Perfect Pour (Patreon)

(Commission story)

Serge Guryanov’s pale green eyes darted about the biker bar, keeping an eye on his customers and employees. It was the night of Thanksgiving, but the joint was as busy as any other evening. At the door, Hacksaw was turning away a kid with a spotless denim jacket and an overly groomed lumberjack beard. The thing had been straightened and shaped to within an inch of its life, with perfectly curved cheek lines and faded sides. It made the owner look like a mannequin. “Dumbass,” Serge muttered to himself. The youngster probably thought he was tough enough to blend in with the bar’s crowd of crazies, pervs and low-level criminals. Hacksaw was doing him a favor. The regulars would have kicked his ass. And then fingered it.

Serge’s salt-and-pepper whiskers were of wizardly proportions, contrasting with his shaved head. He combed it with his fingers as he continued to scan the room. The usual Thursday night poker tournament was in full swing by the jukebox. High rollers Tater and Hawk looked tense, but not enough for the game to devolve into a fistfight. In the corner booth, Dax was showing off his tattoos to his latest “mail order” boyfriend. The smelly fuck could never score any ass locally. He always had to romance his boys online and pay for them to travel halfway across the country so they could live with him.

Eternally phlegmatic Maxim was decked out in his rubber gear tonight. He ordered a Jameson, neat, and bitched about the broken urinal in the men’s room. “You’re down to just one decent pisser,” he gurgled. “The line is backing up to the pool tables because of that busted piece of crap. When are you going to replace it?”

“Up to the landlord,” Serge sighed. “I’ve left him a ton of voicemails about it. Fucker…! You know landlords. They don’t wanna spend money. Just receive it.”

Maxim made a wet little huffing noise. “You can’t just replace it yourself? I’m sorry, I thought you were a man.” He winked, to show he was teasing, and to keep Serge from automatically punching him in the face.

Still, Serge felt his spine stiffen at the remark. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“You do you,” Maxim shrugged. “But you’re gonna lose customers over it.”

And at the end of the bar was gray-bearded Burlington, sucking on his cigar and craning his furry neck around, watching the bar even more intensely than Serge himself.

Serge poured another draft for the retired roadie and personally brought it to him. “Suppose you tell me what’s so damned fascinating, Burl,” he said. The greeting startled Burlington so thoroughly, he jumped up from his stool and bobbled his cigar, nearly dropping it.

Burlington theatrically clutched his chest. “Don’t do that…! My old ticker can’t take the strain.”

Serge grinned. “But cigars are okay, huh? Seriously, though, what are you looking at?”

“This place, that’s all.” He clamped the cigar in his mouth and patted Serge’s arm. “How you holding up, by the way? It must have been a shock, huh?”

When Serge explained that he didn’t know what the hell he was babbling about, Burlington dropped a major bombshell on him. The old fart had it on good authority that the bar’s landlord was planning on terminating his lease. The old neighborhood was changing. Yuppies, or whatever they were called these days, were moving in. The greasy spoon diners, thrift stores, and discount smoke shops were getting pushed out to make way for trendy, high dollar bullshit. The landlord wanted a piece of the action. He’d been talking to “a friend of a friend of a friend,” some retired biker who had gone into finance, about kicking out Serge and renting the space for twice the price to some asshole with a chain of wine bars. Wine bars, for fuck’s sake.

“Happy fuckin’ Holidays,” the old cigar bear concluded. He slumped down on his stool, looking weirdly ashamed of himself. “I didn’t know that you didn’t know, brother,” he rasped. “I feel like a real dick, now.”

Serge tapped his long, black nails on the bar. He always did that when he was agitated. He glanced down at his beefy forearms. They were covered in tats depicting alchemical symbols intertwined with ancient gods and demons. Unlike most other bikers, the images weren’t just for show. They were a sign of his devotion. A plan began to form in the darkest corners of his mind. He suppressed the urge to smirk. Instead, he took a step back and smiled beatifically. “It’s all good, brother,” he told Burlington. “’Cause I know some things the landlord doesn’t know.”

The bastard’s name was Victor Thorpe Jr. The kid was a mere twenty-four years old and annoyingly attractive. High cheekbones, plump lips, perfect teeth, a thousand eyelashes, and a full head of wavy black hair, accessorized with a short but dense beard. And he was built like an action hero. A tall, broad-shouldered Chad with a shredded gym rat bod and a bubble butt, not to mention a huge dick. All of it wrapped in form-fitting designer suits. Serge decided it was time to perform some reverse alchemy and turn that gold into lead.

He rarely flexed his abilities these days. Potion magic was “messy” in every meaning of the term. It also tended to invite hauntings by lesser imps and malevolent spirits the way a picnic attracted ants. But if he had to swat away a few bumbling demonic entities while saving his bar, so be it.

Junior started leaving messages with him the following Monday, asking to meet in person. That worked to Serge’s advantage. It meant that Junior had enough respect, or fear, for Serge to break the bad news to him man-to-man instead of pussing out with an email. Serge also knew that Junior would want to avoid a scene at his office by meeting him at the bar. Driving to the bar would be an inconsequential concession on Junior’s part. Or at least, that’s what Junior would think. Serge put him off for a week, to give himself time to prepare.

Serge unlocked the door for Junior at nine in the morning on a Tuesday. The bar wasn’t open to the public yet. The kid strutted past him, wrinkling his nose at the lingering odor of smoke that permeated all the wood surfaces. Junior stared up at the garlands of dried flowers and herbs that hung from the beams and dryly remarked that it didn’t look like evergreen or holly.

“It’s mostly snowdrops,” Serge told him. “Fun fact, they’re what the ancient Greeks referred to as ‘moly.’”

Junior flashed a phony smile. “A fact, definitely. You’ll have to explain the ‘fun’ part to me, because I never heard of either one of those things.”

Serge ignored this comment and returned the fake smile with one of his own. “Belly up to the bar, Mr. Thorpe. Let me pour you a cold one.”

Junior grimaced. “No time. In twenty minutes, I have a Zoom meeting with a venture capital firm. In Paris.” He raised an eyebrow and gazed silently at Serge, clearly waiting for him to act impressed.

Serge regarded him with a dead face for a few moments before flatly answering, “Ooh la la. Seriously, just one beer. I insist. Only way we’re talking, Mr. Thorpe.”

Junior warily did as he was told and took a seat near the well. “You’ve probably heard some rumors,” he began.

“People like to flap their gums,” Serge shot back. “Doesn’t mean shit’s gonna happen.” He collected two mugs and sauntered past the well, to the two older taps along the back wall. The ones that hadn’t been operational for years. As he poured, he said, “You’re gonna love this stuff. Smooth as a twink’s ass, I guarantee.”

Junior was still looking at the newer taps directly in front of him. “I was thinking I would just have a Natty Light.”

Serge pretended to be hurt by this. “Just a taste. You don’t wanna be a rude guest, do ya?” He set the mug down in front of him.

The kid inhaled sharply but held his tongue. He raised the foamy mug to his lips and took a sip. At once, the tension in his pretty face evaporated. “Not bad,” he chuckled. He put the mug down on the bar but just as quickly picked it up again and took another, longer drink. “So, I’ve been looking at the returns I’ve been making on my investments, including my rental properties, and I’ve come to the conclusion…!” The mug was at his lips again. Junior’s gorgeous eyes widened a bit, betraying his surprise. But he drank. “I’ve concluded, um…!” He took another drink, his longest one yet. “Goddamn, this is excellent,” he said under his breath. He tipped the mug to his lips again and sucked the rest of the brew down, then unleashed a reverberating belch.

Serge swiftly poured his victim another draft and shoved in into his hands. Junior chugged it down without another word and belched even longer and louder than the first time. Foam clung to his beard. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled. “I’m not a beer man, normally. I usually order vodka and soda. Better for the physique. This beer of yours is something else, though!”

“I’m all about keeping the customer happy,” Serge grinned. He seized the mug and hustled back to the alchemical tap. The scheme was panning out exactly as well as he’d hoped. Junior was already looking a bit puffy in the face. It dulled the angles of it, making him look much friendlier. But merely “friendly” wasn’t good enough. One more draft would do the trick.

Junior finished it off in a few seconds. The boy was getting very good at swallowing. Gas rumbled in his midsection. He opened his mouth to burp, but no noise emerged. Grimacing, he stared down at his chest. The rumbling grew louder as the buttons on the bottom half of his shirt spread apart. His washboard stomach was history. Panic flashed in his eyes as a growing belly pressed against the fabric. Junior’s manicured hands scrabbled at the shirt, struggling to undo the buttons. They popped off on their own, noisily rebounding off the marble bar top. And then it was done.

Junior stared, dumbfounded, at the bulbous beer gut that had appeared, marring his formerly perfect gym body. His fingers grazed the taut, pale skin. The plump flesh bore zigzagging vertical stretch marks and a triangle-shaped expanse of short, curling hairs emerging from below his beltline.

Serge snorted. “Not a beer man, huh? Bullshit, kid. You’re walking around with your own personal keg.”

Junior sputtered, “No, no, this is… I didn’t have this before! …Did I?” His mouth hung open.

Serge noted the asshole’s vague expression. Junior was in a highly suggestible state right now. With the ferocity of a shark, the old bar owner went in for the kill. “Of course, you did, Junior! That’s kind of your thing, near as I can tell. Some advice, though… you gotta stop buying those tight shirts. You always end up busting through them.”

Junior slid off the stool, his altered center of gravity catching him off-balance and making him stumble. “This is a disaster,” he cried. “I can’t go out in public like this!”

“I got you covered. Come with me, dumbass.” He noticed that Junior wasn’t objecting to all the diminishing names he was calling him. That was promising. His gorgeous head of hair was looking a bit thin in front and at the temples. That was promising, too. Succeeding potions would strengthen these secondary effects.

Without explaining himself, Serge detoured into the men’s room. Junior stayed close behind, and only backed up a few feet when Serge strode over to a urinal and started pissing. Serge turned around and let the fucker look at his monster rod for a few moments before he zipped up. He noticed Junior’s gaze slip over his shoulders and land on the urinals. His nostrils flared. Just once.

Serge exited the men’s room and headed for the “lost and found” box in the storage room. He pulled out a voluminous grease-stained hoodie and tossed it at the kid. “I think this is your size,” he growled. “Even with that big belly of yours.”

Junior handled the hoodie like he didn’t want to look at it, much less touch it. Serge jabbed his gut. “Since when do you give a shit about a little grime? The way I remember it, you were never the cleanest boy around.”

Junior’s shoulders slumped. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled the thing over his head. A bit of grease smeared on his cheek. That was by design. The kid caught his reflection in a small window and winced. “I have to go,” he said, quietly. “I was going to discuss something with you, but I can’t remember what it is.”

Serge slapped him on the back. “No worries. You come back here when you remember. I got all the time in the world.”

Junior showed up again just before the bar closed for the night. Serge didn’t want the regulars to see him until he was done “cooking,” so he guided him into his office and locked the door. He waited until all the guests and the other bartenders had left, and then he opened the door again.

Junior was sitting there patiently with his hands in his lap. He hurriedly got up and said, “Thanks again for agreeing to meet with me. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time for you.”

So, the kid had forgotten about their earlier encounter. The potion had softened his brain, or else he was in denial about getting transformed by a wily old Bear. Either way, his fate was squarely in Serge’s calloused paws.

Again, Serge talked him into having a beer. It was even easier this time. His need for the brew was growing.

“I’m surprised that you’re out this late at night,” Serge opined. “Business guys like you, I figured you’d be into getting a solid eight hours so you can get up with the sun and grind or whatever you kids call it.”

“Money never sleeps,” Junior replied. He was staring at the taps, licking his lips. Serge noticed that his words were a bit slurred, his eyes unfocused. He was drunk already and doing his damnedest to appear professional. It wasn’t working.

His fancy bespoke suit had been replaced with a cheap off-the-rack number. It seemed to be a size too large. Even his dress shirt was baggy, the thin fabric straining only at his protruding gut. His shoes were the same as before, but they looked scuffed and dirty. He was a wreck.

Sweat dotted his brow. He clumsily wiped his hand at it, then sloughed off his jacket to reveal a set of disgusting pit stains. He was no one’s idea of an alpha male. Not anymore.

Serge poured the draft expertly as always, with just the right amount of foam. This was a different potion, with a different primary effect. He couldn’t wait to see how it made Junior look.

Junior seized the proffered mug with both hands and emptied it down his throat in one long gulp. Foam clung to the dark hairs on his chin, making him look older.

Serge snorted. “No gag reflex, huh? You’d be very popular here on a Saturday night! Well, not here at the bar, specifically. But in the men’s room for sure.”

The idiot jerked his head back and pursed his lips. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Easy, boy… just a joke.” Serge waited for Junior to do some macho posturing and object to being called “boy.” Instead, the kid just looked baffled.

The fabric rippled against his beer belly. The magic was building again. The foam on his chin fizzed into vapor, leaving the hair beneath it a dingy gray.

Junior burped. Just a small one, but as he did, the thinned hair at his temples and the front of his hairline evaporated, while the nearby hair thinned out. Another burp. Dark bags bulged out beneath his beautiful eyes. Another burp, a longer, deeper one this time. Fine lines etched themselves in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. Junior stared blearily at his hands, which were shaking. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” he babbled. “I feel off.”

“I know just what you need,” Serge grinned. He placed another mug in front of him.

Sweating even harder, Junior sucked the draft down. He immediately belched. Gray hairs threaded through his raven locks and beard. He looked twenty years older, and a rough twenty at that. Perspiration streamed down his forehead. He clumsily wiped at it and ran his trembling fingers through his hair. A good amount of hair came loose at the crown of his head and stuck to his damp fingers. He didn’t seem to notice this before the hair fizzed into nothingness.

“You look troubled, bub,” Serge said, sympathetically. “How’s the old landlording game treating you, anyhow?”

The question appeared to confuse him. He repeated, “How is it treating me…?“

Serge leaned in. The boy’s suggestibility at this stage was his favorite part of the potions’ effects. “Let me guess. You’re struggling. You inherited a ton of money and property, but you don’t have a head for business, do you? You keep making bad investments. Bad decisions in general. And you have to keep selling off your properties at a loss to keep your head above water. Must be stressful. No wonder you drink so much! And it’s making you fat and slow and kinda dumb, huh? Plus, you keep getting distracted by some pretty crazy kinks, I bet. No judgment, boy. I’m just saying.”

Junior’s shoulders slumped as the new reality of his life soaked into his distorted flesh. Gesturing feebly at the taps, he mumbled, “I could use another beer.”

“Later,” Serge growled. “Maybe.” He slipped out from behind the bar and made a show of putting chairs on tables. He could hear Junior behind him, wheezing. He was in a sorry state. Good. Serge looked forward to making things worse for him. After a minute, he said, “Of course, I might be able to help you out.” With that, he moseyed in the direction of the men’s room. He could hear Junior’s hard-soled shoes smacking against the wood floor as he followed closely behind him.

This time, Junior boldly stared at the bar owner’s cock as he emptied his bladder. His expression had a curious cast. It looked thirsty.

“Um,” Junior ventured, “you were saying…?”

Serge, still holding his thick shaft, turned to face his victim. Piss dribbled from his slit onto Junior’s shoes. “Oh, that. Yeah, I might know some guys who can take some of your properties off your hands. And at a decent price, too. You’d be surprised at how many high rollers come in here. There’s pervs at every income level, son, and a lot of them owe me favors.” As he spoke, he playfully tugged at his cock and tickled his balls, shaking more piss from it.

Juniors own equine member struggled to escape his bargain brand trousers, noticeably tenting the crotch and staining it with precum. The absurd size of the thing would be dealt with soon enough. Junior’s worn face brightened. “That would be amazing, sir!” He looked away, mouthing the word “sir,” as though he was surprised that he had used the term.

Serge zipped up and exited the men’s room. “No promises. I’ll make some calls tomorrow. You meet me here tomorrow night, same time.” He unlocked the front door and held it open, silently glaring at Junior with one eyebrow raised. The kid got the message and waddled dejectedly onto the sidewalk. The streetlights glinted off his bald spot.

The boy didn’t bother wearing a suit when he appeared the next evening. Instead, he had on ripped jeans, workboots, a ribbed undershirt and a heavy tan canvas jacket. The undershirt rode up on his belly, making him look even trashier. His hair had been buzzed, emphasizing the degraded state of his hairline. He wobbled as he sat nervously in Serge’s office. Serge ducked his head into the room to check on him as he went through the routine of closing the bar. He found the kid glued to his phone and rubbing his crotch. A porn addiction. Probably where he’d gotten the idea for his new look. Serge hadn’t planned that for him, but it was a fun bonus.

He made Junior wait a while, to maximize his anxiety and his thirst. When he thought he had pushed the boy far enough, he stomped into his office and bellowed, “Bar. Now.”

The fat fuck scrambled to the bar and hoisted his flabby butt onto a stool. With a goopy smile, he cried, “You’re the best, Mr. Guryanov.”

Serge snapped, “You don’t get to call me by my name, bitch. It’s ‘sir’ only.”

Junior shuddered, a strange delight registering on his round face. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Good boy. Here, drink up.” He slid a mug filled with the third stage potion into the boy’s sweating palms.

Junior eagerly downed the brew and made a quavering little burp. “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, did you have any luck finding clients for me today?”

Serge scoffed. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He handed the chump a fresh mug, which he quickly chugged.

The boy’s face fell. “I thought… I thought you said…!”

Serge put his stony face just a few inches away from Junior’s. “Said what? You gonna tell me what I said, now? You gonna try to play me, you sleazy little shit? Go on. Try it. You tell me what I supposedly said.”

Junior shrank away. “I’m sorry, Mister, um, sir… I guess I must be confused.”

“That’s one word for it,” Serge sneered. “I know why you always come sniffing around here. Fucking pathetic.”

The boy’s mouth gaped open. What came out wasn’t an objection or an apology, but a belch. As he did, he seemed to slump down in his seat, just a bit. But Serge knew that wasn’t what was happening.

He also knew the effect would be no fun to view if he let the boy continue to sit. Playing up his anger, he swore under his breath and rushed out from behind the bar. Junior’s eyes went wide. They went even wider when Serge seized him by the back of his neck and dragged him across the bar into the men’s room hallway. Junior didn’t object when the old Bear pinned him against the wall.

In an upright position, it was apparent that the kid had lost a few inches in height. It suited him. The prick had always been small in spirit. Serge was just making his body match his character.

Serge couldn’t see Junior’s crotch from this angle – not with his beer belly blocking it – but he was certain the kid was boning out from the abuse. Serge put his lips near the boy’s fat neck and let his smoky, whiskey-scented breath wash over his oily flesh. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he hissed. “You come to my bar, thinking I’m gonna throw you some action because… why? You think because I’m a fag, I’m a goddamn whore? Who the fuck are you…? You’re nothing. I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

Junior writhed beneath Serge’s large hands, wincing and cringing. But a demented light sparked in his eyes when Serge said “piss.” Serge had chosen the word carefully, to see how Junior would react. The boy had passed his test. The kinks the potions had planted in his consciousness were in full bloom now.

The kid burped and shrank down another inch. He burped a few more times with the same effect. Impatient for more, Serge slid his paws down to the fucker’s gut and pressed on it. Hard.

A basso profundo belch was forced from Junior’s drooling mouth. In seconds, his height dwindled from 5’10” to an even 5’0”. The cuffs of his jeans puddled around his work boots while his hands disappeared into the sleeves of his jacket. His frame remained wide, giving him a fireplug build. At the same time, his hairline retreated even more, his bald spot expanding from the size of a half dollar to the width of a soda can. The hair in front of the spot was sparse and fine. Serge was annoyed that the boy had chosen to buzz his hair already; he was looking forward to seeing him with a tacky combover. But this was good enough.

His hands clamped down on Junior’s shoulders. “You disgust me. Your daddy was something. He made a fortune for himself. You were born on a pile of gold coins, every advantage in the goddamn world, and you fucking blew it. And now, you have the balls to come to my bar, a fucking working man’s bar, dressed in that ridiculous costume, like you’re one of us. Nobody is buying your act, boy.”

Junior couldn’t maintain eye contact. Stammering, he protested that it wasn’t an act. “I can’t afford contractors anymore, so I have to do it all myself. These are my work clothes, honest! Oh, God… everything is falling apart. I can’t keep up with the repairs… I’m so screwed!”

Pervy little fuckin’ shrimp,” he grunted. “Nobody gives a shit about your problems. You and me, we both know you only came here tonight because you’re looking to get off. And you think I’ll help you with it. Fine. You want it? Beg me.”

Junior’s stumpy legs buckled. He collapsed to his knees, staring up at Serge with bloodshot eyes. “Please, sir,” he whined. “Would you…?”

“Say it.”

But he couldn’t. Junior’s mouth gaped open and closed like a goldfish outside its bowl, but he couldn’t say the words. He wasn’t there yet. Which Serge already knew.

“Pathetic,” Serge spat. “Get the hell outta my bar.” He picked Junior up and spun him around, then carried him to the front door. Junior’s fat little legs kicked the whole way there.

“Please, sir,” he wailed. “Give me another chance!”

Serge shoved him onto the sidewalk. “You only have one thing I want,” he growled. “Give me that, and maybe I’ll allow you to service me.” He slammed the door shut and smiled to himself. Junior, once an overprivileged gold bar of a man, was melting down into a proper little leaden pervert.

He knew he didn’t have to bother setting up a meeting with the boy this time. Junior would return on his own.

Serge spied a familiar balding head bobbing around in the sea of bikers the next night, just before closing. This time, the kid didn’t seek him out. Serge maneuvered through the crowd and grabbed his arm. The boy squealed rapturously. “Gross,” Serge snarled. “You got what I want?”

Junior nodded.

“Good boy.” He dragged him into his office and ordered him to stay put. The kid was wearing a grimy canvas jacket and trousers tonight, and his work boots looked muddier and more scuffed than ever. A hard hat was in one of his hands. Serge wondered if the boy had purchased these or if the alchemy was working harder than he’d planned and had turned him into an actual laborer.

After the bar was closed, he returned to find Junior sitting where he’d left him, his jacket unzipped to reveal a too-small undershirt and broad suspenders, which supported his protruding gut and made it look enormous. He was playing with himself. His donkey dick looked even larger compared to his reduced frame. Roaring, Serge slapped the rod out of the boy’s hands. Junior’s face flushed bright red, and tears brimmed in his bleary eyes.

“Do not put on that naughty little boy act for me, faggot,” he snarled. “You should know better. But if I have to say it, then fine: you don’t get to touch yourself unless I say so. Say ‘yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir,” the boy repeated, quietly.

“Glad we got that out of the way. Alright, let’s see the paperwork.”

Junior pulled an envelope from one of the coverall’s pockets. Serge swiped it from his hand and examined the contents at his desk. Relief washed over him. It was the deed to the bar. He flashed a feral smile at the boy. “You did well, kid. Let’s celebrate with a beer.”

When Junior climbed onto a stool, Serge corrected him. “Naw, son. Table. You and me are gonna share some brews like a couple of old friends.”

Smiling broadly, Junior toddled over to the nearest table, removed his jacket, and draped it on the back of a seat before sitting down. Serge poured the final potion for his victim and a Belgian ale for himself. He had enjoyed corrupting and degrading his dreadful landlord. But he was relishing the thought of the final changes he would inflict.

Junior sucked down his beer with his typical gusto. Serge quaffed his ale and aimed a hairy finger at his companion. “Sweet outfit. You must really be doing a ton of work on your properties, huh?”

Junior blinked. Looking suddenly confused, he mumbled, “My properties…?”

“Dopey me,” Serge laughed. “I forgot. You don’t have any properties, do you? Not for a long time, now. And with your drinking problem, your crippling porn addiction, and your general air of stupidity from being blitzed and horny all the time, you can’t hold down an office job. But you gotta make money somehow, don’t you? That leaves blue collar shit, doesn’t it? Except you never had an aptitude for it. You’ll never be a foreman or even a team lead. You’re gonna be stuck doing grunt work the rest of your life. Sounds depressing. Lucky for you, you can always come here to blow off some steam.”

Junior squeezed his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose. His new reality was crashing down on him, rewiring his brain, giving him a killer migraine. His beer gut shook with an alarming rumble.

It was starting already. Hurriedly, Serge stood up and said, “Unzip them pants. And unfasten the suspenders while you’re at it.”

Junior grunted nervously but complied. His monstrous, gray-furred gut spread out, flattening somewhat as it hung down to the base of his cock. His oversized shaft thumped against the bottom of his belly.

But Serge need to see the full show. “On your feet, boy. Let the pants just drop to your ankles.”

The boy obeyed. As Serge had suspected, he wasn’t wearing any underwear. Not even a jockstrap. The old Bear crouched down to get a better view of his junk, examining it like someone inspecting a prospective purchase. Junior’s pubes were gray, and his balls were a respectable size. But his cock was the prize.

“This is fun,” the boy ventured. “Now what, sir?”

“Now, I show you mine,” Serge answered. He kicked off his cowboy boots and stripped naked for the kid. His shaft was an inch shorter than Junior’s. Grabbing his empty mug, Serge dangled it in front of his shaft. “You like that?”

“I’d like it better if…” His come-on was interrupted by a loud belch. With a squelching noise, his half-hard cock retracted by an inch, making it the exact same length as Serge’s. At the same time, his balls grew another half-inch in diameter. He belched a second time. Again, his balls grew while his cock shrank. “I fell funny,” he slurred. “What’s happening…?”

“Just making some adjustments,” Serge explained. “I mean, you’re a bottom, right? The fuck do you need a monster dong for?”

Junior released a staccato series of burps, followed by a long, low belch. His cock shrank an inch at a time, until it was only five inches long. His balls, though, grew to the size of lemons.

“Looking better,” Serge observed. “But we’re not done, yet.” He glanced at Junior’s hair. The baldness was advancing along with his cock’s retreat, leaving him with a mere horseshoe. Perfect. With a hint of flirtation in his voice, he added, “Mmm, I really need to piss.”

Junior’s hand flew to his mouth. He was trying to hold back another belch. The gassy exhalation slipped between his fingers, and his shaft shrunk down to three inches while his balls expanded to the size of oranges and dangled to his thighs.

“Oh, yeah,” Serge moaned. “No time to hit the head. Might as well take care of my business right here.” He let his shaft flop into the mug and shot a ropy stream of hot, steaming piss into the glass.

Junior made a little choking sound. It turned into another belch. His little hand reached for his prick. It found a nub, less than an inch long, situated atop a pair of furry bull balls. A few drops of pre dribbled pathetically from the slit.

Serge regarded it with exaggerated concern. “Tough break, boy. Barely a prick to speak of, but a set of freak balls so huge, they’re making you horny all the time. How are you gonna get off? Seriously, tell me. I’m all ears.”

Junior’s eyes were glazed but wild. Serge could see through them, straight to his brain. The boy was thoroughly broken and rebuilt into something useful. He’d say the words, now.

‘Please, sir,” he breathed. “May I drink your piss, sir?”

“Try and fucking stop me,” Serge growled. He tipped the mug, full to overflowing, to the boy’s lips. The kid sucked it down, moaning between gulps. When he was done, he fluttered his hands and babbled, “More, more…! Only… could I get it straight from the tap, sir?”

“There’s my piss pig…!” Serge pointed to the floor. Junior scurried to get on his knees, whimpering the whole time. Serve fixed his attention with a severe look and took two steps back. The boy shuffled forward. But Serge barked, “No!” He blocked the pig’s prize with his hand. “One thing we’re gonna get straight right now, pig… I am famous for my perfect pours. Not one drop spilled. If you get any piss on the floor, on yourself, on whatever…? The tap gets shut off. Permanently.”

Junior went pale. “Yes, sir,” he sniveled. And then his mouth opened wide.

The boy was an expert urinal. Serge’s stream was powerful, but the perv drank every last bit of his hot, pungent piss. It was impressive as hell. He’d romped with other piss pigs in the past. But his horned-up creation surpassed them in every way, guzzling his urine with the voracious thirst of a desert island castaway.

Serge refilled his bladder by pounding down more beers. Every time, the pig would make Serge feel even randier by trembling and blubbering when he had to wait for more piss. Serge would make Junior hop to his feet for belly inspections. The sagging gut grew perky and taut again as his stomach was filled with Serge’s piss. It began to look freakishly distended — even more than when he’d waddled into the bar that night. Meanwhile, Serge’s rod was stiffer than a fireplace poker. It began to hurt. But he made himself keep going.

When neither Serge nor the boy could stand any more, Serge arranged two chairs side by side and ordered Junior to take his place in one. Then he had the perv stroke the two of them off simultaneously, one cock in each hand. Serge continued to berate his pig as he was serviced, reminding him of just how pathetic he was. They came simultaneously. Serge shot a thick blast of cum across the bar. Junior’s jizz dribbled pathetically onto his own balls.

They sat in silence for a bit. Junior’s frozen tongue was from respect. Serge’s was from being lost in thought. A million-dollar idea had occurred to him. He had would use Junior to replace the broken urinal. The insatiable piss pig would be a huge money maker for the bar. He might even let the kid shack up with him, at least until he was sick of his simpering pig ass. He wouldn’t pay him, of course. He’d fixed Junior’s brain so that all he wanted was piss.

He slammed down what was left of his latest beer and felt pressure building in his bladder once more. He tapped the pig’s arm. “You work for me, now,” he growled. “And the first thing you gotta learn is, you’re never off the clock.”

The former landlord, drooling, went back to work.