Stepped outside for a minute to remember what 107 is like. Yup, a minute was about enough of that.
It's a record high for here for June. Just after another record high a few days ago. The squirrels are sprawled out on the dirt, trying to get cool. I'm glad I got that new AC when I did, my old one would have burned out some component or other by now.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Eneg, by any other name
It's a five-turtle day! That being the number of turtles I spotted hanging out in the yard under the morning sprinklers. Turtles love sprinklers! They also love art, so in honor of that it's time for
Evil Dolly's Featured Fetish Artist of the Day: Gene Bilbrew. Or Eneg.
Gene Bilbrew (1923-1974) signed his work with several pseudonyms such as "GB", "Bondy" and "Van Rod". But the name his probably best known by is "Eneg"... that's Gene spelled backwards, doncha know. He was quite prolific, doing illustrations and comics (both mainstream and kinky) from the 40s on up until his early death in the 70s. Becoming an illustrator wasn't his primary interest, however. He originally wanted to be a singer. He even went on the road. Unfortunately, entertaining never panned out for him and he fell back on drawing to pay the bills.
He worked for Will Eisner (an early comics guy) for a while, did some comic strips for newspapers, and later went to study under Hogarth (another comics guy and founder of Manhattan's School of Visual Arts), Bilbrew being among the school's earliest students. There, Bilbrew became friends with fellow student Eric Stanton, who noticed one of his bondage drawings and got him started doing fetish serials for Klaw, with whom Stanton was already working. Here's a couple ads from the time:
Whether it paid better than the comics strips he had been doing or he simply enjoyed it I can't say, but he withdrew from classes to work on the bondage serials and continued on doing kinky illustrations for the rest of his life, though he also did mainstream stuff, too. He was also African American, which is noteworthy in that there weren't a great many African Americans in the comics field in the 40s or 50s. There were some, but not many. It couldn't have been easy for him, especially with the stigma of doing underground fetish art.
While similar in style to that of the other artists working for Klaw, Bilbrew's illustrations are easy to identify chiefly due to the way he drew faces and hairstyles -- the noses are often 'flattish' in profile. Other distinguishing characteristics were gravity-defying conical breasts with deep cleavage, long legs, and dynamic poses. I understand he drew quickly, resulting sometimes in anatomical and posing errors, having to make asymmetrical, slapdash corrections to bondage furniture in order match it to the character's pose. Not to mention the unnatural flexibility of the women.
A number of his stories were very action-adventury and had sci-fi
themes, not so different from stuff you'd see in mainstream comics at
the time except that nearly every panel included bondage or subjegation
of some sort. He seemed to have an interest in machinery such as over-complicated paddling devices, as well as 'imminent doom' damsel-in-distress situations... situations far more perilous than you'd find in most of his peers' fetish art. And, of course, there had to be a few ponies.
His later work, like Stanton's, would become much more explicit, including torture, nudity, sex and penetration, which are things you simply couldn't show when he started in the early 50s. He also expanded into femdom and forced-feminization. After the Klaw period, he did a lot of work for a magazine called Exotique and also did tons of book covers and illustrations for adult paperbacks. And he would eventually start signing his works with his own name.
Being both reasonably well-known and prolific, a lot of his works aren't too difficult to find out there. Just look up Eneg. The early serials have been reprinted, there's a bound collection of Exotique (which I've never seen so can't really comment upon), and various other art books.
Evil Dolly's Featured Fetish Artist of the Day: Gene Bilbrew. Or Eneg.
Gene Bilbrew (1923-1974) signed his work with several pseudonyms such as "GB", "Bondy" and "Van Rod". But the name his probably best known by is "Eneg"... that's Gene spelled backwards, doncha know. He was quite prolific, doing illustrations and comics (both mainstream and kinky) from the 40s on up until his early death in the 70s. Becoming an illustrator wasn't his primary interest, however. He originally wanted to be a singer. He even went on the road. Unfortunately, entertaining never panned out for him and he fell back on drawing to pay the bills.
 |
| We're not sure what it does, but it definitely does *something*. |
Whether it paid better than the comics strips he had been doing or he simply enjoyed it I can't say, but he withdrew from classes to work on the bondage serials and continued on doing kinky illustrations for the rest of his life, though he also did mainstream stuff, too. He was also African American, which is noteworthy in that there weren't a great many African Americans in the comics field in the 40s or 50s. There were some, but not many. It couldn't have been easy for him, especially with the stigma of doing underground fetish art.
 |
| That's a severe HR department! |
 |
| Usually have to go a spa for this sort of thing. |
 |
| I knew it! I knew those were real legs in those displays! |
 |
| Everyone knows what goes on in sororities. |
 | |
| "Did you remember to add air holes this time?" | "Nope." |
 |
| Friends stick with you through the hardest times. |
 |
| The rider's having a little too much fun. |
 |
| The Pokiest Pony in the West |
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| Pony-stacking is usually illegal. |
 |
| The girl tank tread proposal.. just never got any traction. |
 |
| And girl-mounted guns didn't make it far past prototype stage. |
 |
| But I believe this is still standard mess hall procedure. |
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
It's just a fan art.. with monsters!
Do you like the horror survival game Amnesia?
Do you like the web show Video Games Awesome?
Then you might like this thingie I made.
Of course, if you don't know either of those things, this will be a complete mystery to you. VGA is a group of old friends (usually just the three of them) who mostly just play video games, that's about it. The games are projected on a green screen, which is a nice set up that let's you see both the people and the games as well as the fan chat in the corner. I've enjoyed watching (entertaining) people do Let's Plays on youtube for years, and VGA is one of my favorite shows. I've been watching them regular-like for over a year now.
They did a play through of Amnesia last year and I got it into my head of making this here fan art. Some of the monsters in the game are as you see, though there are no female versions. It was a bit of a struggle figuring out how to make one of those things kinda cute.. in a sort of way. I worked really hard on this one, since I am new to the digital stuff and have never really worked with color before. Now to rest my weary drawing hand.
On an unrelated note, does anyone know how to reply to comments in your own darn blog? Whenever I try, nothing happens.
Do you like the web show Video Games Awesome?
Then you might like this thingie I made.
Of course, if you don't know either of those things, this will be a complete mystery to you. VGA is a group of old friends (usually just the three of them) who mostly just play video games, that's about it. The games are projected on a green screen, which is a nice set up that let's you see both the people and the games as well as the fan chat in the corner. I've enjoyed watching (entertaining) people do Let's Plays on youtube for years, and VGA is one of my favorite shows. I've been watching them regular-like for over a year now.
They did a play through of Amnesia last year and I got it into my head of making this here fan art. Some of the monsters in the game are as you see, though there are no female versions. It was a bit of a struggle figuring out how to make one of those things kinda cute.. in a sort of way. I worked really hard on this one, since I am new to the digital stuff and have never really worked with color before. Now to rest my weary drawing hand.
On an unrelated note, does anyone know how to reply to comments in your own darn blog? Whenever I try, nothing happens.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Another drawing
I just finished my very secondest digital drawing. I used Painter 12 which I have on a trial basis. It's a cool program, has a variety of much more naturalish brushes than Photoshop, but I'm not sure it'll be worth paying the hefty price once the trial runs out. I'll keep using it and see what's what. So here's my latest drarwin'.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Lady Caroline's Apple
Story time! I thought I'd like to share a short tale written by a dear friend of mine. It is set in the Mansion of my slave role generator 'world' and I enjoyed it very much. Here is Lady Caroline's Apple.
Lady Caroline’s Apple
by soubrette
Lady Caroline had always been a favorite among us livestock. A quiet unassuming woman, she often visited the stables during less busy times of the day to admire the beautiful landscaping of the mansion along the way and to care for us beast girls. We were like her own private petting zoo, in a way, and that suited us just fine. Better that than the whips and tricks and games of a few of the other Ladies.
When Caroline came down the hill, we knew there were pleasantries in store. She would often come with apples or sugar cubes and offer them to the pony girls as she brushed their manes and tails. Every now and again, she’d order a pony-girl drawn carriage ride around the paths of the estate, but she never taxed the ponies beyond their limits and usually waited for one or two to approach her as unspoken volunteers before choosing among them.
The ponies basked in Lady Caroline’s attention far more frequently than us pigs or the cows. But we weren’t ignored. Every now and again, she’d step into the pigsty to tug at our pink ears or tickle us until we squealed and oinked uncontrollably, or pull on her boots and walk out in the cow pastures to enjoy the green grass and cool air on cloudy days. Lady Caroline seemed to prefer cloudy days. And so did those of us who’d been at the Mansion long enough to know her habits.
Once, she came to watch us pig slaves at slop and set up an easel to paint a picture. This was truly a rarity, and a few of us stopped to watch her between slop dives, but none of us who noticed her were overly concerned. For starters, the trough was full, so little else mattered in the moment. Secondarily, Lady Caroline’s focus seemed to be set on a fattened pig girl for the most part. If there was some sort of tryst in the wind, it would probably affect her, not us. (Even with the kindest of Ladies, we were always aware of the possibility for games at our expense. We were slaves, after all.)
The fattened pig slave had curly red hair that shone in its full brilliance today, as we’d all been relieved of our various piggy uniforms, save the trotters and snouts, to wallow in the mud that had been a result of the previous night’s rain. We didn’t know one another by name. No one who could speak ever dared to, either out of fear or dedication, and attempts at scrawling words in our mud wallow were always sabotaged by the older slaves who knew the punishments for such activities. So, I’d taken to creating my own little nicknames for my piggy sisters.
More often than not, the names I came up with had something to do with a girl’s eccentricities. There was Skitterbug, a recent addition to our sty who had huge buggy looking eyes and was still very thin and shivered in the cool air or morning when the barn doors were opened. Of all the unfortunate girls who would draw a “naked” tile to match a “pig slave” assignment, it would be a dinky little waif. And then there was Spamela, who reminded me of an air-headed corporate office secretary dressed as Miss Piggy what with her pinstripe suit and vacant blue eyes. Babe, I affectionately called the young thing that had been sent to our sty a few months ago, was Spamela’s shadow and seemed to follow any pig slave who offered her maternal comforts. She was especially fond of suckling the rows of Skitterbug’s nipple implants, when she could get close enough.
They all had names of one kind or another, to me. The fattened pig slave with red hair was certainly the largest of us all, but she wasn’t an alpha type by any means. More often than not, her heft seemed a mere inconvenience to her and to others as she lumbered around the pigsty and flopped heavily into mud puddles and patches of grass. A gentle giant with a sloppy way about her at the trough. I’d named her Big Red.
Big Red had long since abandoned any sense of moderation or decorum while eating. This was probably due to the fact that we’d all get punished if the fattened animals don’t eat excessively enough to put on weight. Let’s just say she’d had plenty of encouragement toward the development of a substantial appetite. And it certainly paid off in terms of her size. Though she had only been in our sty for just over a year, Red was easily double the weight she had been when she was first led, red faced and tearful, through the pig pen gate.
On the day of Lady Caroline’s painting, the over-fat redheaded pig girl paid no mind as she plowed into the trough. She wiggled her snout through the kitchen scraps and thrust herself deep into the mess of it with wild abandon, gorging on as much as she could manage to pack into her swollen belly. The rest of us, more or less unmoved by the presence of Lady Caroline and her paints, plugged ourselves into the tough, haunch to haunch, and had our fill. We must have looked like a row of undulating pinkish rump cheeks from Lady Caroline’s vantage point.
One by one, each pig eased away from the trough to find her place to rest and digest in the mud or grass. I meandered over to my usual patch of grass by the barn wall. Skitterbug was indulging Babe’s nursing habits over by the water trough, and others were dotted around the pen. When Lady Caroline had finished her painting, she came into our sty and stepped carefully around bits of slop and several lazily slumbering pig-faced girls, making her way over to the shady corner where Big Red usually collapsed after eating.
I can recall the sweet way in which Caroline roused the hefty sow. I remember feeling touched, because she was sort of motherly in her approach, gently stroking the abundant girl’s plump red cheek. Patient. As Red blinked through her drowsiness and the painting, now held in front of her, came into focus, her green eyes widened and she squealed in horror at what she saw. Several of the sleeping pig girls were startled awake at the sudden noise, and they looked to see what the matter was. I wasn’t far off to begin with, but out of curiosity, I rose to my knees and trotted over a bit closer to get a better view of the painting.
It was actually pretty good, as paintings go, but maybe a bit too real for Big Red to handle. The image was a familiar one, with several of us at the trough feeding. But in the center was the humongous rotund rump of the fattened pig girl. Our lack of clothing that day left nothing to the imagination, and as Big Red was the primary focus or the piece, her rear end was given the most attention to detail. There were two huge round dirt-streaked butt cheeks complete with cellulite on the backs of her thighs and a small tuft of red curls peeking out as she bent far over into the trough, greedily plowing her way through the slop. Her swollen belly bulges were painfully visible on either side of her doughy rear end. I was in there too. Just to the left of Red. Not in shape, to be sure, but nowhere near Red’s girth. This was clearly the source of the girl’s upset.
The poor girl’s squeals of shame melted into heavy-chested sobs that ended up sounding more like sloppy wet grunts as she wiped her face with her muddy trotter. Lady Caroline was clearly amused, but not unkind. She smiled to herself as she stroked poor fat Red on her head in consolation. Her petting continued as a burlap drone was summoned to fetch the painting and arrange to have it set and framed.
The next morning, the painfully honest painting was hung on the side of the barn just over our pen, for all to admire.
Some months later, during an unseasonably warm afternoon, lady Caroline came to visit, in spite of the heat. I was lying on some grass, looking idly up at that painting when she came in the gate. She made her way around, patting the pigs and feeding us treats, as was often her custom. When she happened my way, I accepted my treat and snorted appreciatively as she stroked my head and followed my gaze up to that painting. A warm smile bloomed across her face, and she asked if I liked her art. I, of course, couldn’t respond, being a pig slave, but I did looked up at her as she asked. Then she looked pointedly at my plump bottom on the grass then back up to the painting, squinting a bit as she looked. I felt my face flush pink, and she laughed a little.
“Ahh, so that is you up there, huh?” She peered down at my blushing face almost affectionately.
“Such a chubby little piggy rump.” At that last, I felt my pink cheeks flush deeper into red. I was so embarrassed.
“I see,” Lady Caroline said with one eyebrow raised. “Well, come along then.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I stood frozen. I’d never been ordered out of the sty before on my own. Sometimes we were all taken out at once or a few at a time. But not like this. Lady Caroline stopped to look back at me and called for me to follow. This time, hesitantly, I obeyed.
I followed Lady Caroline into the barn to the showman’s stall that was used for grooming the puppy slaves sometimes. There were two drones nearby, no doubt mindlessly engaged in their daily duties among the livestock and grounds. Lady Caroline called to one of them to fetch her some rope, a bucket, and her deer knife. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and my eyes grew wide with fear. A knife? In that moment, I think I came closer to pigdom than I ever had before, as I froze in animalistic panic and nearly peed myself at the thought of this soft-spoken Lady using a knife in any way on me.
The items she’d requested were delivered, and she asked the drone for further assistance. Lady Caroline stripped my latex suit from my body, leaving the hood, snout, and trotters in place. My newly exposed skin was cold and clammy in the shade of the barn even though the day was warm. I shivered.
The rope was tossed over a barn rafter, upsetting a nest of swallows on its way, and I was unceremoniously hoisted up by my wrists onto my tip toes. The rope was tied off, and the drone resumed her previous duties by Lady Caroline’s leave. It had been such a long time since I’d stood like a human that the position seemed unnatural, and I felt stretched beyond comfort.
Lady Caroline turned the bucket on its brim and sat down, knife in hand. I couldn’t take my eyes off the half-smirk on her face as she sat there looking me up and down like dinner. She said nothing, only sat. Looking. And smirking. As my body stretched and limbered, and the pain of this foreign position had waned, I noticed my nakedness, a distinctly human realization. In this upward stance, I became acutely aware of just how much my own body had changed since I came to be a pig slave nearly two years ago. My arm flesh hung slightly, and my breasts were heavy and low. My belly, too, was swollen, and my thighs stood thick and blubbery beneath it all.
“Oink for me, little sow,” came the words from Lady Caroline. And for the life of me, after two years of uttering nothing other than barnyard swine noises, pride seized my chest, and I couldn’t do it.
Lady Caroline, I swear she knew exactly what was going on in my head, stood from her bucket and stepped toward me.
“Speak, piggy,” she whispered into my face. I didn’t make a peep.
“No? Well then, I suggest you hold very still.” I felt the cold point of a blade begin to drag over my hip and squealed the finest shrillest frightened swine squeal that the world has ever heard. Lady Caroline jumped back, startled, and laughed.
“That’s more like it!” She exclaimed as she crossed the distance between us and grabbed a handful of my thigh fat. Our eyes met, hers playful, mine horrified, and Lady Caroline shook her hand quickly back and forth causing my loose flesh to jiggle. My face and neck burned, mortified, as her small hand sank into my flesh and sent me into a jiggly frenzy.
“Such a fat pig girl you are! Look how you wobble!” She continued, and I felt myself choking back tears.
“I want to hear you speak, silly pig. Oink, grunt and squeal for me!” I froze again, silent and still. At that, she stepped back and smiled, amused.
“Goodness, you are a proud one, aren’t you? We can’t have that in a pig. Who ever heard of a pig that won’t oink?” She crossed to a basket on a table and reached inside. Out came a big red apple, shiny and crisp-looking. Even though I’d just finished eating, I wanted to sink my teeth into it. Lady Caroline saw my hunger lust and laughed as she brought the apple closer and waved it in front of my face.
“Open wide,” called Lady Caroline in a sing-song tone. I parted my lips and opened my mouth slightly. “Wider,” she teased. And this time, I complied, opening my mouth as wide as I could, snout rising to block my view. I felt her thumb quickly press my jaw open even wider as the apple was pushed into my mouth, holding my jaw uncomfortably wide and gagging me at the same time.
“There! All you have to do is squeal and oink convincingly enough to be allowed to bite through that apple, and your torment will end. Now, let’s have a look at just how fat you are, sweet pig girl.”
At that, Lady Caroline stepped behind me and reached around to my front, grabbing my bottom belly roll with one hand and my top belly roll with the other and shook them wildly. The flapping sound they made as they collided with each other caused my stomach to turn in shame. Her giggling only made things worse. I attempted a pathetic squeal from behind the apple, but it wasn’t even close to what she was looking for.
Lady Caroline’s hands slowed in pace and soon I felt her fingers sinking into my soft belly flesh, kneading me like bread. I grunted behind the apple, and she moved her hands outward toward my sides, which tickled terribly and sent me into snorting nervous laughter. I managed a few convincing oinks and grunts before she took hold of the fat alongside my breasts and wobbled my chest around. Some of the ponies sniggered in their stalls, and my face burned.
“Ignore them, piggy. It’s just me here. And I’m watching you very carefully. I see all your dimples and creases. All your wobbly flesh. It’s mine to play with. You’re mine to play with.” At this, her hands moved forward and explored the crease leading to my bellybutton. My stomach muscles tightened, inches beneath the surface of my skin, and I heard Lady Caroline exhale into a broad smile just before she sank one long finger into my bellybutton hole and began to twirl it around.
My stomach turned again, and tears ran down my reddened cheeks. I suddenly imagined Big Red in our pigsty, her freckled cheeks stained with tears in front of the painting that revealed her true nature. Big Red was a pig slave. And as I felt Lady Caroline’s finger exploring the caverns of my fattened flesh and felt her feminine hips swaying against the rounded mounds of my rump, any human shame melted from my mind like tears dripping off my snout. I let out a mighty squeal, releasing the apple from my tightened jaw. It felt to the straw-covered barn floor. Lady Caroline pulled a slipknot in the rope, and I followed the apple.
“That’ll do, pig.”
I rose to my trotters and rooted around in the straw for the apple, which Lady Caroline retrieved and fed to me as my head rested in her lap. I was given a buttermilk bath and led back out to the pigsty where Lady Caroline patted my pink rump affectionately and closed the pen gate behind me. I returned to the sty sure of my place. The wallow never felt so right.
Lady Caroline’s Apple
by soubrette
Lady Caroline had always been a favorite among us livestock. A quiet unassuming woman, she often visited the stables during less busy times of the day to admire the beautiful landscaping of the mansion along the way and to care for us beast girls. We were like her own private petting zoo, in a way, and that suited us just fine. Better that than the whips and tricks and games of a few of the other Ladies.
When Caroline came down the hill, we knew there were pleasantries in store. She would often come with apples or sugar cubes and offer them to the pony girls as she brushed their manes and tails. Every now and again, she’d order a pony-girl drawn carriage ride around the paths of the estate, but she never taxed the ponies beyond their limits and usually waited for one or two to approach her as unspoken volunteers before choosing among them.
The ponies basked in Lady Caroline’s attention far more frequently than us pigs or the cows. But we weren’t ignored. Every now and again, she’d step into the pigsty to tug at our pink ears or tickle us until we squealed and oinked uncontrollably, or pull on her boots and walk out in the cow pastures to enjoy the green grass and cool air on cloudy days. Lady Caroline seemed to prefer cloudy days. And so did those of us who’d been at the Mansion long enough to know her habits.
Once, she came to watch us pig slaves at slop and set up an easel to paint a picture. This was truly a rarity, and a few of us stopped to watch her between slop dives, but none of us who noticed her were overly concerned. For starters, the trough was full, so little else mattered in the moment. Secondarily, Lady Caroline’s focus seemed to be set on a fattened pig girl for the most part. If there was some sort of tryst in the wind, it would probably affect her, not us. (Even with the kindest of Ladies, we were always aware of the possibility for games at our expense. We were slaves, after all.)
The fattened pig slave had curly red hair that shone in its full brilliance today, as we’d all been relieved of our various piggy uniforms, save the trotters and snouts, to wallow in the mud that had been a result of the previous night’s rain. We didn’t know one another by name. No one who could speak ever dared to, either out of fear or dedication, and attempts at scrawling words in our mud wallow were always sabotaged by the older slaves who knew the punishments for such activities. So, I’d taken to creating my own little nicknames for my piggy sisters.
More often than not, the names I came up with had something to do with a girl’s eccentricities. There was Skitterbug, a recent addition to our sty who had huge buggy looking eyes and was still very thin and shivered in the cool air or morning when the barn doors were opened. Of all the unfortunate girls who would draw a “naked” tile to match a “pig slave” assignment, it would be a dinky little waif. And then there was Spamela, who reminded me of an air-headed corporate office secretary dressed as Miss Piggy what with her pinstripe suit and vacant blue eyes. Babe, I affectionately called the young thing that had been sent to our sty a few months ago, was Spamela’s shadow and seemed to follow any pig slave who offered her maternal comforts. She was especially fond of suckling the rows of Skitterbug’s nipple implants, when she could get close enough.
They all had names of one kind or another, to me. The fattened pig slave with red hair was certainly the largest of us all, but she wasn’t an alpha type by any means. More often than not, her heft seemed a mere inconvenience to her and to others as she lumbered around the pigsty and flopped heavily into mud puddles and patches of grass. A gentle giant with a sloppy way about her at the trough. I’d named her Big Red.
Big Red had long since abandoned any sense of moderation or decorum while eating. This was probably due to the fact that we’d all get punished if the fattened animals don’t eat excessively enough to put on weight. Let’s just say she’d had plenty of encouragement toward the development of a substantial appetite. And it certainly paid off in terms of her size. Though she had only been in our sty for just over a year, Red was easily double the weight she had been when she was first led, red faced and tearful, through the pig pen gate.
On the day of Lady Caroline’s painting, the over-fat redheaded pig girl paid no mind as she plowed into the trough. She wiggled her snout through the kitchen scraps and thrust herself deep into the mess of it with wild abandon, gorging on as much as she could manage to pack into her swollen belly. The rest of us, more or less unmoved by the presence of Lady Caroline and her paints, plugged ourselves into the tough, haunch to haunch, and had our fill. We must have looked like a row of undulating pinkish rump cheeks from Lady Caroline’s vantage point.
One by one, each pig eased away from the trough to find her place to rest and digest in the mud or grass. I meandered over to my usual patch of grass by the barn wall. Skitterbug was indulging Babe’s nursing habits over by the water trough, and others were dotted around the pen. When Lady Caroline had finished her painting, she came into our sty and stepped carefully around bits of slop and several lazily slumbering pig-faced girls, making her way over to the shady corner where Big Red usually collapsed after eating.
I can recall the sweet way in which Caroline roused the hefty sow. I remember feeling touched, because she was sort of motherly in her approach, gently stroking the abundant girl’s plump red cheek. Patient. As Red blinked through her drowsiness and the painting, now held in front of her, came into focus, her green eyes widened and she squealed in horror at what she saw. Several of the sleeping pig girls were startled awake at the sudden noise, and they looked to see what the matter was. I wasn’t far off to begin with, but out of curiosity, I rose to my knees and trotted over a bit closer to get a better view of the painting.
It was actually pretty good, as paintings go, but maybe a bit too real for Big Red to handle. The image was a familiar one, with several of us at the trough feeding. But in the center was the humongous rotund rump of the fattened pig girl. Our lack of clothing that day left nothing to the imagination, and as Big Red was the primary focus or the piece, her rear end was given the most attention to detail. There were two huge round dirt-streaked butt cheeks complete with cellulite on the backs of her thighs and a small tuft of red curls peeking out as she bent far over into the trough, greedily plowing her way through the slop. Her swollen belly bulges were painfully visible on either side of her doughy rear end. I was in there too. Just to the left of Red. Not in shape, to be sure, but nowhere near Red’s girth. This was clearly the source of the girl’s upset.
The poor girl’s squeals of shame melted into heavy-chested sobs that ended up sounding more like sloppy wet grunts as she wiped her face with her muddy trotter. Lady Caroline was clearly amused, but not unkind. She smiled to herself as she stroked poor fat Red on her head in consolation. Her petting continued as a burlap drone was summoned to fetch the painting and arrange to have it set and framed.
The next morning, the painfully honest painting was hung on the side of the barn just over our pen, for all to admire.
Some months later, during an unseasonably warm afternoon, lady Caroline came to visit, in spite of the heat. I was lying on some grass, looking idly up at that painting when she came in the gate. She made her way around, patting the pigs and feeding us treats, as was often her custom. When she happened my way, I accepted my treat and snorted appreciatively as she stroked my head and followed my gaze up to that painting. A warm smile bloomed across her face, and she asked if I liked her art. I, of course, couldn’t respond, being a pig slave, but I did looked up at her as she asked. Then she looked pointedly at my plump bottom on the grass then back up to the painting, squinting a bit as she looked. I felt my face flush pink, and she laughed a little.
“Ahh, so that is you up there, huh?” She peered down at my blushing face almost affectionately.
“Such a chubby little piggy rump.” At that last, I felt my pink cheeks flush deeper into red. I was so embarrassed.
“I see,” Lady Caroline said with one eyebrow raised. “Well, come along then.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I stood frozen. I’d never been ordered out of the sty before on my own. Sometimes we were all taken out at once or a few at a time. But not like this. Lady Caroline stopped to look back at me and called for me to follow. This time, hesitantly, I obeyed.
I followed Lady Caroline into the barn to the showman’s stall that was used for grooming the puppy slaves sometimes. There were two drones nearby, no doubt mindlessly engaged in their daily duties among the livestock and grounds. Lady Caroline called to one of them to fetch her some rope, a bucket, and her deer knife. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and my eyes grew wide with fear. A knife? In that moment, I think I came closer to pigdom than I ever had before, as I froze in animalistic panic and nearly peed myself at the thought of this soft-spoken Lady using a knife in any way on me.
The items she’d requested were delivered, and she asked the drone for further assistance. Lady Caroline stripped my latex suit from my body, leaving the hood, snout, and trotters in place. My newly exposed skin was cold and clammy in the shade of the barn even though the day was warm. I shivered.
The rope was tossed over a barn rafter, upsetting a nest of swallows on its way, and I was unceremoniously hoisted up by my wrists onto my tip toes. The rope was tied off, and the drone resumed her previous duties by Lady Caroline’s leave. It had been such a long time since I’d stood like a human that the position seemed unnatural, and I felt stretched beyond comfort.
Lady Caroline turned the bucket on its brim and sat down, knife in hand. I couldn’t take my eyes off the half-smirk on her face as she sat there looking me up and down like dinner. She said nothing, only sat. Looking. And smirking. As my body stretched and limbered, and the pain of this foreign position had waned, I noticed my nakedness, a distinctly human realization. In this upward stance, I became acutely aware of just how much my own body had changed since I came to be a pig slave nearly two years ago. My arm flesh hung slightly, and my breasts were heavy and low. My belly, too, was swollen, and my thighs stood thick and blubbery beneath it all.
“Oink for me, little sow,” came the words from Lady Caroline. And for the life of me, after two years of uttering nothing other than barnyard swine noises, pride seized my chest, and I couldn’t do it.
Lady Caroline, I swear she knew exactly what was going on in my head, stood from her bucket and stepped toward me.
“Speak, piggy,” she whispered into my face. I didn’t make a peep.
“No? Well then, I suggest you hold very still.” I felt the cold point of a blade begin to drag over my hip and squealed the finest shrillest frightened swine squeal that the world has ever heard. Lady Caroline jumped back, startled, and laughed.
“That’s more like it!” She exclaimed as she crossed the distance between us and grabbed a handful of my thigh fat. Our eyes met, hers playful, mine horrified, and Lady Caroline shook her hand quickly back and forth causing my loose flesh to jiggle. My face and neck burned, mortified, as her small hand sank into my flesh and sent me into a jiggly frenzy.
“Such a fat pig girl you are! Look how you wobble!” She continued, and I felt myself choking back tears.
“I want to hear you speak, silly pig. Oink, grunt and squeal for me!” I froze again, silent and still. At that, she stepped back and smiled, amused.
“Goodness, you are a proud one, aren’t you? We can’t have that in a pig. Who ever heard of a pig that won’t oink?” She crossed to a basket on a table and reached inside. Out came a big red apple, shiny and crisp-looking. Even though I’d just finished eating, I wanted to sink my teeth into it. Lady Caroline saw my hunger lust and laughed as she brought the apple closer and waved it in front of my face.
“Open wide,” called Lady Caroline in a sing-song tone. I parted my lips and opened my mouth slightly. “Wider,” she teased. And this time, I complied, opening my mouth as wide as I could, snout rising to block my view. I felt her thumb quickly press my jaw open even wider as the apple was pushed into my mouth, holding my jaw uncomfortably wide and gagging me at the same time.
“There! All you have to do is squeal and oink convincingly enough to be allowed to bite through that apple, and your torment will end. Now, let’s have a look at just how fat you are, sweet pig girl.”
At that, Lady Caroline stepped behind me and reached around to my front, grabbing my bottom belly roll with one hand and my top belly roll with the other and shook them wildly. The flapping sound they made as they collided with each other caused my stomach to turn in shame. Her giggling only made things worse. I attempted a pathetic squeal from behind the apple, but it wasn’t even close to what she was looking for.
Lady Caroline’s hands slowed in pace and soon I felt her fingers sinking into my soft belly flesh, kneading me like bread. I grunted behind the apple, and she moved her hands outward toward my sides, which tickled terribly and sent me into snorting nervous laughter. I managed a few convincing oinks and grunts before she took hold of the fat alongside my breasts and wobbled my chest around. Some of the ponies sniggered in their stalls, and my face burned.
“Ignore them, piggy. It’s just me here. And I’m watching you very carefully. I see all your dimples and creases. All your wobbly flesh. It’s mine to play with. You’re mine to play with.” At this, her hands moved forward and explored the crease leading to my bellybutton. My stomach muscles tightened, inches beneath the surface of my skin, and I heard Lady Caroline exhale into a broad smile just before she sank one long finger into my bellybutton hole and began to twirl it around.
My stomach turned again, and tears ran down my reddened cheeks. I suddenly imagined Big Red in our pigsty, her freckled cheeks stained with tears in front of the painting that revealed her true nature. Big Red was a pig slave. And as I felt Lady Caroline’s finger exploring the caverns of my fattened flesh and felt her feminine hips swaying against the rounded mounds of my rump, any human shame melted from my mind like tears dripping off my snout. I let out a mighty squeal, releasing the apple from my tightened jaw. It felt to the straw-covered barn floor. Lady Caroline pulled a slipknot in the rope, and I followed the apple.
“That’ll do, pig.”
I rose to my trotters and rooted around in the straw for the apple, which Lady Caroline retrieved and fed to me as my head rested in her lap. I was given a buttermilk bath and led back out to the pigsty where Lady Caroline patted my pink rump affectionately and closed the pen gate behind me. I returned to the sty sure of my place. The wallow never felt so right.