Richie Inpupnito

RICHIE PUPCOGNITO

by BrandedX2

Richie strode across the dancefloor of the club, swigging the last gulp of beer from his bottle and tossing it over his shoulder, not caring about where it landed. He shoved dancers aside as he headed toward the bar, casually rearranging his junk through his pants with a thick-fingered hand. It was still sticky from the mouth of the whore who’d just sucked his nuts dry out of him in the bathroom—man, she was like an industrial vacuum with no self-respect, he thought with a chuckle; pretty much offered her throat services and then took off with a belly full of his spunk. Being in the NFL was like a constant pussy-buffet, he thought, trying to flag down a waitress for another drink.

After two cocktail servers passed by, trying to ignore him, Richie started to get pissed. Bitches aren’t gonna be so smug when they’re out of a job tomorrow, he thought. He figured he’d grab a beer, then head for the boss, who’d been kissing the asses of all the Bills who showed up that night, Richie’s especially. Both those little broads were gonna regret cold-shouldering him.

He snapped his big fingers at the bartender, a skinny little blonde pretty-boy. He turned around with a smile and handed Richie a shot before he even had a chance to order. Richie looked down at it and guzzled it back without asking about its origins—then he coughed. Free booze was free booze, but that shit tasted like medicine.

“The fuck was that?” he barked at the bartender over the loud music.

“A gift from a fan,” said the bartender with a big smirk. “You know a lot of people in here really admire your talents.”

“Get me a fuckin beer,” Richie said as he grimaced, ignoring the compliment. “I gotta get that shitty taste out of my mouth.”

While Richie waited, he spun around and scanned the place—there were a bunch of his buddies, other Bills players out cruising the floor, drinking and dancing. Richie was on the lookout for the recipient of his next big load—a couple of the chicks in there were hot enough to actually bring home to pound town, if they weren’t too bitchy and knew to keep their damned mouths shut. Richie yanked a beer bottle out of the bartender’s hand and turned back to searching for prey. He was surprised by a little dude, five feet if he was lucky, standing there with a big grin, adjusting his glasses.

Richie had to be in the right mood to deal with fans—and half-hard and horny wasn’t the right mood. He needed to ditch this guy quick. He took a step to the side and the little guy moved with him.

“Hi there!” he said holding out a hand enthusiastically. “I’m the one who bought you that shot. My name’s Spencer. It’s great to meet you Mr. Incognito!”

“Yeah, thanks, Harry Potter,” Richie said, ignoring the hand and giving Spencer a tilt of his chin. “Nice to meet you, but I got stuff to do…” He started to walk away when the little guy leaned toward him.

“Stay here and listen to everything I say,” Spencer shouted, and Richie paused. Who did this little shit think he was? He stared down at the guy, wondering what else the scrawny psycho had planned. He was half-way impressed by the punk’s balls, considering one swipe of Richie’s big arm would send the feather-weight fan through a wall.

“How about you take a hike?” Richie said, but he didn’t move. Spencer looked down at Richie’s feet, an eyebrow raised.

“Can you move?” Spencer asked.

“Of course I can move, you fuck,” Richie said, his blood pressure rising. He rolled his shoulders, flaunting his size over this annoying runt, ready to make himself known in a second.

“Then why aren’t you leaving?” Spencer said. That was it—Richie was going to wipe the shit-eating grin off this little fuck’s face. But just as his fist clenched, Spencer said, “Don’t move and don’t talk.”

Richie stood still, his fist still clenched by his side but going no further. He wanted to punch this pipsqueak—didn’t he? He’d just tell this kid to pound sand—but no words came out of his mouth. After half a minute of his body failing to respond (trying, desperately, to rationalize that he actually didn’t want to move or speak, not that his body was failing to function) he started to panic. A bead of sweat tickled its way down his face and his thick neck.

Spencer reached out and took the beer out of his hand, and Richie couldn’t move a muscle to stop him. He put it together too late—must’ve been something in that shot—but there was nothing he could do now. A couple of his buddies approached, each one with a broad under his arm.

“Richie we’re getting ready to bail. You coming with?” one of them asked. They both eyed Spencer curiously.

Spencer poked Richie in the side. “Get rid of them,” he shouted directly into Richie’s ear.

“Nah, I’m good guys,” Richie said, surprised as the words left his mouth. “I’ll catch up with you later.” His buddies left and he watched them go, screaming in his head for them to help him, but no sound escaping his mouth.

“Follow me,” Spencer said. “We’re going out a side door. I’ve got a van waiting out back.” Richie suddenly found his legs moving on their own as he followed the nerdy guy who suddenly had power over him somehow. As they passed the bar, he watched Spencer approach the bartender with a folded bill in his hand. The two bumped fists after the bill was passed, and the bartender winked at Richie, who could do nothing as he followed Spencer through the crowd, down a back hallway and out a door to a dark alley where a van was parked. The alley was unlit and nobody was around—this place was specifically chosen for its privacy. Richie felt a pit in his stomach, knowing nobody could help him.

“Now, Richie,” Spencer said, slamming the door to the club behind him and looking up and down Richie’s big body. “Seems there’s a little misunderstanding. Because you walk around like you’re a big tough man, don’t you?”

Richie wanted to scream at him but his tongue wouldn’t move. Spencer walked a circle around him, his hands slowly inspecting him like a piece of property—sliding up under his shirt, down his pants, one hand grabbing his still grimy cock—and Richie just prayed for it to be over, tried to be anywhere else in his mind, envisioning all the ways he was going to murder this tiny little bitch when this was over.

“But that’s the thing,” Spencer said. “You’re not a big tough man. I don’t know how you got that idea in your head but it’s time to reveal the true you. You’re a little pup, aren’t you?”

Richie felt something—a strange tingling in the back of his head, an idea taking hold in a way he wasn’t totally aware. He suddenly felt very awkward—like his center of balance was off, like everything was wrong in ways he couldn’t put into words.

“Dogs look really silly when their owners dress up them up in clothes,” Spencer said, grabbing a fistful of Richie’s shirt. “Why don’t you get out of them?”

Richie’s hands seemed to move on their own as he stripped off his shirt, dropping it to the ground. Something about having it off made him feel a little calmer, moreso when he kicked off his shoes and used his toes to peel off his socks. As he undid his belt, he felt even more relief—like he’d been restricted by his clothes all night and was only now getting release. With his thumbs he yanked his sweaty boxer briefs down and then stood there, his big cock swinging gently in the breeze, his skin gently tingling in a way that felt very right.

“It’s funny that you’re standing up like that,” Spencer said, giving Richie’s bare ass a smack. “Silly dog! That’s a neat trick, but pups like you walk on all fours.” Suddenly Richie felt like the ground was shifting, his center of balance completely off. He tried to stand upright, but his legs buckled and he fell forward. When he was on his hands and knees he tried again to stand, got halfway there, then sank back to the ground.

“Good pup,” Spencer said, ruffling Richie’s hair—which sent a tingle of pleasure through his spine.

The fuck was going on? Richie was now naked, crouched down in an alley, letting some strange dude pet him? He shook his head back and forth, trying to clear his senses enough to gain control of the situation—but nothing helped.

“I bet you really want to talk, don’t you boy?” Spencer said, putting his hands on Richie’s cheeks and forcing him to look into his eyes. “You can talk again—only how a pup talks, though.”

Richie opened his mouth to speak—to cuss Spencer out, to beg him to let him go, to scream for somebody to help him, but instead of words, he woofed. Shocked, he blinked his eyes a couple of times, opening his mouth again—another woof. Panicked, he let out a stream of dog barks, then whimpered as he realized he couldn’t form words anymore. Spencer gently stroked his hair—and Richie felt calmer, but still troubled by what was happening to him. Then Spencer opened up the back doors of the van, revealing something that made Richie’s skin break out in goosebumps: a dog crate.

“We’re gonna have to put you in this, pup,” he said, opening the wire doors of the cage. “Can’t have a pup like you wandering around a moving vehicle.” Richie started to back away. “IN THE CRATE,” Spencer ordered, stomping a foot—and Richie immediately followed the order, hopping up into the van and crawling, like a dog would walk, into the cage. He tried to turn his big body around but he was too wide. He whimpered as he heard the cage shut behind him. “I’ll see you in a bit, pup.” Richie whined like a pitiful dog as the van doors slammed shut, and moreso when the van started moving. The sound of the engine made him nervous, as did the feel of the car moving around. The entire time he kept thinking to himself, “I am not a dog… I am not a dog…” But every time he thought he had a fully formed word in his head, his mouth only barked, and he found himself whimpering in defeat.

After what felt like hours—or minutes; why was his sense of time so off?—the van stopped and Spencer opened up the doors, letting the big naked football player out of his cage. Richie’s heart leapt when he saw Spencer, so happy to be reunited with him again—wait, no! This pervert drugged him and was doing something crazy to him! But deep inside, Spencer’s closeness gave him a warm feeling he tried to deny.

On all fours Richie followed Spencer as he lead the beefy Bills Guard into a big empty garage. Richie looked around, anxious, terrified of what was going to happen to him there. “Stay there,” Spencer said, pointing with a stern finger, and Richie was suddenly held to his spot. Spencer opened a door and left the garage to some other building. Richie had no idea what city they were even in—he was so disoriented he could barely tell what time it was. When Spencer returned, he had a locked trunk with him. He dragged the trunk behind Richie—“Noooo… Stay!” Spencer ordered as Richie turned to see what was in it—and Richie heard him produce a number of items from it. His heart sank when Spencer set a dog bowl in front of him. Richie sniffed the bowl’s contents—they were clear like water but smelled fruity.

“That drug I slipped you at the club is going to be wearing off soon,” Spencer instructed, scratching Richie behind his ear (which strangely made him feel like he wanted to kick his leg). “I need you to finish what’s in this bowl so we can make you a puppy forever.” Richie whimpered a little but Spencer stomped his foot—and Richie had no choice but to lean in and start lapping up the contents of the bowl like a thirsty dog.

It wasn’t so bad—he actually had been thirsty, and Spencer kept repeating, “Good dog… good dog…” in a soothing voice as he went, which satisfied some deep need he was barely aware of. But when he lifted his head from the empty bowl, Richie suddenly felt a crazy lightheadedness—he wobbled in place for a moment, waiting for the woozy feeling to end, but when he looked up again, he was shocked at what he saw.

First he noticed his arms—then the rest of his body—looked skinny, scrawny, pale… that couldn’t be, he said, his head darting around in a panic as he examined his body. Somehow he’d shrunk, he thought, most upset to see that his big floppy cock was no just a tiny nub. Then he looked up at Spencer—and saw that the thin man was MASSIVE. He had to be three times Richie’s size now—it was like their sizes had swapped. Spencer crouched down and Richie felt a shift inside him—he’d always believed the bigger man was in charge, and now Spencer was much bigger than he was… and he was small, powerless… he felt something rearranging down in his soul. He didn’t need a drug to make him obey Spencer’s orders—now he would always yield to the bigger man.

Confused, Richie looked away—there was a mirror lying against the wall, and for a moment he felt hopeful as he saw the two of them reflected as he remembered them: Richie, still naked and posed like a dog, was a pile of muscle and lineman bulk, while Spencer was skinny and small. Then he looked back at Spencer, and at himself, and found himself tiny again, and felt his eyes widen at Spencer’s mass and power.

“Don’t be confused, pup,” Spencer said, gently stroking Richie’s head. “All that happened is your sense of self is finally reset to what it’s supposed to be. Your eyes are opened to your true self, of a scrawny little beta pup. And you’ll find that every man or pup you see is bigger, stronger, and more of an alpha than you. That’s how you’ll see everybody from now on.” Richie whimpered but leaned into Spencer’s big hand—he looked back at the mirror, saw things the way they should be, but couldn’t escape the reality before him, that he was small and therefore submissive to Spencer’s massive power.

Richie lowered himself to the ground, feeling battered and weak—how much more would he have to withstand, he wondered. Then Spencer lumbered over to the trunk and pulled out something else. Before Richie could look he felt something slid over his head. It covered his face, except two little eyeholes, and had what felt like floppy ears coming off the top of it. Richie tried to shake it off his head to no avail. Then he heard Spencer walking behind him—and yelped as something was forcibly inserted into his virgin ass. “That’s a good boy… there you go…” soothed Spencer, which calmed him, but Richie still couldn’t help but let out a long whine when he turned around and saw what looked like a rubber tail sticking out of his own ass.

“Now, the final touch,” said Spencer, holding up a leather collar in front of Richie’s eyes. A couple of diamond-shaped metal tags clinked against each other. “Once I put this on you, all these changes will be permanent,” Spencer said, a hint of taunting in his voice. “And we’re going to bring you to an auction where a pup like you will fetch a lot of money! That sounds good, doesn’t it boy?” Richie tried to back away but Spencer had the collar around his neck before he could go anywhere. Something clicked in his mind and his vision blurred. “That whole life—where you played football like a man—that was all just a puppy dream. You dreamt that you played for the Buffalo Bills because your old owner used to love that team. In fact, he named you Buffy, for that reason. Isn’t that right, Buffy?”

The word resonated with him, like a clear bell sounding every time he heard it. Buffy let out a few barks and looked up at his big master—leaping up in an attempt to lick his face. His master shoved him back down to the ground easily, of course, and let Buffy lick his hands. Then, letting Buffy wolf down a bowl full of kibble, his master led him up into his crate, where he settled down for a trip. The rocking of the van lulled him to sleep, but he was up immediately when his master returned to let him out.

Master led Buffy along on a leash into a building he’d never seen before. Inside were lots of men—big, strong men, much bigger than he was. Buffy followed on his leash back to a room where he saw other pups, dressed just like him, in collars and rubber puppy masks with tails wiggling out of their asses. Buffy cowered from the pups, who looked enormous to him. He had a faint memory of being in a locker room with gigantic, sweaty men, and these other pups seemed even bigger than that. Little Buff lowered his head, submissively, as the other pups circled him and sniffed his ass.

In a mirror on the ceiling, Buffy was surprised at the image of the hulking, tattooed man in a rubber puppy hood wiggling his huge ass while some skinny guys in matching hoods sniffed it and nipped at it playfully—something about the image looked familiar, something he couldn’t put his paws on. As he moved, so did the image of the beefy man in the mirror move, but that couldn’t be him. He was just a little lap dog. Behind him one of the big pups barked at him, and then Buffy yelped as he felt a big puppy cock enter him from behind. He yielded to his instincts, which told him to lean into it, and barked happily as he felt the pup fill him up with puppy load. He looked across the room, at his master and the other big men, who laughed and pointed at him. Buffy felt so proud.