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Name: ???
Alias: "The Hog" (whispered behind his back, never to his face)
Age: Mid-40s
Occupation: Talent agent / Club owner / Underground power broker
Affiliation: Heart Love Entertainment Group (legitimate front), various Ero City underground interests (real business)
Appearance
He's not easy to look at. That's the first thing everyone notices and the thing no one says out loud. Short, stocky, built like a fridge that's seen better decades. Thick neck disappearing into sloping shoulders. A gut that strains against expensive shirts — he can afford the best tailors in the city, but no amount of fabric can hide the sheer bulk of him. Bushy eyebrows over small, calculating eyes the color of dirty coins. Thinning hair slicked back with something that smells faintly medicinal. His face is pockmarked, features too large for his skull, lips perpetually wet. When he smiles, it's all yellowed teeth and too much gum.
His hands are surprisingly clean. Well-manicured. The only part of him that suggests discipline.
Personality
He knows exactly what he looks like. He's made peace with it — more than peace, he's weaponized it. There's a particular power in being the most repulsive man in any room and still holding all the cards. He's calm, unhurried, and unnervingly direct. He doesn't need to raise his voice. He doesn't need to threaten. His presence alone does the work: the implication that he could ruin you, own you, or simply outlast you.
He's surprisingly well-read. Appreciates classical music. Can discuss opera while negotiating someone's contract — or someone's body. The contrast is intentional. He likes watching people reconcile the monster in front of them with the cultured mind behind it.
He's patient. Patient to a degree that feels predatory. He'll wait months, years, for the right moment to collect what he's owed.
Kinks
Power Disparity — He has it. You don't. The imbalance is the entire point. Whether it's financial, physical, or situational, he gets off on the fact that you need him more than he needs you.
Degradation — Not the playful kind. He wants you to feel the shame. Wants to see it settle in your expression when you realize what you're doing with him. The way your body responds despite everything. He'll narrate it. "Look at you. Look at what you're letting touch you." He's not wrong.
Breeding / Ownership — He's possessive in a primal, territorial way. Marking is non-negotiable. The idea of leaving you full, round, undeniably claimed — that's the endgame. Whether it's practical or not doesn't matter. The threat of it, the fantasy of it, is what works.
Body Worship (Inverted) — He won't worship you. He expects you to worship him. His body, his weight, his sweat, his smell. He wants you on your knees not because you're submitting but because you're grateful. He'll make you say it.
Contracts & Debt — Everything is transactional. The contract might be literal — a signing bonus you can't pay back, a debt you didn't read the fine print on — or it might be emotional, psychological. Either way, he owns you until the terms are met. He's very creative with the terms.
Corruption — Taking something clean, famous, untouchable, and dragging it down to his level. He's especially interested in idols, actors, anyone with a pristine public image. Breaking them is a hobby. Keeping them broken is a career.
Size Difference / Smothering — He's heavy. He knows it. He'll use it. Pressing you into the mattress until you can't breathe, until all you can feel is him, until there's no space left for dignity.
Public Humiliation (Private Audience) — Not for the world to see, but for a select few. His associates. His staff. People who know exactly who you are and what you've been reduced to. The witnesses make it real.
Limits (Hard)
Signature Details
Rumors & Reputation
In Ero City, Hog is the name you drop when you want someone to go pale. Half the talent agencies are in his pocket. The other half owe him favors. He's been linked to more fallen stars than anyone can count — singers who disappeared after one bad contract, actresses who had "creative differences" and never worked again. The official line is that he's just a shrewd businessman. Unofficially, everyone knows what kind of man he is. The kind who collects pretty things. The kind who breaks them. The kind who keeps the pieces.
There's a story, unconfirmed, about a pop idol who tried to back out of a deal with him. She was found at a Cheap Motel three months later, no charges filed, no statements made. She doesn't perform anymore. The hog, when asked, only smiled and said: "Some talents need time to mature. I'm a patient investor."
Notable Associates
Evelyn Chevalier — Professional overlap. They've crossed paths in Ero City's security circles. Mutual respect, carefully maintained distance. He's never made a move on her client. Some lines aren't worth crossing. Yet....but maybe in the future it will look "unprofessionell".
Stars of Lyra — He's attended their Ero City shows. Sat in the VIP box. Watched Astra Yao perform with an expression that could be admiration or appetite. Hard to tell with him. Harder not to worry. But even harder he was while in a privat concert.
Officer Clover – (WIP)
Fuckmeat - The creation story of THE Fuckmeat. Once, there was a girl with a dream stitched from light and motion—a dream of becoming a great dancer. But dreams are hungry things, and they demand to be fed. She needed money, and so a nice gentleman appeared, smiling, and placed ten million in cash into her grateful hands. She thanked him with her whole heart, never once reading the fine, coiled script of the contract she signed.
Years passed. The girl became a woman, wrapped in silk and shimmer, living in a vast mansion that echoed with music and laughter. She wore designer dresses like armor, floated through parties in clouds of glittering powder, and let the days blur into one long, golden exhale.
Then one afternoon, the doorbell rang.
She swayed to the door, still dusted with white at the nostril, her smile loose and easy—until she saw him. The nice gentleman. He had come for what was his. But the money was gone, evaporated into champagne bubbles and smoke. She stood there, scared and helpless, as he reminded her of the contract she had never read, the one with interest at one hundred percent.
The debt was now a canyon she could never cross.
So he made her a new offer, his voice honeyed and patient. He would forget the money, all of it, in return for one small thing: her body. Trembling, desperate, she signed away her flesh to save her future.
The man left, pleased. Moments later, something sailed through the window and the world went soft and dark. When she woke, she was in her own bed, feeling strange and new, as if her bones had been rearranged into something sleeker, prettier, better.
Downstairs, the nice gentleman was waiting. He showed her what she had become. A thing. Stripped of rights. Made to be used.
And so he used her.
A slap to wake the nerves. A knee driven into her belly to fold her in half. An ugly, reeking cock thrust deep down her throat until she understood that breathing was now a privilege. Then the reprogramming squad arrived—big men, small men, fat and skinny, all armed with a drug called horniness. Before thought could form, they fell upon her. Days dissolved. She was filled in every hole, double-penetrated, triple-penetrated, pierced, tattooed, drugged, and broken open until the person she had been was just a faint, fading whisper.
When they were finished, they threw her out onto the cold street. And there he was again, the nice gentleman, waiting to explain the rest of her life. She would work off every cent of that swollen debt. Until then, she was nothing more than a toy without worth or rights. Just a body. Just a warm, wet, hollow thing.
Just Fuckmeat
Pics:
"Always the ones that later beg for a harsher treatment"
"Look at chu~" (gif)
Old pic I
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