Chapter 1: Demonstration of Progress
The air in the Bellweather Industries press hall tasted sterile, filtered to a crisp chill that did nothing to mask the underlying scent of anxiety and expensive perfume. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a skyline where cranes stood still more often than not, a city haltingly rebuilding around a fundamental imbalance. The hologram of the late CEO, Arthur Bellweather, flickered above the stage, his voice a smoothed-over recording with a faint, porcine nasal whistle—a carefully curated hint of the family’s new foundation.
“Our commitment to pioneering biocare remains unwavering,” the hologram stated, smile fixed.
From the side of the stage, Seraphina Bellweather watched the crowd of women—investors, stakeholders, socialites dressed in razor-sharp tailoring. Their eyes glittered with calculation, not compassion. Sera adjusted the cuff of her emerald-green blazer, a silk touch against her skin. This was her theater now.
“Thank you, father,” she said, her voice cutting through the hologram’s fade-out. She stepped into the light, a study in confident curves. “But commitment isn’t enough. Innovation is. Today, we move from promise to proof.”
A gesture of her hand. A soft hum as a section of the stage floor rose, elevating a wide, plush platform into the harsh blue spotlight.
On it, Marcus Bellweather lay on his side, a mountain of pale, pinkish flesh.
A collective murmur rippled through the hall. Marcus was easily four hundred pounds, his body a landscape of rolling hills and valleys constrained by a velvet-covered harness. His face, once angular and defined, had broadened, the nose flattening and upturning into a pronounced, leathery snout. His eyes, small and deep-set, blinked slowly against the light. He let out a soft, rumbling grunt.
"Why did I volenteer for this..." He mumbled to himself, his overfed form on display for an army of attractive women. Rich women, who's eyes saw that he was made of nothing but pork and lard. He could feel their judgment on his over stuffed belly.
Seraphina approached him, her heels clicking a definitive rhythm on the stage. She placed a hand, gentle and proprietary, on his cheek, her thumb stroking the coarse skin beside his snout.
“Behold the future of post-pandemic stability,” she announced, her voice warm, almost loving. “This is my brother, Marcus. One of the first recipients of the Genophage Cure. The cure saved his life. Our subsequent… enhancements… have given him a purpose. A comfortable, dignified purpose.”
Marcus’s eyes flickered toward her, a complex web of shame and dependency swimming in their depths. He shifted, the movement causing a soft jiggle across his vast abdomen.
Men had had it bad over these last few years. When the virus that only attacked the y chromosome reared it's head, most men had no chance, dying slowly and painfully over the course of 3 years. The oldest survivor was 45.
Luckily a cure was found, in, of all places, the DNA of the common domestic pig.
The cure saved men's lives, but it came with a price. The men who survived were left with a new set of challenges, their bodies undergoing a profound transformation. They grew heavier, their faces broadening and flattening. Their ears becoming floppy and pocket like. Their noses turning into snouts, skins becoming pink.
And their propensity to gain weight.
Males across the world started fattening up.
Some embraced it, finding their place. Some were forced into it. And some... like Marcus, resisted it.
Most men grew fat, but topped out at 350 pounds, but some became super hogs, with one male in Wisconsin topping the scales at 2000 pounds of pork.
The rise of the female chubby chaser, sometimes referred to as a hog hunter or a piggy popper, took over, with some women going so far as to fatten their male up to be as helpless and domestic as possible.
Seraphina was no different.
She leaned down, her lips brushing the tip of Marcus’s snout in a parody of affection. “Isn’t that right, brother?”
Marcus groaned, a sound thick with defeat and something darker—wanting. His eyes flicked to the crowd of women, their stares hungry, clinical. He’d gotten used to this part. The humiliation. The perverse pride of being put on display.
Sera straightened, her heels clicking as she turned back to the audience. “As you can see, Marcus has embraced his transformation. He no longer struggles with the shame of his condition. In fact, he thrives.
Sera tried not to let her brother's form get to her. She had her own little pig pen of males, all of them her subordinates and all her playthings waiting at her island villa. With the vast reduction in men, the number of available husbands shrank, so most women didn't have a single piggy to keep her company. She on the other hand, squirrled several away, keeping them plump, soft and submissive, away from the eyes of the largely female public.
She loved them, but not in the way that they wanted to be loved. She loved them as pets, as objects of pleasure, as things to be used and discarded.
Sera's fingers traced the curve of Marcus's belly, her nails catching on the soft rolls of fat. She pressed down, feeling the give of his flesh, the way his body yielded under her touch. The crowd of women watched, their eyes glinting with a mix of fascination and envy.
"Marcus is a testament to the success of our program," Sera said, her voice smooth and confident. "He's no longer a burden to society.
He's a *product*," Seraphina continued, her fingers trailing lower, tracing the deep crease where Marcus's belly met his thighs. "A *luxury* product, in fact. One that we at Bellweather Industries have perfected."
The crowd murmured in approval, some women leaning forward in their seats, their eyes locked on the grotesque spectacle of Marcus's transformed body. The air in the hall was thick with anticipation, the scent of expensive perfume mixing with something darker, something primal.
Marcus whimpered softly, his body trembling under Sera’s touch. His cock, hidden beneath layers of fat, twitched involuntarily.
"To demonstrate, I'll need a volunteer." She said.
The crowd of women erupted into laughter and applause, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. Sera smiled, her gaze sweeping over the audience before settling on a woman in the front row. She was tall, with long, dark hair cascading down her shoulders, and a confident smirk that suggested she was used to getting what she wanted.
"Ah, Ms. Voss," Sera said, her voice dripping with honeyed charm. "I believe you've been a vocal supporter of our program. Would you care to demonstrate?"
Ms. Voss stood, her tailored suit accentuating her curves as she sauntered up onto the stage. She didn’t even glance at Marcus, her attention solely on Sera.
The woman’s smirk deepened as she ascended the stage, her hips swaying in a way that made Sera’s own pulse quicken. Evelyn hadn’t missed the way Voss’s fingers had trembled when she’d stood—just slightly, but enough. Enough to know this wasn’t just professional interest.
“You’ve been very vocal about the benefits of our program,” Sera said, stepping back to give Voss room. “Perhaps today, you’ll experience them firsthand.”
Voss’s dark eyes flicked to Marcus, her lips curling in lust before settling back on Sera. “You’re offering me a pig?”
Sera laughed—a low, throaty sound.
“Oh, darling, I’m offering you *more* than a pig.” She gestured toward Marcus’s sprawled, quivering bulk. “I’m offering you the *experience* of one. A *luxury* one.” Her fingers traced the curve of Voss’s jawline, tilting her face up. “You’ve been watching him, haven’t you? The way he *shudders* when I touch him. The way his fat *jiggles* when he moves. You want to know what it’s like to *own* that.”
Voss’s breath hitched, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“You’re a fucking tease, Bellweather.”
Sera’s smile sharpened. “No, darling. I’m a *businesswoman*.”
She turned back to Marcus, her fingers curling into the thick, pink folds of his neck. “Up, piggy,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a honeyed command. “Let’s show Ms. Voss what you’re *really* good for.”
Marcus groaned, his body shifting with a wet, squelching sound as he rolled onto his knees. The platform creaked under his weight, the velvet harness straining as he pushed himself up.
While it sounded like he was struggling under his own weight, it was all an act, to make him seem more helpless and domestic than he was. While fat humans suffered ill when they were fat, the pig men, for whatever reason, didn't. It didn't matter if they were merely pot bellied or a full ton, they suffered no ill health from their fat, and up to a point, the muscles compensated for their lard.
Some had even managed to breed. Sons born form these unions all had the pig features of their fathers.
So Marcus could roll onto his knees with the grace of a dancer, his massive body making the stage shake as he righted himself. He kept his head down, his snout brushing the velvet beneath him, but his breath came fast. His cock, buried beneath his fat rolls, had begun to swell, pressing against the damp fabric of his harness.
Voss’s gaze darkened as she watched, her fingers curling into the hem of her blazer before dragging down the zipper with deliberate slowness. The sound of fabric parting had Marcus’s snorting breath hitch.
Voss shrugged off her blazer, revealing a fitted camisole underneath, the thin material clinging to the swell of her breasts. She didn’t bother with a bra—why should she? The way her nipples pressed against the fabric, stiff and dark, was practically an invitation.
Sera’s mouth curled into a satisfied smirk as she watched the exchange. “Go on,” she murmured to Voss, her voice velvety and low. “Show him what he’s made *for*.”
Voss didn’t need to be told twice.
She sauntered forward, her heels clicking against the stage as she circled Marcus’s massive frame, her fingers trailing along the pronounced rolls of his fat.
"Hmmm... like what you see, boar?" she purred , pressing her palm flat against the soft jiggle of his belly as she leaned in close enough for him to smell her arousal—citrus and iron, sharp and intoxicating.
Marcus let out a broken squeal, his snout wrinkling as his body jolted uncontrollably at her touch, the fat beneath her hand rippling like pudding. His cock—thick, veined, and already leaking—had burst free of its restraints, bobbing obscenely between his thighs. The head glistened with pre-cum, a grotesque and beautiful contrast to the way his body pulsed.
Voss didn’t hesitate.
Her fingers curled around the base of Marcus’s cock, her grip firm enough to make him whimper. The shaft pulsed in her hand, thick veins throbbing against her palm as she stroked him from root to tip. A bead of pre-cum welled at the slit, glistening under the stage lights before dripping down the underside of his cock in a slow, sticky trail.
“Fuck, look at you,” Voss breathed, her voice rough with desire. “So *big*. So *helpless*.” She squeezed him harder, her thumb swirling over the slick head, smearing the pre-cum until it glistened obscenely. “You like that, don’t you?
You *love* this, you little piggy,” Voss hissed, her grip tightening as she began to stroke him in earnest, her fingers sliding over the thick ridges of his cock with practiced ease.
Marcus’s snout wrinkled in a high-pitched squeal, his hips jerking uncontrollably as his body trembled beneath her touch. He was huge—longer than any cock she’d ever handled, but so thick that her fingers barely met around him. The head was swollen and flushed, leaking pre-cum in thick ropes that dripped down his shaft, pooling on the velvet beneath him.
Voss’s fingers worked him with brutal efficiency, her nails digging into the sensitive underside of his cock as she pumped him from root to tip. The sound of her hand slapping against his wet skin filled the air, a filthy, rhythmic *slap-slap-slap* that made the women in the audience shift in their seats.
“Look at him,” Voss murmured, her voice thick with lust as she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Marcus’s ear. “You’re *dripping* for me, aren’t you? You fucking *love* this.”
Marcus let out a guttural groan, his body shuddering as his cock twitched violently in her grip.
A thick, pearly rope of pre-cum burst from his slit, splattering across his own belly in a sticky white arc. He whined, a broken sound, his fat thighs trembling as his breath came in ragged, squealing gasps.
Voss smirked, her free hand sliding beneath her camisole to pinch at her own nipple through the thin fabric. “Oh, you *do* love it,” she breathed, her voice dripping with filthy delight. “You love when they all watch you *tremble*. When they see how *easy* you are.
How *owned* you are." She punctuated each word with a sharp twist of her fingers around Marcus’s cock, making his snout wrinkle in a high-pitched squeal.
Sera watched the exchange with a slow, satisfied smirk, her fingers absently tracing the curve of her own hip as she leaned against the edge of the stage. She had seen this one before—the way Voss watched Marcus in the after-parties, the way her breath hitched when she thought no one was looking. She had known exactly which woman would rise to the bait today. She knew it was only a matter of time before Voss was swollen with Marcus's piglets.
Marcus himself was already picturing it. The thought of his snout nuzzling against the belly of a woman round with his child, their sons born with the same snub face and pink skin as himself. Fat Piglets to fill the world.
Voss’s grip on his cock tightened, her fingers digging into the thick vein that ran along the underside, making him squeal again. He could feel the wet heat of his own arousal dripping down his shaft, pooling in the deep folds of his fat where his thighs met his belly. He could smell it—musky, thick, *pig*—and it only made him harder.
His cock jerked in Voss’s grip, another thick rope of pre-cum bursting from his slit with a wet *squelch* that splashed across his own belly in a pearly smear.
“Fuck *me*,” Voss hissed, her voice rough with need. She released him just long enough to shimmy out of her camisole, letting it pool around her waist. Her breasts were heavy, the areolas dark and stiff, the nipples already swollen and begging for attention. She palmed them roughly, rolling her thumbs over the stiff peaks before giving them a sharp tug.
The pain made her gasp, her back arching as she ground her hips against the air, already desperate for friction.
“You’re a fucking *animal*,” Voss snarled, her voice dripping with filthy delight as she stepped closer, her bare feet sinking into the plush velvet beneath Marcus’s bulk. She pressed her body against his side, her skin hot against the cool, damp rolls of his fat. “A fat, *filthy* animal.”
Marcus let out a broken whimper, his snout twitching as he tried to turn his head toward her, but his neck was too thick, too heavy.
He could only rock his bulk clumsily, his thighs trembling as Voss’s hand tightened around his cock again, her grip ruthless. The fat beneath her fingers jiggled obscenely with every flex of her wrist, his shaft bobbing heavily in her palm as she stroked him with slow, deliberate pulls.
“You *love* this, don’t you?” she taunted, her breath hot against his ear. “You love when we all see how *easy* you are. How *useless* you are.
How *helpless*.”
Voss’s voice was a venomous purr, her fingers digging into the thick, quivering flesh of Marcus’s belly as she leaned over him, her breasts pressing against his side. The heat of her skin seared through the damp rolls of fat, her nipples dragging against the slick, pink expanse of his torso. She could feel his heart hammering beneath her palm, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matched the way his cock pulsed in her grip.
Marcus let out a broken, guttural groan, his snout wrinkling as his hips jerked involuntarily.