Brandy to try to waddle away again; instead, she just shut down. Her shoulders slumping, she just stared at the floor not moving. Mentally, Brandy’s brain turned off to save her from the horrific truth that her nightmares were becoming reality.
It didn’t matter to Ham, however, as instead of worrying, he simply walked Brandy to the table, sat her down, & began spoon-feeding her breakfast. Instinctively Brandy swallowed whatever was spooned into her mouth, so Ham wasn’t worried about her choking. If Brandy had been coherent, she’d have gagged at the foul taste mixed into the normally savory grits but for now, she just swallowed silently. Since she was carrying his child, Ham figured Brandy needed more protein so he added cum to his usual recipe. Once the pot was empty, Ham fed Brandy the cake, strawberry with chocolate & cum icing. The entire time, Ham doted on Brandy, hugging her, kissing her, & acting like a loving husband, while she stared in catatonic shock.
Ham lifted Brandy like she weighed nothing and carried her over to her recliner. Plopping down & turning on the TV, he spread her fat legs & began prodding her abused cookie with his cock. What was once hard & unyielding was now squishy & slimy, Brandy was still tight but instead of an annoying stop-start routine, Ham enjoyed a nice, slow push to the cervix. At her current size, Ham had about an inch of dick left dry without entering her womb. But that problem would solve itself, once her labia began to sag & rot, the thick fetid flesh would coat his dick completely.
Kissing Brandy all over, Ham penetrated her with slow, deep thrusts, making sure to bury his cock far into Brandy, twisting & turning as he attempted to open her cervix. Fortunately, after weeks of fucking Brandy’s body knew better than to resist Ham’s touch. Her cervix opened in short order, allowing Ham’s cock in, burying the last inch of his cock inside her before her cervix closed around his cock, creating a perfect seal. As if on cue, Ham unleashed a burning torrent of rotten cum into Brandy’s womb. This managed to elicit a response from Brandy, startling Hamilton as she began sobbing.
Despite her shock & catatonic state, the shattered pieces of Brandy's mind were forced together by the incalculable evil & malice contained in Hamilton’s load. His cum wouldn’t let her dissociate; his cum wouldn’t let Brandy escape her nightmares. As soon as the pig's fetid sperm polluted her womb, Brandy’s nightmare began playing across her stitched-together mind. Faster & harder each time until pig squealing blasted in her ears, leaving Brandy sobbing & shaking on Ham’s dick.
Well, despite his original surprise, Ham found Brandy’s tantrum incredibly hot, so instead of pulling out, he began raping her womb, fucking her right in the load he just blew. The slow, deep dicking would continue until it was time to start lunch. About an hour in Brandy would stop sobbing, reduced to whimpering, exhausted & out of tears to shed. Her cookie rubbed raw, her cervix itching & her womb bruised & sore from the hard backshots Ham’s cock gave it. He’d never fucked his bitch for this long before. Bradny’s stomach was visibly distended from the multiple loads in her womb & she appeared unable to hold her head up. Honestly, Ham only knew Brandy was conscious because of her whimpering.
Feeling peckish, Ham pulled his dick out of Brandy’s womb & for the first time, rivers of cum poured down around his cock, Brandy’s cervix unable to hold that many loads. In the back of her mind, Brandy could feel something pouring out of her but she couldn’t focus. Truthfully, Brandy couldn’t focus on anything; her nightmare was reduced to loud static like an old TV. Vaguely, Brandy was aware she was awake though she wasn’t in pain, just burning up. She could feel the massive log of hog cock leaving her as Ham lifted her off his dick, followed by a torrent of burning goo as her stomach deflated. Free of Ham’s cock with a wet squelch, Bandy could feel fresh air rushing into her gaping cookie & up into her womb. This cooled Brandy’s body but left her lady bits stinging & sore. Standing up, Ham left Brandy panting on his recliner, his torrent of shit cum soaking into the shredded leather seat cushion.
Chapter#30: Despite her exhaustion, both physically & mentally, Brandy’s mind refused to slip into the comfortable folds of unconsciousness, stubbornly clinging to the waking world. She was still panting on the recliner when Ham brought her lunch. Turning her head slightly, the look of pure loathing in Brandy’s eyes would make Khorne blush but Ham remained oblivious or indifferent. Picking up the obese Brandy with one arm, Ham sat her back down on his lap & began spoon-feeding her lunch. Brandy was aware of the fetid aftertaste this time but found herself incapable of doing anything about it. She couldn’t even regurgitate the meal as Ham fed her, lacking the strength to puke. Once the pot was empty, Brandy was left feeling painfully full as Ham kissed her deeply & rubbed her stomach lovingly, the contact made Brandy shudder.
After lunch, Ham spent the rest of the day sweetly rubbing Brandy, holding her while whispering sweet nothings in her ear. He didn’t bother trying to fuck her which for Brandy just made things worse. Her horniness & need to get off drove her closer & closer to touching herself in front of the pig, much to Ham’s amusement as he sucked the filth off her pube-covered fupa. Eventually, as Ham spoon-fed her dinner, Brandy lost & began digging a fatty paw into her sore & bruised-looking cookie. Moaning sloppily between mouthfuls of rancid gruel, Brandy was keenly aware of Hamiliton laughing at her, reveling in her misery as she finally lost control. But Brandy didn’t care; she couldn’t if she wanted to, she’d lost all control. Brandy could do nothing but dig her fat paw further into her bruised cookie, addictively seeking to satisfy herself. After several minutes & with a rather undignified howl, Brandy arched her back & sprayed a steaming, thick, pea-green sludge from her cookie all over the carpet. Completely spent & finally satisfied, Brandy couldn’t stave off the waves of exhaustion finally overtaking her & she passed out into a dreamless sleep in Ham’s lap. Grinning, Ham continued to feed the unconscious Brandy until the pot was empty before carrying her to bed, more excited about his favorite toy than ever before.
After that, Brandy just sorta gave up; Hamilton had broken her. No longer did the blond-ish dog dream about escaping or try to avoid her captor's touch. Instead, she spent all day dead-eyed & draping herself over the ruined loveseat rhythmically drilling her paw in & out of her cookie while she stuffed her face with cheap beer & as much junk food as she could take before needing to shit, just to do it all over again. No longer giving a shit, the old trailer rapidly returned to its former foul state, though the foul pig at its center was now Brandy instead of Ham. Half-heartedly, she considered that Ham may beat her to death for disobeying him. Instead, the fat pig seemed more turned on than ever. The reality was, that everything Ham had done & everything he ordered Brandy to do was to break her, slowly eroding her defiant spirit & dousing her fiery temper. Finally, it had worked & Ham had turned Brandy into a dull subservient sow, unable & unwilling to resist him, more a dirty, fat fleshlight than a dog. Within 3 months of getting pregnant, Brandy gained another 150lbs of beer & crap food-fueled lard & her hygiene tanked. Like the trailer, Brandy just stopped taking care of herself, accumulating new layers of grim, sweat, & filth by the day. Unwilling to wash her hands much less shower, unless she was feeling especially filthy (such as when Ham uses her face like a toilet), it didn’t help that every day Brandy found it a little harder to get up & every day the doorway to the toilet & by extension, the shower, was just a bit tighter.
By six months into her pregnancy, Brandy hated going to the bathroom, not just because she got stuck but because she couldn’t help but look in the mirror. All she could see was Trophy, the spitting image of her mother that Brandy remembered from puppyhood before she lost all that weight & visions of the foul bloated living carcass her mother had become played across her mind as she grunted & squirmed on the toilet, Sweating & trying not to sob as her rancid diet burned through her guts & exited her abused & bloated asshole like a runaway freight train. It disgusted & terrified her but Brandy couldn’t dissociate or even dwell in misery as whatever hellion Hamilton dumped in her womb kicked as if she owed it money.
Much like Ham predicted, once Brandy gave up, her body started to rot & spoil unimpeded. Her fat flesh filled with rancid lumps of lard, forcing her ass to sag to her knees with the weight of gravity pulling it down. Her stomach faired no better, ballooning outward like a fleshy tarp, gallon upon gallon of hot, rancid fat once again overtaking her pregnancy with rolls thicker than an arm sagging down to cover her crotch. Or it would save for her fupa which grew just as fast & jutted forward, propping up Brandy’s stomach & pushing her cookie forward so the opening was visible under her gut.
Thanks to the pregnancy, Brandy’s big tits began sagging immensely, covered in stretch marks as her perky funbags plopped heavily on her stomach, becoming far more fat than flesh as the nipples & areola thickened & darkened until Brandy was left with two obscene udders. Constantly sore Brandy found herself massaging them just to get through her days until the tightness finally gave way & her foul milk tanks began to produce. Horrified by this latest development, Brandy was tragically unaware of what the two sets of tender lumps beneath her breasts were. Besides all that, Brandy’s double chins got thicker, her bingo wings got bigger, her knees & elbows disappeared entirely, she sweated nothing but grease, staining her fur, with blemishes & cellulite marring the surface of every bit of flesh she had.
To no one's surprise, Ham loved every moment of this, more turned on by his unwilling plaything than ever. Whenever Ham was home, he was inside Brandy, raping her almost endlessly, going so far as using her as a urinal just to keep fucking. But what tickled his jimmies was Brandy herself; she’d given up on any form of dignity & almost begged Ham to fuck her the few instances when he was otherwise engaged. Brandy just didn’t care anymore, she’d lost all self-control & sexual stimulation was the only thing numbing her to the horrors of reality & her fat paw just wasn’t cutting it anymore, hell, two paws weren’t enough & junk food & cheap beer only went so far. Consequently, Ham leaving the trailer became something Brandy couldn’t stand, acting like a bitch in heat, begging for sex the moment he got home & hating herself for it.
Chapter#31: Nine months in, & Ham decided it was finally time to get married, couldn’t let his rape baby be a bastard now, could he? Brandy, having broken the loveseat months ago, now spent most of her time either in bed or lying on the living room floor, getting plowed & eating or trying to pleasure herself & eating while waiting for Ham to fuck her, all while her tits dribble a constant stream of a sticky substance Brandy refused to think about. So when one Sunday morning, Ham roused her early, forcing the 500-pound Brandy to struggle to her feet (an amusing visual, to be sure) & half-dragging her to his metal prison shower to scrub her down; she was less than amused. Confused & demanding answered in her now slow & unintelligent southern drawl, Ham’s only response was to grab a pendulous breast, squeezing until Brandy sprayed lard milk all over the shower, making her moan & shutting her up. Speaking of breasts, Brandy now had six, all massive & foul. Those tender lumps? An evolutionary holdover usually reserved for the fattest of mutt broodsows. Until she realized what they were, Brandy didn’t think her self-esteem & self-worth could get any lower until the horror of her discovery sent her spiraling as her new tits darkened and swelled before dribbling foul fluids like the rest. Now, Brandy wanted nothing more than to curl up & die, another piece of trash on the floor but Hamilton, her lack of willpower, & her bottomless addiction to sexual stimulation refused to let her go. After the shower, Ham surprised Brandy with a gift, a massive muumuu with an elaborately gaudy flower pattern. The only things Ham had ever gotten her were cheap makeup & her replica collar, now choker, so to say Brandy was surprised was an understatement. Her dimwitted mind tried to think of a reason for the gift as Ham helped her get dressed, but came up blank. Brandy resorted to asking but as usual, Ham ignored her. Answering her would validate her as an anthro & not just a plaything.
Once Brandy was dressed and her makeup done up, Ham hustled her out the front door, a difficult process as Brandy barely fit. This left her scared & further confused as Brandy hadn’t been outside in weeks much less at Ham’s urging. She was further bemused once Ham began steering her towards his rusty pickup. Rapidly filling with an ice-cold sense of dread, Brandy couldn’t think of a single GOOD reason Ham would get her in his truck. She feared he was passing her off to someone else or planned to dump her in the swamp to let the animals, insects, or elements dispose of her. No one would ever find her body, reasoned Brandy, her two remaining brain cells rubbing together with enough friction to start a fire.
Despite Ham’s immense strength, Brandy had become a challenge to move for the last few weeks with her weight skyrocketing as her pregnancy neared its end. So when I say loading Brandy into the bed of his truck was an ordeal, it was an ordeal. Burying his hands in the mountainous amount of sweaty, greasy, ass & leg fat covering Brandy, Ham had to push his squealing bitch up as Brandy lifted one monstrously fat leg onto the tailgate to slowly try & pull herself up while Hamilton lifted her remaining girth. With a lot of sweating, cursing, & the front of the truck lifting as the back sank, Brandy was finally loaded into the back like a fat farm animal, with Ham slamming the tailgate closed behind her. Getting into the driver's seat, the truck turned over with a loud rumble & a moment later, Ham & Brandy were moving away from the trailer & tiny island, rumbling down the dirt road into the unknown.
They drove for about an hour, serenaded by the cacophony of swamp sounds & static-filled country music from the truck's old radio. Lacking shocks, the truck bounced & bumped something fierce. Fortunately, Brandy’s 500 pounds of blubber acted like a natural shock absorber, but the southern spring air was sweltering; yet Brandy couldn’t shake the cold feeling of dread & deep wrongness. Her baby thought the same as the brat began thrashing and shaking from the moment Brandy got in the pickup & refused to stop, much to Brandy’s chagrin. The brat was normally active, but never to this extent, & never caused this much pain, all of which only added to Brandy’s worry. Her fears only amplified as Hamilton finally left the dirt roads behind, tires hitting asphalt as the truck rumbled past an old sign reading: Swampville, 5 miles. Adding to her fear, Brandy was mortified by the sight of anyone seeing her, seeing what she’d become. Bradny had been a pop star, an actress; she couldn’t stand the thought of other anthros seeing her as this fat, disgusting sow leaking from her every hole & staining her muumuu with sweat and body fluids.
On several occasions, Brandy considered popping the tailgate & just rolling out to try & escape, but dismissed the idea every time. There was no way Ham wouldn’t notice the sudden shift & lack of weight in the truck bed. More than that, Brandy knew she couldn’t escape him; he had a truck & it took everything she had just to stand up & waddle to the toilet. Despite her present situation, awakening feelings of shame & embarrassment Brandy hadn’t felt in months, she was far too broken to try anything, tamed by Ham & reduced to a meek weak-willed sow. So when the truck rumbled into the small farm town, all Brandy could do was quietly sob & try to cover her face as everyone out on the warm Sunday turned to stare at what they assumed at first was livestock being transported from one farm to another. The truth, however, became apparent when Ham turned into the packed parking lot of the white, high-steepled church. To their dying day, many an Anthro of Swampville would remember the day pastor Hamilton unloaded what had to be the single fattest woman they’d ever seen from the bed of his pickup. Many thought she was a cow or an exceptionally large hog, so the fact that she was an anthropomorphic woman came as quite a shock. However, compared to the horrors yet to come & the events soon to be forever seared into the minds of the church's congregation, it was nothing.
Removing Brandy from the truck proved easier than loading her Ham. He simply rolled the obese dog out of the truck & onto the asphalt with a loud thud, as Brandy’s girth seemed to shift from her head to her feet & back again, like a fleshy lava lamp, before returning to normal. Helping Brandy stand, her Muumuu was scuffed from the fall & covered in stains, filth, & large wet spots from the foul fluids her body produced during the long hot trip. Besides the Muumuu, Brandy’s mascara ran down her face, ruined by a combination of sweat & sobbing out of shame. Ignoring all this & apathetic/ oblivious to Brandy’s feelings, Ham took her by one massive cellulite-covered arm & ushered her into the church, holding the doors open wide so Brandy would fit as she slowly waddled inside. Inside, a small congregation dressed in their Sunday best filled the wooden pews, with the Deacon standing beside the lectern, as the Pastor was currently helping a morbidly obese stranger inside. The small but dedicated congregation was informed last week that today's regular proceedings would be substituted with the wedding of a member of the congregation & pillar of the community but no one knew who. As soon as the door swung shut behind Brandy everyone (save Ham) began to gag & dry heave. Having spent nearly a year eating & fucking her body into a rancid blob, Brandy had become nose blind enough not to realize she smelt like a burning landfill & Ham loved it so he didn't mention it. Sure he’d scrubbed the visible filth from her fur that morning but that wouldn’t deal with the months of accumulated filth in her folds & the overall smell of rot & filth Brandy spewed endlessly. So as Ham walked her down the aisle, the congregation, through tear-filled, half-closed, realized that A.) reverend Hamilton was getting married & B.) it was to this foul, foul creature. Not wanting to seem rude many Anthros clapped & gave half-hearted congratulations between coughing fits; no one even tried to stand up. The only guest in attendance not coughing to death (including other pigs) was the Deacon, though for as little as Ham knew about the guy, that could be for any number of reasons. The old goat was the only Anthro besides Hamilton who knew he was the one getting married today & as such, being the Deacon, he’d be conducting the ceremony. The old Goat had agreed to the task with the same blase monotone he always used, which even Ham found off-putting. Regardless, he’d agreed which was all Ham needed to get the ball rolling on this humiliating farce.
Chapter#32: Waddling unwillingly down the aisle, escorted by Hamilton, Brandy’s other paw rested on her ginormous stomach, sloping & sagging more than a foot in front of her, the brat inside wouldn’t settle down at all. Normally, Brandy would eat to calm her almost bastard child or it would normally calm on its own after a while. Here, she had no snacks & her life-ruining monster refused to let up in the slightest, so all Brandy could do was suffer through the internal beating, praying she wouldn’t collapse in the middle of the church.
The walk to the altar took forever as Brandy waddled at a glacial pace, & Ham had no desire to expedite things, soaking in & enjoying every moment of Brandy’s humiliation & suffering. At that time, some of the congregation had composed themselves & opened all the windows, providing much-needed relief for the other churchgoers/ wedding guests. Consequently, almost everyone had recovered by the time Brandy & Hamilton were in position, though many donned face masks to block the awful, though no longer all-consuming odors.
Standing in front of the crowd, Brandy’s face was bright red, hating Ham, hating this parody of a ceremony, hating her unborn, & hating the guests for staring at her, though most were deliberately looking elsewhere. Truthfully it boiled down to a deep-seated & ugly resentment for Anthros Brandy had never met. Why hadn’t anyone come & saved her, why wasn't anyone trying now? Brandy was frankly offended that these people could sit there & watch her suffer, being forced into a ceremony she wanted no part of & do nothing, never even speaking up in disapproval. Truthfully, this wedding raised red flags for everyone in attendance & many would’ve intervened if it wasn’t for Pastor Hamilton standing across from his bride-to-be. As such & with great reservation, everyone remained seated & silent, the simple farm folk much too polite to speak out against the town Pastor without reason. If only Brandy had said something, pity.
The old goat began a traditional ceremony, droning on in his lifeless, monotonous voice, though whether Brandy heard a word of it was anyone's guess. The morbidly obese canine spent the ceremony with both ham arms on her gigantic stomach, trying not to double over in pain or fall over entirely. Brandy’s brat was beating her insides, all four paws hurt, her back, knees, & hips were screaming from standing this long, & between the heat, the sweating, & struggling to breathe past her fat, Brandy was at serious risk of passing out. Blood was rushing in her ears, her vision flickered, causing Brandy’s focus to fixate on her stomach pain. Surprisingly, she made it through half the ceremony before her baby shifted in her fatty womb & the world went sideways.
The attendees gasped as Brandy toppled over sideways before rolling onto her back. Frozen in shock, no one moved, many convinced they’d just witnessed this dangerously obese woman have a heart attack. Despite this, the deacon continued his speech as if nothing had happened, & pastor Hamilton just grinned; he knew what was up & bet Brandy wished she was having a heart attack. Moments later, Brandy began to groan & fart, much to the congregation's relief & disgust, thankful she hadn’t dropped dead.
For her part, Brandy was barely conscious. Her brat had shifted hard & sent a wave of rippling pain throughout Brandy’s body. Lying on her back, Brandy was helpless as another wave of pain ripped through her & her rancid asshole blasted farts like a foghorn, making many a churchgoer visibly ill despite being farmers. The third wave forced Brandy into a hyper-alert state, as she became instantly aware of everything going on around her. She began to cry, just wanting to pass out & escape this humiliating nightmare. Trying to sit up in a vain attempt to regain the smallest amount of dignity, a fourth ripple knocked her back down as she felt a massive gush of fluid escape her ruined cookie cunt. This finally broke the congregation as the rapidly forming puddle of brown slurry beneath Brandy was comparable to tear gas. Stampeding for all exits, the church quickly emptied until only Brandy Hamilton & the Decon remained. How the Decon continued to ramble on, not even Ham knew, as the smell was making even him gag.
Unable to speak, Brandy silently prayed & wailed for the pain to end as she felt her ruined cervix start to open.
& a massive mass began to force its way through. Despite its rancid & bloated state, Brandy felt her birth canal stretch painfully as her massive brat started slowly making its way towards freedom. Sobbing, Brandy tried to clench, tried to stop herself from birthing this evil, knowing that once her baby was born, she would be utterly beyond saving. Not knowing or caring about the consequences, Brandy prayed that if she could just stop the mass, then it would go away. That if it wasn’t born, then she could go back to being a normal girl instead of a disgusting, disease-ridden sow. In her heart, Brandy knew that her efforts were futile; her muscles had rotted & atrophied to the point she could barely stand, much less stop a baby from being born. All she managed to do was amplify her suffering, turning the painful process into unbearable agony.
For hours, Brandy lay on the church floor, sobbing but too weak to speak as her baby slowly & visibly moved closer and closer to freedom. She could feel her labia stretching & growing as it deformed & changed to accommodate the giant creature creeping towards it at a glacial pace. The rancid brown flesh transforming into a gaping, greasy hole with slimy & thick meat curtains the color of well-done ground beef. Despite the smell at Ground Zero being so bad that it could choke an elephant, Brandy remained fully awake & aware of everything, her eyes swelling shut & her puffy, red nose streaming mucus. Worse still, she felt everything, her brat's movements, her body swelling with rot, & her six tits undulating as they sprayed an ever-thickening slurry of festering lard milk that burned her nipples & had the consistency of spoiled mayo. Silently, she prayed for Papa Nurgle to save her, begging for salvation from this living nightmare of pain & torment, but none came. Just the mocking silence of uncaring gods & a universe desiring her to suffer.
Eight hours later & the sun had long since set, the old goat, having finished his sermon hours ago, left, leaving Brandy & Ham alone. Having gotten a chair, Ham sat stroking his dick as he watched his 500lbs new teen wife struggle to give birth on the floor, her baby not even halfway out but stretching her birth canal more than Ham thought possible. Brandy stared at him with her swollen eyes, silently pleading for him to help her, to do anything to ease her suffering. Ham just blew ropes of shit cum on her stomach & face as a response. No, the only relief Brady got was the massive garbage bag of fast food compost Ham had left in the sun to fester. Despite her loathing, Brandy couldn't stop her sausage fingers from ripping the bag open, spilling its fetid contents on her morbidly obese stomach. A smell worse than even her foul birth sludge, Brandy couldn’t help but stuff her face, desperate to numb her suffering.
A day later & Brandy finally felt relief as a wet pop from her labia marked an end to her pain. Covered in rancid food stains, trash, & a lot of brown shit cum, the last thing Brady heard was fat ugly crying before slipping into blissful unconsciousness. Sticking his new daughter (for that's what she was) on one of Brandy’s nipples, Ham began the arduous task of loading 500lbs of dead weight back into his truck. Brandy didn’t awaken until around noon the next day; her dreams were plagued with nightmares about being an immobile puppy mill. When she did awake, she found herself back on Ham's filthy mattress. She briefly wondered if it was all a horrible nightmare, but her sore, aching body proved otherwise. Absolutely famished, Brandy attempted to roll over so she could work her way slowly to her feet, but stopped as she felt something warm & squirming pushing against her gut. Slowly looking down in abject terror, Brandy screamed as she beheld the fat baby lying next to her, realizing her nightmares had come true.
Chapter#33: Ten years later: Brandy stood in the small, filthy living area of Ham’s trashed RV, the place having fallen into worse disrepair than ever. Trash littered the floor, intertwined sporadically with crappy kids' toys & other assorted junk. Ears ringing like she’d just been flashbanged, the now 700lbs Brandy wanted nothing more than to sit down, her legs burned from trying to support her weight & the act of moving exhausted her, as she labored to breathe through smothering fat. Weeping softly, her right eye was quickly swelling up as her mascara ran. Ham, drinking a bottle of non-alcoholic wine, had just hit her… again. He blamed her for their daughter, Sweety, a fat pig-dog who looked almost identical to Bradny at that age, minus the pig nose, having just tested positive on a pregnancy test. Sweety, who was dressed in a ripped purple dress, patched jeans & sandals, was sporting a massive gut & her fatty pre-teen breasts sprayed milk as she sobbed; the little brat didn’t want to be pregnant. Ham blamed Brandy for it, sure, he was fucking Sweety almost every day, but she was Brandy’s responsibility, so clearly this was her fault & Hamilton made sure she felt the wrath of his displeasure.
Hating her life, Brandy had become everything her mother was, a dumb, worthless, fetid carcass of rancid fat & foul flesh that didn’t have the dignity to die. Naked as the day she arrived, Brandy could no longer leave the RV if she wanted to, as she was unable to fit through the door. Barely able to waddle & unable to stand without help, Brandy spent most of the day lying in bed, struggling to breathe, with Sweety forced to do all cooking & cleaning since Brandy couldn’t do her wifely duties anymore. Spending all day eating or being mounted by Ham, Brandy didn’t have the luxury of ignorance & stupidity her mom had; she was dumbed down to the point of idiocy, sure, but she was left keenly aware of how awful she & her life were. How her massive, bloated stomach full of rot & waste spilled out down her obese legs & sides, her limbs near useless tubes of fat she could barely lift & she struggled to breathe past her own fat. Unable to clean herself, her fur was greasy & filthy, her cookie cunt a giant overstretched gaping hole spewing foul sludge with a huge clit & a bunch of nasty blackheads in her ratsnest of pubes, smegma coated everything between her legs & she relied on Sweety to clean her, a task she hated. Her giant ass was full of cellulite & fat, rotten to the core & stank like death spilling out from behind her thighs and hanging past her rancid cunt, Fupa so swollen it stuck out from under her sagging stomach. Her six breasts, giant sacks of fat covered in veins & stretch marks, ending in huge brown rubbery nipples, & leaking yellow slop constantly.
In contrast to the living carcass, Ham had never looked better, firmer, or younger, & was now energized. He’d stolen everything from Brandy, withered her soul to near nothing & left her rotten, fetid just like Trophy, & just when Brandy thought nothing could get worse, the Twins came. Sandy & Cindi, the twins, were two fat pigs with blond hair & long floppy dog ears, two more leeches on Brandy’s life.
Standing in the living room, the twins feed from her engorged slop spouts. Brandy, in Pain & covered in filth, unaware she was pregnant again, wished she had never left the jungle & just let Whiskers have his way with her because nothing could be worse than this hell.
Meanwhile, Mr. Producer sat in a lawn chair in his backyard, Trophy’s memorial small & forgotten in a corner, she’d passed not long after giving birth to his daughter, Mandy & was missed by absolutely no one. Simply rolled into a huge hole, buried & subsequently forgotten. Spredding his legs further apart, MR. Producer smiled as Kandi went from suckinging his balls to sucking his nasty dick. The obese 11-year-old Doberman was on her third pregnancy, with a huge gut jutting forward with a dust ruffle of fat growing off it. Naked as always, her nasty, bloated cunny dripped rancid fluid & her ass stank like a cesspool. Having never gone to school, she was nothing more than the producer's puppy mill & she loved it, always wanting her bloated body stuffed with his evil cum. Meanwhile, his daughter, Mandy, was stuffing her face as a Doberman railed her, 9 years old, obese, pregnant & happy as could be lying next to Kandi’s two girls, sucking dick like formula bottles.
Sighing in contentment, Mr Producer & Ham, so far away, both looked around, sighing in contentment with just how perfect their lives were, the end.",
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