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"So what do you think, Ellie?"
I think I must be losing my mind, because I look in the mirror and a pig looks back at me.
Well, that's not quite true; what's looking back at me is recognisably a woman. But it's certainly not me as I've ever seen myself before.
I've been stripped of my clothes and accessorised with boots, gloves, a buttplug, and restraints into the very passable resemblance of a pig. The boots are PVC, glossy black and come up to just above my knees, with a unique, baroque design, no heel but a chunk, cloven sole extending from the ball and toes of the foot at an odd angle that renders them quite impossible to walk upright in. The gloves are made of the same glossy PVC, reach just above my elbows, and are likewise cloven into two thick, stiffened pads, one consisting of the thumb, index, and middle fingers, the other than ring and little fingers.
The plug is long and narrow inside me, black, a wide flare just inside my sphincter and another just outside of it holding it in place, and, kinking upwards from those flares, a long, coiling, corkscrew of a pig's tail that sways and bounces in the air above my arse as I move.
The restraints have been used to transform my face utterly. First a collar, black leather with a stainless steel D-ring, a nametag, an attached leash which my handler now holds. Then, attached to that, a thick leather thong ending in a two-pronged metal nosehook, tied tight to pull my nostrils upwards and back cruelly and flatten my nose against my face. After that, two secondary thongs, slimmer than the first to which they're tied, ending in smaller hooks with more closely-spaced prongs, inserted one into each nostril and used to spread them wide. Two last thongs end in hooks with two broadly-spaced, plastic-padded prongs; these stretch the sides of my mouth, not impossibly or uncomfortably wide - I can still talk, albeit distorted by their presence; I can still open and close my mouth fully - but they pull my lips back from my teeth and gums and make the simplest expressions, a smile, a pout, impossible. Last but not least, a large stainless steel ring - bigger and cruder than the nose piercings I sometimes wear - hangs from my distorted nose, a mark of ownership, of my animal-ness.
I don't make a bad pig if I do say so myself.
"I'm glad you like it," my handler tells me as I stare at myself, induling in my usual narcissism. "Now that you're a pig, there are some rules you have to obey."
"One, a pig can't talk. It can only grunt, snort, and squeal. Do you understand?"
The hooks that distort my mouth would permit me to answer 'yes.' Instead, I snort my porcine assent.
"Good piggie. Two, a pig walks on four legs, not on two. The boots should ensure that, but sometimes a pig tries to walk on two legs anyway and it ends up looking like a very silly pig indeed. Do you understand?"
Another snort; the boots do indeed make it impossible to walk upright, and the way they're arranged, even moving on hands and knees would be awkward, my calf muscles and the soles of my feet stretched out uncomfortably. I'll be walking on those chunky, cloven soles and the thick pads of my gloves, my arse high in the air and my tail bobbing and swaying.
"Good piggie. Three, a pig is always hungry. It eats whatever is put in front of it. It eats from troughs, from buckets, from bowls, and from the floor. Do you understand?"
I snort again, louder and with more confidence as I slip into this role. I don't have to wonder just what it is I'll be presented with to eat; that much was made clear before I even agreed to this whole performance.
"Good piggie. Four, a pig is an animal, not a person. It gets an animal name, not a person's name. You're not Ellie any more, you're Shitpig. Do you understand?"
My finaly snort of submission to this new name, new form, new identity, comes from the depths of my lungs, the back of my sinuses and the bottom of my heart.
"Good Shitpig." He adjusts his grip on my leash. "Now, come on. Let's get you to your pen."
He opens the door to the dressing room and I follow dutifully, scrambling to keep up in my new boots and gloves, unfamiliar with this method of locomotion - deliberately so, I'm sure, half the fun of piggie play for the audience must be in watching pigs get used to being pigs.Ahead of us, at the end of the hall, Shitpig's audience is waiting.
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