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Clovis, Jethro and Woody were all sentenced to what was essentially life in prison. At Carrie's request, they did not prosecute Floyd. She needed someone to help her raise her brood, after all.

And so, years after she'd texted you in a panic as your dad was trying to traffic her, she showed up on your doorstep. She was still heavy, her tanktop stained from milk she was producing for her youngest child, Floyd Jr. The tanktop showed off her belly, and you could see the 'Porker' tattoo on her.

"Carrie ... holy shit," you breathed.

"Tell me about it," she said, her hair stringy, her skin mottled. "We've been driving all day. We need a hot shower, a warm meal, and a warm bed. You can sleep on the couch tonight." You gawped at her, but you opened the door anyhow.

You were still single. You'd taken the blame for Carrie's disappearance onto yourself. You couldn't -- you wouldn't -- put your fetishes and psychological fuckups and put anyone in danger again.

"Porker?" you said, looking at her tattoo.

"Yes? Oh. Yeah. It's a long story, it's a nickname. Do you have any booze?" And for that night, the following night, and another night after that, she relayed the story to you, reliving the trauma, but processing it. She slept each night with Floyd, although the last night she let you in to watch.

Floyd was rutting into her, but he was staring at you.

"You're right," he told her. "He's a pretty boy."

"Mmhm, he's very pretty. I used to have to get him to watch those girly boys in action to get him going too," she said. You blushed. You'd hoped she'd always hold that in confidence. "Now come on, Floyd, fuck your Porker."

You jerked your small pink cock, watching Floyd and Carrie fuck. When he got close, she started to oink and squeal in a guttural manner, and you realized some of her trauma would always persist. She was Porker as much as she was Carrie.