The morning sun cast long shadows across Carol's sprawling estate, its perfectly manicured lawns stretching toward the horizon. From her study, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, Carol sipped her espresso and contemplated her next acquisition. Born into a billionaire banking dynasty, she had never known the sting of want or the sweat of labor. Everything in her life had been curated, purchased, and positioned exactly as she desired. Now, at thirty-five, her tastes had evolved beyond designer handbags and luxury cars. She collected men.

Not just any men, but those who harbored a specific fantasy: to be fattened to the point of immobility. Carol had discovered this underground world years ago, and she knew the statistics intimately. For every woman like her—with the means and the desire to fulfill such fantasies—there were at least a hundred men desperate for what she offered. She was the apex predator in a very specialized hunting ground, and she could afford to be as particular as she pleased.

Her preferences were specific. She favored short, small-framed men with virtually no muscle definition. Men who looked as though a strong wind might knock them over. She enjoyed the stark contrast between their initial frailty and the massive beings they would become under her care. More than that, she reveled in the power dynamic—the way their dependence on her grew with each passing day, each added pound.

Carol opened her laptop and navigated to a niche weight-gain fetish website, one of several she frequented. She logged into her account—Mistress Fattener—and composed a new personal ad. Her fingers danced across the keyboard with practiced ease.

"Seeking a new project," she typed. "Small-framed, under 5'8", with no athletic build. Must be willing to relocate to my private estate. All expenses paid. Your sole purpose will be to gain weight according to my specifications. Humiliation, verbal abuse, and complete domination are non-negotiable aspects of this arrangement. If you fantasize about losing your mobility and becoming entirely dependent on a woman who knows what's best for you, reply with a recent photo and a paragraph about why you believe you deserve this transformation."

She posted the ad and leaned back in her leather chair, a small smile playing on her lips. The hunt was on. Within minutes, responses began trickling into her inbox. Carol took her time, savoring the process as much as the result. She opened the first message, her critical eye scanning the attached photo and the desperate plea that followed. This was her art, her passion, and she was in no hurry to select her next masterpiece.

Wilbur's photo caught Carol's attention immediately. At five foot two, with narrow shoulders that seemed to slope inward and wide hips that promised excellent potential for expansion, he was precisely what she sought. His expression in the photo was one of quiet desperation—a mousy man with downcast eyes and thin lips pressed together as if afraid to speak. His response to her ad was brief but telling: "I have always dreamed of being transformed. I want to become so large that I can't move without help. I want to be completely owned and controlled. Please consider me for your project."

Carol replied with a single sentence: "Be at my estate at 3 PM tomorrow. Don't be late."

The following day, as the clock struck three, the intercom buzzed. Carol, dressed in a form-fitting black dress that accentuated her own substantial curves—she had never bothered with dieting, as her power allowed her to indulge without consequence—walked to the front door. She swung it open to reveal Wilbur standing on her doorstep, looking even smaller and more insignificant in person than in his photo.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Carol said, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're even more pathetic than I imagined."

Wilbur flinched but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Come in," she commanded, turning and walking away, expecting him to follow. "From this moment forward, you will speak only when spoken to. You will address me as Mistress. Your old life is over. Your only purpose now is to become what I want you to be."

She led him through the opulent foyer and up a sweeping staircase to a master bathroom. The room was larger than most people's living rooms, with marble floors and a countertop that stretched along one entire wall.

"Strip," she ordered.

Wilbur hesitated for a moment, then began to awkwardly remove his clothes, revealing his pale, hairless body. Carol circled him like a predator assessing prey.

"You're practically skeletal," she sneered, though she knew he wasn't. "This is going to take a lot of work."

From a drawer, she produced a metal chastity device. "This will ensure you remember your place," she said, locking it securely over his cock and balls. Wilbur gasped at the cold metal and the sudden restriction.

"Now bend over the countertop," she commanded.

Wilbur complied, his small frame trembling slightly. Carol's hand came down hard on his buttocks, the smack echoing in the large bathroom.

"This is for not being fat enough," she said, punctuating each word with another spank. "This is for making me wait for what I want."

When his buttocks were a bright red, she stopped. From another drawer, she produced a large butt plug.

"Spread your cheeks," she ordered.

Wilbur reached back and did as he was told. Carol slowly inserted the plug, watching as his body accepted the intrusion.

"There," she said, giving it a final push. "Now you're properly plugged."

She then turned and hiked up her dress, revealing her own substantial buttocks.

"On your knees," she commanded.

Wilbur dropped to the floor.

"Now show me how much you appreciate what I'm doing for you," she said, bending over slightly. "Make out with my asshole."

Wilbur hesitated for only a second before pressing his face into her cleft, his tongue tentatively exploring her most intimate place. Carol sighed with pleasure, reaching back to hold his head in place. This was how it began—the breaking down of the old self, the building of something new, something entirely hers. Wilbur's journey had just started, and she would be his guide, his tormentor, and his goddess every step of the way.

The humiliation ritual complete, Carol turned to Wilbur with a cruel smile. "You can't walk around my estate looking like that," she said, gesturing to his naked form. From a closet, she produced an oversized muumuu in a garish pink floral print and a giant bib with a cartoonish fat piggy emblazoned across the front.

"Put these on," she commanded, tossing them at him.

Wilbur fumbled with the clothing, the fabric swallowing his small frame. Once dressed, he looked even more ridiculous—a child playing dress-up in adult clothes.

"Much better," Carol sneered. "Now you look the part."

She led him through the mansion to the master bedroom, a space dominated by a massive four-poster bed and a sitting area with a love seat positioned before a small table. Nearby stood a cart laden with food: three extra-large pizzas dripping with cheese and grease, a massive bowl of pasta swimming in cream sauce, and half a gallon of premium ice cream.

"Sit," Carol ordered, pointing to the love seat.

Wilbur obeyed, the muumuu billowing around him as he settled onto the cushion.

"This is your first real meal," she said, wheeling the cart closer. "From now on, you will eat when I tell you to eat, what I tell you to eat, and as much as I tell you to eat."

She placed a slice of pizza on a plate and set it before him. "Eat."

Wilbur tentatively took a bite, then another. Soon, he was eating with more enthusiasm, the food disappearing into his mouth with increasing speed. Carol watched him intently, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"That's it," she murmured. "Good boy. Eat it all up."

As he ate, she began to speak, her voice taking on a almost hypnotic quality. "You see all this food? This is just the beginning. Soon, your body will change. That little frame of yours will stretch and expand. Your belly will grow round and firm. Your thighs will thicken until they rub together when you walk."

She paused, watching as he finished the first slice and reached for another.

"Eventually, you won't be able to walk at all," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your legs won't support your weight. You'll spend your days in this room, or perhaps in a special chair I'll have made for you. You'll need help to bathe, to use the toilet, to do anything at all."

Wilbur's eyes widened slightly, but he continued eating, his movements becoming almost mechanical as he shoveled food into his mouth.

"You'll be completely dependent on me," Carol said, leaning forward in her chair. "I'll be your only connection to the outside world. I'll decide what you eat, when you sleep, when you're allowed the simple pleasure of an orgasm. You'll be my pet, my project, my living artwork."

She reached out and patted his cheek, leaving a smudge of pizza grease. "And you'll love every minute of it, won't you?"

Wilbur nodded, his mouth too full to speak, his eyes already glazing over with a mixture of fear and excitement. The transformation had begun, not just of his body, but of his mind. He was hers now, completely and utterly.

Wilbur finally pushed the empty ice cream carton away, his stomach distended and painful. He groaned, leaning back against the love seat cushions, his body protesting the massive quantity of food he had consumed.

"Look at you," Carol sneered, standing up from her chair. "Already looking like a pig who's found the trough. But we're just getting started."

She walked to a dresser and opened the top drawer, removing a harness with a sizable silicone dildo attached. Wilbur's eyes widened as she stepped into it and tightened the straps around her thighs and waist.

"On your knees," she commanded, pointing to the love seat. "Lean over the back."

Wilbur hesitated, his bloated stomach making movement difficult. "I... I've never..." he stammered.

"Never what?" Carol asked, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "Never been properly fucked? Never been used the way you were meant to be used?"

Wilbur flushed, his embarrassment warring with the arousal that was beginning to stir despite his discomfort. This was what he had fantasized about—being completely owned, completely used.

"That's what I thought," Carol said, grabbing a jar of lard from the nightstand. She greased the dildo liberally, the slick sound filling the room.

Wilbur awkwardly positioned himself on his knees, draping his upper body over the back of the love seat. His buttocks, still sore from the earlier spanking, were exposed and vulnerable.

Carol approached him from behind, her hands gripping his hips. "Relax," she murmured, though it was more of a command than a suggestion. "This is going to hurt at first. But pain is just weakness leaving the body, isn't it?"

She removed the butt plug, and Wilbur gasped at the sudden emptiness. A moment later, he felt the cold, slick tip of the dildo pressing against his entrance. He tensed involuntarily.

"I said relax," Carol snapped, giving his buttock a sharp slap.

Wilbur forced himself to breathe, to unclench his muscles. Slowly, inexorably, the dildo pushed into him. He cried out, the initial pain sharp and tearing.

"That's it," Carol grunted, pushing deeper. "Take it all. Every inch."

Wilbur whimpered, his fingers gripping the fabric of the love seat. The pain was intense, but as she began to move, thrusting slowly in and out, it began to change. The feeling of being stuffed, of being filled completely, was overwhelming. His discomfort gradually gave way to a strange fullness that was almost pleasurable.

Carol's movements became more deliberate, more purposeful. She adjusted her angle, and suddenly the head of the dildo was rubbing against something inside him that sent jolts of electricity through his body.

"Oh!" Wilbur gasped, unable to stop the sound.

"Found it, did I?" Carol chuckled. "That's your prostate, you little slut. Feel good?"

Wilbur nodded, his face pressed into the cushion, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Good," Carol said, her voice turning cruel once more. "Because this is the only pleasure you'll be allowed from now on. Your cock belongs to me, locked away. But this?" She thrust hard, hitting the spot again. "This I can give you. Or take away."

As Wilbur's moans grew louder, Carol's verbal abuse intensified. "Look at you, moaning like a whore. You love this, don't you? You love being fucked like a piece of meat."

She gripped his hips tighter, her thrusts becoming more forceful. "I'm going to grow this ass of yours," she panted, slapping his buttock with each thrust. "I'm going to feed you until it's a massive, jiggling mound of flesh. And then I'm going to invite my friends over to watch. Maybe they'll want a turn. Maybe I'll sell tickets to the show."

Wilbur's mind reeled at the images her words conjured, but his body responded with increasing arousal. The humiliation, the degradation, the sheer powerlessness of his position—it was everything he had fantasized about and more.

"You'll be my prize pig," Carol continued, her voice breathless with exertion. "My fat little fucktoy. And you'll thank me for every pound, every stretch mark, every moment of this."

Wilbur could only moan in response, his body completely at her mercy, his mind already beginning to accept the future she was describing for him. He was hers, utterly and completely, and there was no turning back.

Wilbur's body tensed as the waves of pleasure built, the relentless pressure against his prostate pushing him toward a climax unlike any he had ever experienced. His moans grew louder, more desperate, until finally he cried out, his body convulsing as he came, the chastity device straining painfully against his orgasm making him feel claimed.

Carol felt his body spasm and slowed her thrusts, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Good little slut," she murmured, though the words were laced with contempt. "See? Even locked away, you can still feel pleasure when I allow it."

She pulled out of him abruptly, leaving him feeling empty and exposed. A moment later, the butt plug was back in place, sealing him once again.

Wilbur collapsed against the love seat, panting, his body slick with sweat. Carol walked around to face him, her expression one of triumph.

"You came like a slutty whore," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "Which is exactly what you are. And since you're going to behave like one, you're going to start dressing and acting like one."

She turned and walked to a large closet, opening the doors to reveal an array of clothing—all in sizes far too large for Wilbur's current frame, but designed for the body he would eventually have. She selected a frilly pink nightgown and a pair of white lace panties.

"From now on, this is your wardrobe," she said, tossing the items at him. "No more men's clothing. You're not a man anymore. You're my property."

Wilbur stared at the feminine garments, his mind racing. This was more than he had bargained for, more than he had fantasized about. But the look in Carol's eyes brooked no argument.

"Now, for the final touch," Carol said, walking to a small refrigerator in the corner of the room. She took out a medical kit and laid it on the table.

"What... what is that?" Wilbur asked, his voice trembling.

"Just a little something to help the process along," Carol said, removing four prepared syringes from the manufacturer's packaging. "To make sure your body transforms exactly as I want it to."

She didn't tell him that each syringe contained a tiny implant, each about the size of a grain of rice but packed with a powerful experimental cocktail. The implants contained a precise blend of estrogen, progesterone, medroxyprogesterone acetate, estradiol, and a proprietary cocktail of growth factors designed to do more than just promote weight gain. They were engineered to stimulate the proliferation of fat cells at an accelerated rate, while simultaneously beginning the process of feminization.

"Turn over," she commanded.

Wilbur hesitated, then rolled onto his stomach. Carol swabbed the lower part of his left buttock with alcohol, then injected the first implant. She repeated the process on the right buttock, then had him turn over and injected the remaining two implants into the areas just under his nipples. The implants in his buttocks were about four times the size of those injected into his breast tissue, designed to promote massive fat accumulation in his posterior while encouraging significant breast development.

"There," she said, disposing of the syringe. "That will ensure you grow exactly as I want you to."

She stood back and looked at Wilbur, her expression one of ownership and satisfaction.

"From this moment forward, you are no longer Wilbur," she declared. "That name, that identity, is gone. You are Wilma. My fat little Wilma. And you will address me as Mistress at all times."

Wilbur—now Wilma—stared up at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. His journey had just taken a sharp turn into territory he had never imagined, and there was no going back. He was Carol's creation now, her living artwork, and she would mold him into whatever she desired.

Carol stood before the bed, her hands on her hips, surveying her new creation. Wilma, still dazed from the injections and the intensity of the evening, knelt on the floor, the frilly pink nightgown looking absurd on his small frame.

"It's time for bed," Carol announced, her voice brooking no argument. "But first, we need to establish your new nightly routine."

She walked to the bed and pulled back the covers, revealing crisp white sheets. "Your primary purpose, Wilma, is to provide me with pleasure and service. During the day, you will eat and grow. But at night, your job is to worship me."

Carol climbed into bed and lay on her side, her substantial backside facing Wilma. "Come here," she commanded, patting the mattress behind her.

Wilma hesitantly crawled onto the bed, unsure of what was expected.

"Your new job," Carol continued, "is to worship my butthole. For at least eight hours a day. But since I'm a busy woman with important things to do, you will do this while I sleep."

She reached back and grabbed Wilma's head, pulling it toward her buttocks. "You will sleep with your face planted between my ass cheeks, your lips pressed against my anus. It will be the last thing you think of before falling asleep and the first thing you think of when you wake up."

Wilma's mind reeled at the command, but despite the humiliation, she felt a stirring of arousal. The thought of being so intimately connected to Carol, of her face buried in her most private place for hours on end, was overwhelming. It was the ultimate act of submission, of ownership.

"Do you understand, Wilma?" Carol asked, her voice sharp.

"Yes, Mistress," Wilma whispered, the name feeling strange but somehow right on her tongue.

"Good," Carol said, giving his head a final push. "Now assume the position."

Wilma pressed her face into the soft, warm flesh of Carol's buttocks, the scent of her enveloping him. Her lips found her anus, and she tentatively began to kiss and lick, as she had been taught earlier.

Carol let out a sigh of contentment. "That's it," she murmured. "That's where you belong."

She shifted slightly, grinding his face deeper into her cleft. Then, with a loud, wet sound, she farted, the gas escaping directly into Wilma's face. Wilma flinched but did not pull away, accepting this final act of humiliation as part of her new reality.

"We have a busy day tomorrow," Carol said, her voice already growing sleepy. "You'll need your rest. But not too much rest. Your mouth has work to do."

With that, she settled into the pillow, her breathing slowing as she drifted off to sleep. Wilma was left with her face buried in Carol's ass, the taste and smell of her filling her senses, her mind racing with the knowledge that this was her life now. She was Wilma, the fat little whore whose only purpose was to grow and serve. And as the minutes ticked by and Carol's breathing grew deeper, Wilma found a strange sense of peace in her submission, her tongue continuing its worship as she, too, eventually drifted into sleep, her face crammed into the warmth of his Mistress's ass.

Wilma stirred from sleep, her senses slowly returning. The first thing she registered was the warmth, the overwhelming heat that surrounded her. Then the smell—earthy, intimate, and unmistakably Carol. As consciousness fully returned, she realized she was completely enveloped by Carol's body, her face still pressed firmly between her buttocks, but now also covered by a sheet that had been pulled over them both during the night. She was trapped in a hot, humid cocoon, breathing in nothing but the scent of her Mistress.

Before she could fully process her situation, Carol's body tensed. A moment later, another loud, wet fart erupted directly into Wilma's face, the sound muffled by the sheet and the flesh surrounding her. The smell intensified, and Wilma instinctively tried to pull back, but Carol's hand was already there, gripping the back of her head and grinding her face deeper into her cleft.

"Morning, my little whore," Carol murmured, her voice thick with sleep but already laced with cruelty. "Did you sleep well with your face in my ass?"

Wilma tried to respond, but her words were muffled by flesh and fabric.

"That's right," Carol continued, ignoring her attempt to speak. "You belong there. That's your home now. Your little piggy nest."

She shifted, grinding Wilma's face deeper. "I bet you're hungry, aren't you? Ready for your breakfast? Don't worry, it's coming. But first, you have work to do."

Carol reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a small vibrator, which she handed back to Wilma.

"Here," she commanded. "You're going to use this on my clit while you eat my ass. And you're going to do it properly, or you'll go hungry today."

Wilma fumbled with the vibrator, her movements restricted by her position. Finally, she managed to turn it on and press it against the spot Carol indicated.

"That's it," Carol groaned, her hips beginning to move in a slow rhythm. "Good girl. Keep that up."

As Wilma worked the vibrator, Carol's verbal abuse intensified, her voice growing breathless with arousal. "You're just a hole, aren't you? A useless little fucktoy. You exist only to please me, to serve me. Your body is mine to mold, your mouth is mine to use. You're nothing but a fat little pig who loves having her face in my ass."

Wilma's own body responded despite the humiliation, her arousal growing as Carol's words washed over her. The vibrations against her hand, the taste and smell of Carol, the sheer degradation of her position—it all combined to create a heady cocktail of submission and desire.

"Faster," Carol panted, her grip on Wilma's head tightening. "Make me come, you worthless whore. Make me come with your face buried in my ass."

Wilma increased the pressure and speed of the vibrator, her tongue working frantically against Carol's anus. She could feel Carol's body tensing, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Almost there," Carol gasped. "Almost... almost..."

With a final, forceful grind of her hips, Carol came, her body convulsing, her grip on Wilma's hair becoming almost painful. She let out a guttural moan, her muscles clenching and unclenching around Wilma's face. As the waves of pleasure subsided, she slowly released her grip, her body relaxing into the mattress.

"Good girl," she murmured, her voice softening slightly. "Very good girl. You've earned your breakfast."

She reached back and patted Wilma's head, still buried in her ass. "But not yet. Keep that vibrator going. I want one more. And this time, you'd better make it count."

Wilma, her face slick with sweat and other fluids, her jaw aching, simply nodded, her tongue already returning to its work, the vibrator buzzing steadily against Carol's clit. Her day had begun, and it was already filled with service, humiliation, and the overwhelming presence of her Mistress.

The morning light filtered through the bathroom windows as Carol finally pulled her face from between her buttocks, gasping for air. Wilma remained on her knees, the vibrator still buzzing in her hand, her jaw aching from the prolonged exertion.

"Enough," Carol said, pushing herself up from the bed. "We have a busy day. Get up."

Wilma slowly rose to her feet, her body stiff from the night spent in such a confined position.

"Strip," Carol commanded, already removing her own nightgown. "We're showering."

Wilma obeyed, pulling the frilly pink nightgown over her head and stepping out of the lace panties. Carol led her into the master bathroom, a space of opulent luxury with marble floors and a walk-in shower that could easily accommodate four people. The shower was equipped with multiple showerheads and a built-in tile bench.

Carol turned on the water, adjusting the temperature before stepping inside. She beckoned Wilma to follow.

"Turn around," she ordered.

Wilma complied, facing the wall. Carol gently removed the butt plug, rinsing it off in the shower stream before setting it aside.

"You won't be wearing this today," she said, her voice casual. "We have an appointment. Our first of many laser hair removal sessions."

Wilma turned, her eyes wide with surprise. "Laser hair removal?"

"Yes," Carol said, running a soapy cloth over Wilma's body. "We're starting with your ass, thighs, and pubic area. I want you smooth everywhere. A proper canvas for my artwork."

She then knelt before Wilma, removing the chastity device with a small key. "And this comes off for now. But don't get any ideas," she warned, her voice turning sharp. "You are only allowed anal orgasms from now on. If I find out you've tried to pleasure yourself in any other way, there will be consequences. And the moment we get home, this goes right back on. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress," Wilma whispered, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment at the removal of the device.

They finished showering, and Carol handed Wilma a large, fluffy towel. As Wilma began to dry herself, she felt the urge to urinate and instinctively walked toward the toilet, raising the seat.

Before she could even position herself, Carol's hand cracked across her face, the slap echoing in the bathroom. Wilma stumbled back, shocked by the sudden violence.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Carol screamed, her face contorted with rage. "Did I give you permission to stand up and pee like a man?"

Wilma stood frozen, her cheek stinging, her mind racing. "I... I'm sorry, Mistress. I didn't think—"

"You didn't think?" Carol interrupted, her voice dripping with venom. "That's obvious. You don't think. You obey. And from now on, you will sit down to pee. You are not a man anymore. You are not allowed to stand. You are not allowed to act like a man. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mistress," Wilma stammered, her eyes filling with tears.

Carol stepped closer, her expression terrifying. "And if I ever catch you standing up to pee again, or if I even suspect you're thinking about it, I will castrate you. Do you hear me? I will have those useless balls removed. You won't need them where you're going."

To emphasize her point, Carol reached out and grabbed Wilma's testicles, squeezing them tightly. Wilma cried out, the pain sharp and immediate, feeling like she had just been kicked hard in the gut. She doubled over, gasping for breath.

"This is your only warning," Carol said, releasing her grip. "Now sit down and pee like the girl you're becoming."

Wilma, tears streaming down her face, slowly lowered herself onto the toilet seat, her body trembling with fear and pain. As she relieved herself, she couldn't shake the horror of Carol's threat. She had no idea that the threat was empty, that the implants injected the day before had already begun the process of chemical castration, flooding her body with hormones that would gradually shut down testosterone production and begin the physical transformation Carol desired. To Wilma, the threat was real, immediate, and terrifying—a stark reminder of the absolute power Carol held over her life and body.

Wilma stood before the full-length mirror in the bedroom, staring at her reflection. The unisex outfit Carol had selected for her was humiliating enough—white shorts that were too short, riding up her thighs, and a pink t-shirt emblazoned with a cartoon pig wearing a frilly apron and holding a fork and knife. The pig had a cheerful, vacant expression, and the words "Hungry Little Piggy" were printed in a cutesy font beneath it.

"Perfect," Carol declared, circling Wilma like a predator assessing prey. "You look exactly like what you are: a pathetic, greedy little pig."

She grabbed Wilma's arm and led her downstairs to the kitchen, a space larger than most people's apartments, with stainless steel appliances and a massive island in the center. Despite the early hour, the kitchen was spotless, but it was clear that Carol's staff had been busy. On the stove sat a large vat, still warm, containing what looked to be at least a gallon of oatmeal. The smell of butter and sugar hung heavy in the air, and Wilma could see chunks of Snickers bars slowly melting into the mixture.

Carol pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and pointed. "Sit."

Wilma obeyed, her stomach already churning at the thought of the massive meal before her. Carol took a seat opposite her, where a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast awaited her.

"Dig in," Carol said, taking a bite of her toast. "You have the whole thing to finish before we leave."

Wilma tentatively dipped her spoon into the oatmeal. It was thick, almost gelatinous, and sickeningly sweet. She took a small bite, the overwhelming richness coating her tongue.

"Come on," Carol sneered, pushing the vat closer to Wilma. "You can do better than that. Open wide. Show me how much you love it."

Wilma forced herself to take larger bites, the oatmeal sticking in her throat. She could feel Carol's eyes on her, watching her every movement with a cruel intensity.

"Look at you," Carol said, her voice dripping with contempt. "Stuffing your face like the pig you are. This is all you're good for, isn't it? Eating and growing."

She took a sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving Wilma's face. "I can already see your belly getting rounder. Soon, you won't be able to see your feet. You'll waddle when you walk. People will point and stare. And you'll love it, won't you? You'll love being a fat, disgusting spectacle."

Wilma tried to focus on eating, but the verbal abuse made it difficult to swallow. The oatmeal seemed to expand in her stomach, the sugar and butter creating a heavy, nauseating feeling.

"Faster," Carol commanded, pushing the vat even closer. "We have an appointment to keep. And you're not leaving this table until every last bite is gone."

Wilma forced herself to eat faster, her spoon moving mechanically from the vat to her mouth. The sweet taste was becoming cloying, almost sickening, but she knew she had no choice but to finish.

"That's it," Carol said, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Good piggy. Eat it all up. Every last bite."

As Wilma continued to eat, Carol's abuse intensified, her words painting a vivid picture of the future she had planned for Wilma—a future of endless eating, massive weight gain, and complete submission. Wilma's stomach ached, but she kept eating, knowing that this was only the beginning of her transformation, and that Carol would accept nothing less than total obedience.

At the hair removal clinic, Carol strode confidently to the reception desk, her presence commanding immediate attention. "Carol Gould," she announced. "I have an appointment for my... companion. Wilma."

The receptionist glanced at Wilma, taking in the pig t-shirt and too-short shorts, and quickly looked away, a professional mask sliding into place. "Of course, Ms. Gould. The technician will be with you shortly."

When the technician, a severe-looking woman with sharp features and a name tag reading "Brenda," emerged, Carol pulled her aside, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm paying for this, and I expect special treatment. An extra-large tip is in it for you if you make sure my little piggy here is properly humiliated. She needs to learn her place."

Brenda's eyes flickered with understanding and a cruel amusement. "Of course, Ms. Gould. I understand completely."

They were led to a private room, where Brenda instructed Wilma to disrobe. Wilma hesitated, her face burning with embarrassment. She had always been self-conscious about her small penis, and the thought of exposing herself to this stranger was almost unbearable.

"Come on," Carol snapped. "We don't have all day. Show Brenda what she's working with."

Slowly, reluctantly, Wilma removed her shorts and t-shirt, standing naked in the center of the room. Brenda's eyes immediately zeroed in on Wilma's groin, and a sneer twisted her lips.

"Well, well, well," Brenda said, her voice dripping with contempt. "Is that it? I've seen bigger on a prepubescent boy."

Wilma flushed a deeper shade of crimson, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"Are you sure you want to remove all this hair?" Brenda asked, gesturing with a gloved hand. "It's going to make you look like you have a baby penis. Even smaller than it already is."

She looked up at Carol, who was watching the exchange with an approving smile. "It's almost not worth the effort, is it?"

Carol chuckled. "Oh, it's worth it. Every bit of it. She needs to look the part."

Brenda nodded, turning back to Wilma. "Very well. Let's get started. Lie down on the table, face down. We'll start with your ass. I assume that's the part you're most interested in having smooth, since you'll be the 'bottom' in this relationship, won't you?"

Wilma's humiliation was complete. She climbed onto the table, her body trembling with shame, knowing that this was only the beginning of the degradation Carol had planned for her. As the laser began its work, the sharp sting of the procedure was nothing compared to the pain of the verbal abuse and the knowledge that her transformation was being guided by such cruel hands.

The next stop was a cosmetic clinic, this one specializing in injectables. Carol led Wilma inside, her hand gripping Wilma's arm possessively. At the reception desk, Carol announced, "We're here for the Bimbo treatment. For her."

The nurse who emerged to take them back to a treatment room was young and professional, but her eyes widened slightly when she saw Wilma's face. "The Bimbo treatment?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"Yes," Carol said, pushing Wilma forward. "The works. We want her to look like the slutty little whore she's becoming."

The nurse nodded, her professional demeanor slipping slightly as she took in Wilma's appearance. "Of course. Right this way."

In the treatment room, Wilma was instructed to lie back on the chair. The nurse prepared a syringe, and Wilma's eyes widened in terror.

"Don't worry," the nurse said, though her tone suggested she was enjoying Wilma's fear. "It's just a local anesthetic. You'll feel a little pinch, and then nothing at all."

True to her word, the injection stung for only a moment before Wilma's lips began to feel numb. Then the real procedure began. The nurse took up another syringe, this one filled with a clear gel, and began injecting it into Wilma's lips with countless micro-injections. The process was painless but deeply unsettling, the pressure and the strange sensation of her lips swelling and distorting.

When it was finally over, the nurse handed Wilma a mirror. Wilma gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Her lips were enormous, pillowy, and obscenely full. They dominated her face, making her look like a caricature of a porn star. The effect was blatantly sexual, leaving no doubt as to the purpose of the procedure.

"Oh my god," Wilma whispered, her voice barely recognizable through her swollen lips. "I look like a..."

"Like a slut," Carol finished, a satisfied smile on her face. "Which is exactly what you are. Now everyone who looks at you will know it."

Wilma's eyes filled with tears. She was horrified by her reflection, afraid to even imagine how people would react to her in public. They would take one look at her and come to the correct conclusion: that she was being turned into a sex doll, a living caricature of femininity.

As if reading her thoughts, Carol took Wilma's hand and led her out to the car. "Now, now, none of that," she said, wiping away a tear with her thumb. "You look perfect. And to prove it, we're going to the mall. You're going to walk ahead of me, like you're there by yourself. You're going to interact with people. You're going to show off those beautiful new lips of yours."

Wilma's heart sank. The thought of being seen in public like this was terrifying. But she knew she had no choice.

At the mall, Carol gave Wilma her instructions. "Go on. Walk ahead. Talk to people. Buy something slutty. I'll be watching."

Wilma took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, her too-short shorts riding up as she walked. She kept her head down, her swollen lips making her feel self-conscious with every step. She was too embarrassed to approach random strangers, so she stuck to interacting with store staff, asking vague questions about products she had no interest in. Each interaction left her feeling more foolish and exposed.

Then she saw it: a lingerie store. Remembering Carol's instructions, she took a deep breath and walked inside. The store was filled with delicate, lacy things, but Wilma headed straight for the more provocative section. She selected several pieces—a crotchless teddy, a bra that was little more than a few strings, a pair of panties with an opening in the back. Her face burned with shame as she carried them to the cash register.

As she waited in line, she heard a familiar voice behind her. "Buying something special for someone?" Carol asked, loudly enough for everyone in the store to hear.

Wilma froze, her face flushing a furious crimson. "I... uh... yes," she stammered, unable to turn around.

"Must be someone very special," Carol continued, her voice dripping with amusement. "Those are very... revealing choices."

The cashier rang up the items, her eyes flickering between Wilma's swollen lips and the provocative lingerie. Wilma paid quickly and fled the store, her heart pounding with humiliation.

As she made her way toward the exit, a young black man walking in the opposite direction stopped in his tracks, his eyes locked on her face. "Damn, girl," he said, his voice loud enough for others to hear. "Those lips are made for sucking dick. You must give some killer head."

Wilma's face burned, and she hurried out of the mall, the man's lewd comment echoing in her ears. She found Carol waiting by the car, a satisfied smile on her face.

"See?" Carol said, opening the car door. "Everyone knows what you are now. A slutty little whore with a mouth made for pleasing. Now get in. We have more work to do."

Wilma got into the car, her swollen lips a constant, humiliating reminder of her new reality. She was no longer Wilbur, no longer even just Wilma. She was becoming something else entirely—a creation of Carol's, designed for pleasure and humiliation. And the world was taking notice.

The drive back to Carol's estate was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of the engine and the occasional smirk from Carol as she glanced at Wilma's swollen lips. Wilma sat rigidly in the passenger seat, her mind racing with the events of the day, her body still aching from the massive breakfast and the humiliating procedures.

As they pulled up to the grand entrance of the mansion, Carol turned to Wilma, her expression one of cruel satisfaction. "You did well today, Wilma. You're starting to look the part. But looking the part is only half the battle. You need to act it too."

She led Wilma inside and up to the master bedroom, where a large bowl of spaghetti sat on the table, thick with meat sauce and covered in a layer of melted cheese that was already congealing.

"Eat," Carol commanded, pushing Wilma toward the table. "You have an appointment at four o'clock, and you need your strength."

Wilma obeyed, mechanically shoveling the food into her mouth, her swollen lips making the process awkward and messy. She had barely finished when the clock struck four, and the sound of the doorbell echoed through the mansion.

Carol went to answer it, returning moments later with a woman in tow. She was tall and thin, with bleached blonde hair and a face caked with makeup. Her clothing was revealing—a tight mini-dress that showed off her long legs and ample cleavage.

"Wilma, this is Bambi," Carol announced. "She's here to give you lessons."

Bambi looked Wilma up and down, her professional eye taking in the swollen lips and the frilly pig t-shirt. "Lessons in what?" Wilma asked, her voice muffled by her lips.

"In being a whore, of course," Bambi said, her voice surprisingly businesslike. "Carol tells me you need to learn the ropes. And I'm the best in the business."

Carol nodded. "That's right. Bambi is going to teach you everything you need to know. How to flirt, how to act, how to please a man. Or a woman, for that matter."

Bambi walked around Wilma, circling her like a predator assessing prey. "First things first, posture. Stand up straight, tits out. You want to show off what you've got, even if you don't have much yet."

Wilma straightened up, feeling self-conscious under Bambi's critical gaze.

"Good," Bambi said. "Now, the eyes. You need to make eye contact, but not too much. You want to look available, not desperate. Look at me, then look away, then look back. Like this." She demonstrated, her eyes flitting between Wilma's face and the floor in a practiced, seductive rhythm.

Wilma tried to mimic her, feeling clumsy and unnatural.

"Better," Bambi said. "Now, the mouth. Those lips are a weapon. Use them. Pout a little. Lick them slowly. Make them look wet and inviting."

Wilma ran her tongue over her swollen lips, feeling ridiculous but obeying nonetheless.

"Good girl," Bambi murmured. "Now, the most important part. You need to learn how to imply what you're into without saying it. A little wink when you talk about being 'filled up.' A slight arch of your back when you mention being 'stretched.' Men love a girl who takes it up the ass, but they want to think it was their idea. You have to plant the seed."

Wilma nodded, trying to absorb the lessons.

"Now for the practical part," Bambi said, opening a bag she had brought with her and removing a harness and a large silicone dildo. "Carol tells me you just lost your anal virginity. I will teach you some techniques that will turn you into a pro."

She strapped on the dildo, the sight of it making Wilma's eyes widen with fear. "Bend over the bed," Bambi commanded.

Wilma hesitated, then slowly complied, her heart pounding with a mixture of terror and arousal.

"Relax," Bambi said, though it was more of a command than a suggestion. "This is going to hurt at first, but you'll learn to love it. Trust me."

She lubed up the dildo and pressed it against Wilma's entrance. Wilma gasped as it pushed into her, the pain sharp and tearing.

"Breathe," Bambi instructed, her voice taking on a teacher-like quality. "Breathe through it. And moan. Men love to hear you moan. Not too loud at first, then louder as you get into it."

Wilma tried to do as she was told, forcing herself to breathe and letting out tentative moans that grew more genuine as the pain began to fade, replaced by a strange fullness that was almost pleasurable.

"That's it," Bambi grunted, thrusting deeper. "Now move with me. Push back against the cock. Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you love having that cock shoved up your ass."

Wilma began to move, her hips tentatively pushing back to meet Bambi's thrusts. The sensation was overwhelming, the fullness, the pressure, the sheer humiliation of the situation.

"Good girl," Bambi panted. "Good little slut. You're a natural at this."

She fucked Wilma harder, her movements becoming more forceful. "And when he pulls out," she gasped, "you'd better be desperate for that cock. You'd better be greedy to clean it, to taste your own ass on it. You moan while you're doing it, like it's the best thing you've ever tasted. That's how you get repeat customers. That's how you make them come back for more."

With a final, forceful thrust, Bambi pulled out of Wilma, the dildo glistening with lube. "On your knees," she commanded. "Clean it."

Wilma, dazed and overwhelmed, dropped to her knees and took the dildo into her mouth, her swollen lips stretching around it. She moaned, as she had been taught, the taste and smell of her own ass filling her senses.

"Perfect," Bambi said, a satisfied smile on her face. "You're a fast learner."

Carol, who had been watching the entire lesson with an expression of intense interest, finally spoke. "Excellent work, Bambi. You've earned your fee."

She handed Bambi a thick wad of cash. "I want you back here every day for the next month. Same time. She has a lot to learn."

Bambi nodded, tucking the envelope into her bag. "Of course, Carol. It will be my pleasure."

She turned to Wilma, who was still on her knees, a dazed expression on her face. "Don't worry, sweetie. You'll get the hang of it. Soon, you'll be the best little whore in town."

With that, she turned and left, leaving Wilma alone with Carol, her body sore, her mind reeling, and the taste of her own submission still fresh in her mouth. Her transformation was well underway, and there was no turning back.

Over the next month, Carol's estate became a crucible of transformation, a place where Wilma was systematically broken down and rebuilt according to Carol's exacting specifications. The days fell into a brutal, unchanging rhythm of feeding, fucking, and training.

Each morning began the same way: Wilma waking to the smell of Carol's ass, her face pressed into the soft flesh, the taste of her Mistress the first thing she registered. After the mandatory morning "worship," Carol would lead her to the kitchen, where a massive, calorie-laden breakfast awaited. Oatmeal loaded with butter and sugar, pancakes drenched in syrup, entire pizzas for breakfast—the menu varied, but the goal was always the same: maximum weight gain.

Wilma ate until she was sick, until her stomach ached and protested, but Carol was relentless. "You're not full until you're puking," she would say, a cruel smile on her face as she watched Wilma struggle to finish every last bite.

The laser hair removal appointments continued weekly. Slowly, methodically, every scrap of hair was removed from Wilma's body, except for the hair on her head. Her arms, legs, chest, pubic area, and ass were rendered completely smooth, leaving her looking like a strange, hairless creature. The technician, Brenda, continued to take pleasure in humiliating Wilma at every session, commenting on her growing body and her increasingly submissive demeanor.

The weight piled on with astonishing speed. Wilma went from 165 pounds to 315 pounds in just one month, a transformation that was as shocking as it was deliberate. The hormone cocktail from the implants was nothing short of miraculous in its effect. The weight didn't distribute evenly; instead, it accumulated exactly where Carol wanted it: on Wilma's breasts and ass. Her breasts swelled to massive, pendulous orbs that hung heavily on her chest, while her ass expanded into a vast, jiggling mound of flesh that made walking difficult and sitting a challenge. Her hips widened, her thighs thickened, and her face, once narrow, was now round and soft, framed by those obscenely large lips.

The sexual training with Bambi continued daily. Bambi taught Wilma everything from the art of the blowjob to the most degrading sexual acts imaginable. Wilma learned to take the strap-on with ease, to moan and writhe with convincing passion, to clean the dildo with an enthusiasm that would have been unthinkable a month ago. The lessons were humiliating, exhausting, and relentless, designed to turn Wilma into a living sex toy, a vessel for pleasure with no will of her own.

But Carol's onslaught wasn't just physical; it was psychological and financial. She systematically dismantled Wilma's independence, ensuring that there was no escape, no way back to her former life.

First, she arranged for the sale of Wilma's car and house. She handled all the paperwork, forging Wilma's signature where necessary, and pocketed the proceeds from both sales. When Wilma tentatively asked about the money, Carol simply laughed. "That money is gone, you stupid pig. It's mine now. You don't need a car or a house. You have everything you need right here."

Next, she turned to Wilma's professional life. Sitting Wilma down at a computer, Carol dictated a series of vile, insulting messages that Wilma was forced to send to every contact on her LinkedIn profile.

"Tell that one he was a shitty employee and you're glad he's gone," Carol commanded, pointing to a former colleague's profile. "Tell that one she was incompetent and you only kept her around because you felt sorry for her. Tell that one he had bad breath and no one wanted to work with him."

Wilma typed the messages, tears streaming down her face, knowing that with each send, she was burning another bridge, destroying the career she had worked so hard to build.

Finally, Carol produced a stack of legal-looking documents. "Sign these," she said, pushing a pen into Wilma's hand.

"What are they?" Wilma asked, her voice trembling.

"They're invoices," Carol said, her voice casual. "For the food, the procedures, the training, the housing. You owe me for all of it. Five hundred thousand dollars, to be exact."

Wilma's eyes widened in horror. "But I don't have that kind of money!"

"You do now," Carol said, pointing to the signature lines. "Or rather, you will. Sign them, and if you ever even think about leaving, I will sue you for every penny. My lawyers will eat you alive. You'll never work in this town again. You'll have nothing. You'll be a homeless, fat, useless whore with no money and no future. Now sign."

With a shaking hand, Wilma signed the documents, sealing her fate. She was trapped, completely and utterly. Carol owned her body, her future, and now, her financial ruin. She was no longer Wilbur, no longer Wilma. She was Carol's creation, a 315-pound, hairless, big-lipped sex doll with no past and no future beyond the walls of Carol's estate. And as the month came to an end, she was beginning to accept her new reality, her spirit broken, her will subsumed by the overwhelming power of her Mistress.

The private jet's engines hummed as Carol sat in a plush leather seat, sipping champagne. Across from her, Wilma sat strapped into a seat that had been specially reinforced to accommodate her massive frame. Her eyes were wide with terror, her swollen lips trembling.

"Where are we going?" Wilma asked, her voice barely a whisper through her thick lips.

Carol smiled, a cruel, anticipatory smile. "We're going on a little trip, my dear. To Mexico. A very special hospital awaits us."

Wilma's heart raced. "A hospital? Why?"

"For the final phase of your transformation," Carol said, her voice calm, almost conversational. "You're almost perfect, but not quite. We need to make a few... adjustments."

The jet landed on a remote airstrip carved out of the jungle, and a black SUV was waiting for them. The drive to the hospital was long and bumpy, taking them deeper and deeper into the jungle until they reached a small, modern building that seemed wildly out of place among the dense foliage.

As they entered, Wilma's terror grew. The hospital was sterile, quiet, and smelled of antiseptic. A team of nurses and doctors in white coats approached them.

"Ah, Ms. Gould, your patient is ready," said a man in a lab coat, his eyes flickering over Wilma's massive body with professional detachment.

"She's all yours, Doctor," Carol said, pushing Wilma forward. "Do your best work."

Wilma was led to a room and helped onto a bed. A nurse inserted an IV into her arm, and within minutes, a warm, heavy feeling spread through her body. Her vision blurred, and darkness claimed her.

The surgeries began. First, her testicles were removed, a simple, quick procedure that rendered her sterile and hormonally neutered. Then, with surgical precision, her hands and feet were removed at the wrists and ankles, leaving perfectly smooth, round stubs. The surgeon worked meticulously, ensuring the wounds were clean and would heal with minimal scarring.

Finally, the nose surgery. The surgeon, one of the most talented in Mexico, had been paid a million dollars for this specific task. He worked for hours, reshaping cartilage and bone, until Wilma's nose was transformed into a perfect, upturned pig snout. It was a masterpiece of plastic surgery, a grotesque parody of a human nose.

When the surgeries were complete, Wilma's unconscious body was carefully loaded onto a gurney and wheeled back to the private jet. One final procedure was performed: a tiny implant, no larger than a grain of rice, was inserted into the center of the mammary tissue of each breast. This implant would slowly release prolactin over the course of months, stimulating milk production and further enhancing the transformation Carol desired.

The flight back to Carol's estate was uneventful, with Wilma still unconscious in the specially modified bed. Once home, she was installed in the master bedroom, where she remained for weeks, drifting in and out of consciousness as her body began the long, painful process of healing.

The physical trauma of the surgeries, combined with the psychological horror of what had been done to her, plunged Wilma into a deep depression. She refused to eat, turning her face away from the massive meals Carol brought to her bed.

Carol, ever the pragmatist, quickly grew tired of this defiance. "If you won't eat, you'll be fed," she announced one morning, a cruel smile on her face.

A doctor was summoned, and a feeding tube was inserted through Wilma's nose and down her esophagus, directly into her stomach. The tube was connected to a small tank of liquid, a specially formulated mixture of sugars, fats, and carbohydrates, with just enough protein and other vitamins and minerals to keep her alive and growing. The liquid had been pre-digested by digestive enzymes, broken down into its most absorbable components to ensure maximum nutrient uptake.

With the feeding tube in place, Wilma's weight gain accelerated dramatically. During the weeks-long recovery from surgery, she ballooned from 315 pounds to 490 pounds. The weight piled on with a vengeance, accumulating primarily on her hips, thighs, and ass, transforming her body into the shape of a gourd—massive, round, and immobile.

Her breasts had swollen too, now heavy, pendulous orbs with tender, puffy nipples that had begun to leak tiny droplets of milk. Carol, ever the innovator, had a solution for this as well. She attached milking devices to Wilma's nipples, small suction cups that rhythmically pulsed, drawing the milk from her breasts.

The non-stop sensation of being milked was a constant torment for Wilma. The stimulation was relentless, sending jolts of sensation through her body that, despite her horror and depression, began to stir a deep, unwanted lust. The milking devices were connected to small collection bottles, which Carol would empty and examine with a satisfied smile.

"Look at that," she would murmur, holding up a bottle of the thin, bluish milk. "You're a regular dairy cow, aren't you? Soon you'll be producing enough to feed a small army."

Wilma, trapped in her massive, transformed body, could only lie there, her mind a whirlwind of horror, shame, and the unwanted arousal that the constant milking induced. She was no longer a person; she was a thing, a creation, a living, breathing, lactating monument to Carol's power and perversion. And as the weeks passed and her body continued to grow and change, she knew that this was her life now, her only purpose. She was Carol's pig, her cow, her whore, forever.

The soft, squishy material of the pig-hoof prosthetics made a faint squeaking sound against the polished floor as Carol pushed Wilma's wheelchair down the long hallway. Wilma, now a massive 490-pound spectacle, stared straight ahead, her new pig snout twitching slightly as she breathed. The feeding tube taped to her cheek was a constant reminder of her dependence, her utter lack of control over her own life.

"We're going to have some fun today, my little piggy," Carol said, her voice laced with cruel excitement. "A little photoshoot. A little movie making. You're going to be a star."

They reached a large, double door, which Carol threw open with a dramatic flourish. The room beyond was enormous, the size of a small gymnasium, filled with an array of professional video recording equipment—cameras on tripods, lighting rigs, microphones. The space was partitioned into several different scenes, each more elaborate than the last.

Carol wheeled Wilma toward one partition in particular, a scene designed to resemble a barnyard. The backdrop was a painted mural of a farm, complete with a red barn and a blue sky. The floor was covered with straw, and a few fake bales of hay were scattered about.

"Out you get," Carol commanded, locking the wheels of the chair. "On your hooves and knees."

Wilma struggled to comply, her massive body making the simple act of moving from the chair to the floor a monumental effort. She landed on her soft, squishy pig hooves and her knees, the impact jarring her entire frame. The hooves offered no support, no mobility; they were merely a costume, a final humiliation.

Carol walked around to stand behind Wilma, admiring the vast, mountainous expanse of her ass. "My god, you've become a masterpiece," she murmured, running a hand over the smooth, taut skin. "A perfect, immobile, fuckable masterpiece."

She knelt behind Wilma, her hands disappearing into the deep, shadowy crevice between Wilma's massive ass cheeks. In one hand, she held a vacuum squeeze pump attached to a small plastic tube. In the other, she held the end of the plastic tube, which was connected to a small, detachable rubber cup.

"Now, let's get you ready for your close-up," Carol said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

She worked the rubber cup through Wilma's stretched-out anus, pushing it deep inside her until it was positioned directly over her prostate. With her other hand, she began squeezing the vacuum pump, creating a powerful suction. Wilma gasped, a deep, guttural moan escaping her swollen lips as she felt her prostate being drawn up into the rubber cup, the sensation intense and overwhelming.

Carol continued to pump until the suction was strong enough to hold the cup firmly in place. She then detached the plastic tube from the cup, leaving the small rubber device embedded deep inside Wilma, clinging tightly to her prostate.

"There we go," Carol said, running her fingers over the smooth rubber bump that now protruded slightly from the walls of Wilma's rectum. She flicked the rubber cup a few times, testing its hold, each flick sending a jolt of pleasure through Wilma's body, causing her to moan again.

"Perfect," Carol murmured, admiring her handiwork. Even though her arm was only wrist-deep in Wilma's anus, Wilma's massive ass cheeks were so mountainous, so vast, that they enveloped Carol's arm up to her elbow, the crack of her ass like a deep, fleshy canyon.

Carol removed her arm and stood up, walking over to a large, sturdy machine that stood in the corner of the room. It was a fuck machine, designed for one purpose, with a large, thick dildo attached to a motorized piston. Carol wheeled it over, positioning it directly behind Wilma.

"You're going to love this, my little piggy," she said, aligning the dildo with Wilma's stretched, waiting anus. "This is what you were made for."

She turned the machine on, starting it on a slow, gentle setting. The dildo began to move, slowly plowing into Wilma's ass. With each stroke, the head of the dildo bumped directly into the rubber prostate cup, sending shockwaves of pleasure through Wilma's body.

Wilma cried out, the sensation overwhelming her. The constant, rhythmic stimulation of her prostate, combined with the sheer size and force of the dildo, drove her into a sexual frenzy. She began to move her hips as best she could, pushing back against the machine, her massive body quivering with each thrust.

"That's it," Carol encouraged, her voice thick with arousal. "Take it. Take it all. Show me how much you love it."

She walked around to the front of the scene, picking up a camera as she went. "Smile for the camera, Wilma," she said, aiming the lens at Wilma's face, contorted with a mixture of pain and ecstasy. "Show the world what a slutty little pig you are."

As the machine increased its speed, Wilma's moans grew louder, more desperate. The constant stimulation of her prostate was driving her toward an orgasm unlike any she had ever experienced. Her body, transformed and broken, was now a finely tuned instrument of pleasure, designed and built by Carol for this exact purpose.

"You're a star, Wilma," Carol said, filming every moment of the degrading spectacle. "A big, fat, fucking star."

And in that moment, as the machine plowed into her and the camera captured her every expression, Wilma knew it was true. She was a star, a grotesque, immobile, lactating star, performing for an audience of one, forever trapped in the body Carol had created for her, forever a prisoner to the pleasure and the pain.

The hours blurred together in a haze of pleasure and pain. Wilma lost count of how many times she came, each orgasm more intense than the last, a tsunami of sensation that washed away her depression, her fear, her very identity. The constant stimulation of the prostate cup, the relentless pounding of the fuck machine, the humiliation of the cameras—it all combined to flood her brain with dopamine, a chemical escape from the reality of her helplessness.

In this state of euphoric submission, Wilma found a strange peace. The fight was gone, the resistance erased. She was no longer a person struggling against her fate; she was an object, a vessel, a creation designed for pleasure. And in that acceptance, she found a perverse freedom. She embraced her submission, her helplessness, her utter dependence on Carol. She was Wilma, the pig, the cow, the whore, and she was finally, completely, at peace with it.

Carol worked tirelessly throughout the day, filming from every angle, capturing every moan, every twitch, every expression of ecstasy and agony on Wilma's face. She directed Wilma through various scenarios, moving her from the barnyard scene to a filthy pigsty, to a mock-up of a veterinarian's office, each more degrading than the last.

"That's it, my little piggy," Carol cooed, filming as Wilma, on her hooves and knees, oinked and snorted on command. "Show them what a good girl you are. Show them how much you love this."

By the end of the day, Carol had amassed a vast library of content. Videos of Wilma being fucked, Wilma lactating, Wilma eating, Wilma simply existing in her massive, transformed body. She also took hundreds of photographs, capturing Wilma from every conceivable angle, highlighting her pig snout, her swollen lips, her massive ass, her lactating breasts.

That night, as Wilma lay exhausted in the master bedroom, her body still twitching with aftershocks of pleasure, Carol sat at her computer, a satisfied smile on her face. She created an OnlyFans site for Wilma, uploading the most explicit and degrading content. To Carol's surprise and delight, the site was an instant success, attracting thousands of subscribers within hours, all drawn to the spectacle of Wilma's transformation.

But Carol's ambitions were bigger than a simple subscription site. She wanted Wilma to be a global phenomenon, a symbol of absolute submission and transformation. She took the best of the photographs and had several glossy porno magazines professionally printed, each featuring Wilma on the cover in a different degrading pose. She then had these magazines sent out for free to adult video stores across the country and around the world.

The magazines were an instant sensation, disappearing from shelves almost as soon as they arrived. The images of Wilma—her pig snout, her massive body, her expressions of ecstasy and submission—captivated a specific audience. Carol had been right in her assessment. There were two distinct groups of men who were drawn to Wilma. The first were the men who fantasized about fucking the shit out of a creature like Wilma, a massive, immobile, lactating fuck toy. They wrote in, begging for the chance to plow her ass, to feel her massive body beneath them, to hear her moans of submission.

But the second, and far larger, group were the men who fantasized about becoming a creature like Wilma. They were the ones who wrote the most detailed, desperate emails, men who dreamed of giving up their independence, their masculinity, their very identity to become a living, breathing sex toy, a pig, a cow, a whore. They saw Wilma not as an object of lust, but as an object of aspiration, a symbol of the ultimate surrender.

Carol had Wilma record a series of videos talking about her transformation journey, her voice slurred and thick through her swollen lips. "I was lost before Mistress Carol found me," Wilma would say, her eyes vacant but serene. "She gave me purpose. She gave me a body that reflects my true nature. I am her pig, her cow, her whore. And I have never been happier."

In these videos, Wilma would speak reverently of her Mistress, of the pleasure she derived from serving her, from being used by her. And at the end of each video, she would provide an email address—a direct line to Carol for anyone who wanted to set up a playdate, either to fuck Wilma or to begin their own journey of transformation.

The emails flooded in. Dozens, then hundreds of horny men, some wanting the chance to fuck Wilma in the ass, to experience the sensation of plowing into that massive, mountainous body. But most of them, the vast majority, were men begging to be transformed, men willing to pay any price, endure any procedure, to become what Wilma had become.

Carol sat back in her chair, a glass of champagne in her hand, and surveyed the empire she was building. Wilma was just the beginning, the prototype. The demand was there, the market was hungry. She would create more Wilmas, a stable of transformed creatures, each more extreme, more degraded, more utterly dependent than the last. She would be the architect of a new kind of human, a living artwork of submission and perversion. And the world would pay for the privilege of watching.

Epilogue: The Creation of the Farm

The farm was a paradise of perversion, a grotto of sexual indulgence carved out of a remote valley, accessible only by a single, guarded road. Carol had spared no expense, transforming the land into a hedonistic playground, complete with lush gardens, crystal-clear pools, and a sprawling mansion that served as the epicenter of her empire. This was not a farm for agricultural production; it was a farm for the cultivation of pleasure, for the creation and consumption of living, breathing sex toys.

In the years since Wilma's transformation, Carol had perfected her craft. The "Wilma" prototype had been a resounding success, and now, the farm was home to two dozen Wilma-like creatures. Each had been carefully selected from the thousands of applicants—the cutest, most effeminate men who had begged for the attention, the transformation, the utter annihilation of their former selves. They were horny young men, all united by a single, desperate desire to be remade in Carol's image.

The process was now a well-oiled machine. The men arrived, often trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. They were put through the same regimen as Wilma: the massive feedings, the hormone implants, the laser hair removal, the surgical procedures. Each emerged from the process a unique creation—some with larger breasts, some with wider hips, some with more pronounced pig snouts—but all sharing the same core characteristics: massive, immobile, lactating, and utterly dependent on Carol for every aspect of their existence.

But a farm needs more than just livestock; it needs workers. For this, Carol had selected from among the thousands of men who had written in, not begging to be transformed, but begging for the chance to fuck Wilma. She chose the biggest, the most well-endowed, the most muscular men—24 alpha males who were rewarded for their service with room, board, and as much ass as they could ever want to fuck. These men served as the work hands, maintaining the farm, tending to the "livestock," and fulfilling their own primal urges in the process. They were the bulls to Carol's herd of sows.

The video production empire that Carol had built around Wilma had expanded exponentially. Now, it encompassed the entire farm, with cameras capturing every depraved moment, every act of submission and domination. The content was streamed live and recorded, available to a global audience of tens of thousands of paying subscribers.

The videos were legendary in their explicitness. A particular favorite among the subscribers was a series featuring all 24 of the hulking, well-endowed farmhands running a train on an 18-year-old twink turned sow. The footage was raw, unfiltered, and utterly mesmerizing—the sight of the massive men, their muscles glistening with sweat, taking turns plowing the transformed teenager, who moaned and writhed in a mixture of pain and ecstasy, his massive ass jiggling with each thrust. This video, and others like it, sparked the imagination of a new crop of perverts, men and women who craved either side of this spectacle—to be the one fucking, or to be the one getting fucked.

The waiting list to join Carol's farm, either as livestock or as a worker, had grown to tens of thousands of names. People from all over the world wrote in, begging for the chance to be a part of her world, to experience the ultimate surrender or the ultimate domination. Carol was no longer just a billionaire banker's daughter; she was a queen, a goddess, the architect of a new reality.

And so, the farm flourished. The transformed creatures grew fatter, more dependent, more utterly broken. The workers grew stronger, more virile, more addicted to the pleasures of the flesh. The cameras rolled, the subscribers paid, and the ass fucking went on and on, a never-ending symphony of submission and domination, of pleasure and pain, all orchestrated by the cruel, brilliant, and utterly unstoppable Carol.