Untitled

Pretty privilege. It was the saying Issac lived by and used to navigate his daily life. He was convinced that he deserved anything he wanted because in his eyes he was the hottest man to walk the planet and it was only fitting such a sight like himself were treated to the best. That mentality didn’t disappear no matter where he went.

The evening sun was slowly setting as Issac made his way back from the local theater he’d been volunteering at. He’d been given a main role in the city’s summer play and knew it was the perfect opportunity for him to show off his beauty. Though the hours were long and tiring he knew showing off his looks were worth the effort he’d “painstakingly” put in. Around 6:45 he’d started leaving when he’d realized just how hungry he’d become after spending the day practicing. He reached into his bag to see if he’d packed any quick snacks but was unable to find anything of use, not even a wallet.

He decided he’d just rush home but without a wallet to pay for a train ticket he knew he’d be walking for at least the next hour. He started his trek down the street but after only 20 or so minutes he’d grown too famished to continue. He turned to the next street and walked into a small corner store. He quickly headed to the back away from the counter in hopes of being able to grab a quick snack without being caught. He reached onto the shelf and grabbed himself a protein bar quietly unwrapping it after confirming there were no cameras nearby.

Just as he took a bite he heard a door handle rustle as a large man stepped out of the office. He’d immediately made eye contact with Issac noting the snack he was currently consuming

“Did you pay for that boy”

“Yes! Obviously I’d payed for it sir”

“Your trembling, are you lying to me boy”

“No sir I’m not lying”

“So if I go back in the office and check the camera I’ll find you at the front register paying before eating?”

“Ughhh fine. No I didn’t pay and why should someone like me have to pay? Do you see what I look like. It’s not easy to look like this when I’m hungry and haven’t ate. So what I stole a 2$ protein bar you probably make that in 5 minutes. So let’s just let me go. It’s my human right to eat especially”

“Is that so? You think you’re better than everyone just cause of you you look. Let’s see how you feel about that in a second”

The man walked back in the office swiftly returning with a blue powder which he immediately blew over Issac knocking him unconscious.

Upon waking up Issac immediately noticed a fowl smell emanating nearby. He’d went to lift himself off the floor and was immediately met by extra pressure. He looked down to see he was now barely clothed with only his underwear remaining. Weighing minimum an extra 150 pounds Issac immediacy started to freak out. Suddenly he heard a noise in front of him. The man from earlier swiveled his chair to face Issac.

“I see your finally awake and realizing you now look much more handsome if I do say so myself. You see when you made your comments earlier I couldn’t help but think about how egotistical you were so I thought I’d teach you a lesson. You see your new body is that of my son Rodger. He’s a great kid who I sadly fucked over with my genes and couldn’t help him live the life he wanted. So when you made your comments earlier I decided it was time to enact a plan I had thought of long ago”

Issac tried to scream at the man but was met with pure silence

“Ahh you must be confused why you can’t make a sound. Let me explain boy. You see I decided that your body was hot even if not for my personal taste and I decided I’d finally give Rodger the life he deserved. So when I blew the powder in your face I called Rodger over and finally tried a spell I learned. It worked and I’d successfully swapped your bodies. But with that I also was able to make it so you’d never be able to mention the swap to anyone. Anytime you try and speak about the swap you’ll find pure silence is the only thing you can make. Writing will not help you either as you’ll find yourself unable to control your hands”

Issac looked around trying to find anything that could help him escape this new body. He screamed at the man in frustration at his new ugly body not being up to his standards and how his life was now ruined.

The man shrugged off everything Issac had said.

“If you want to live in this world and pay back for your misfortunes you’ll have to work for it. I can only assume that protein bar is the least bit of “pretty privilege” you’ve used. If you want to return to normal you’re going to work for it. You’re taking Rodger’s job as my overnight custodian and will be working a 9pm-5am every night tidying up my store. If you do good maybe I’ll give you a different body. But fuck up and I’ll make that your permanent residence.”

The doorbell chimed through the suburban house, a generic two-tone melody that announced the arrival of the plumber. Julian straightened his shirt—a worn flannel he'd bought from a thrift store weeks ago specifically for this moment—and ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. He wasn't nervous. He'd prepared for this.

He opened the door and there stood Mack, a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with work-roughened hands and a name stitched in red across his navy uniform. The truck parked in the driveway behind him had a magnetic sign on the side: Mack's Plumbing—We Handle Your Pipes Right.

"You called about a leak?" Mack asked, his voice a low rumble. He had the kind of face that looked like it had seen some things but kept on grinning anyway.

"Under the kitchen sink," Julian said, stepping aside. "Come on in."

Mack walked through the doorway, toolbox swinging at his side, and Julian locked the door behind him.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and something sweeter underneath—vanilla, maybe, or almond. Mack dropped to his knees in front of the sink and opened the cabinet doors, peering into the darkness beneath.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Julian asked.

"Water's fine," Mack said without looking up. His shoulders strained the seams of his uniform as he reached inside the cabinet.

Julian didn't get him water. He stood by the counter and watched, waiting. When Mack pulled his head out from under the sink and turned to ask a question, Julian caught his eyes and held them.

The pendant was small—just a silver disc on a chain, spinning lazily in the kitchen light. It caught Mack's attention the way a bird watches a snake, and then he wasn't thinking about pipes anymore. His pupils dilated. His jaw went slack. The question he'd been about to ask died on his lips.

"There we go," Julian murmured. "Listen to me, Mack."

Mack listened.

When Mack blinked himself awake, the kitchen came back in pieces—the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the faucet, the weight of the wrench still in his hand. He was on his knees. The sink cabinet was open in front of him. He'd come here to fix a leak. That was right. That was what he did.

But something else had shifted in his head, something important that hadn't been there before. He looked up at the homeowner—Julian, his name was Julian—and his eyes went straight to the man's mouth.

The lips were slightly parted, pink and full. There was a fine sheen of moisture on the lower lip from where Julian had just run his tongue across it. And Mack knew, with the absolute certainty of a man who'd been doing this job for fifteen years, that he was looking at a pipe in desperate need of maintenance.

That was a specialized pipe, the kind most plumbers never learned to handle. But Mack had the training. He'd forgotten about it until just now, but it was all coming back.

"Sir," he said, getting to his feet. His voice was steady, professional. "I've identified the issue."

Julian tilted his head, playing along. "Oh?"

"The secondary pipework," Mack said, gesturing at Julian's mouth. "There's a buildup. Could cause backflow problems if it's not addressed immediately."

Julian's eyes glittered with something dark and pleased. "You'd better take care of it, then."

Mack approached the "pipe" the way he'd approach any job: with focus, with expertise, with the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He set his wrench on the counter. He wouldn't need tools for this one.

He stepped into Julian's space and cupped the man's jaw with one calloused hand. The stubble was rough against his palm. Julian's breath hitched, and Mack felt the warm puff of air against his own lips—felt it like a burst of steam from a faulty valve, a sure sign of the pressure that had been building inside.

"Going to need to clear the passage," Mack murmured. "Might take a while. This one's backed up pretty bad."

He leaned in.

The first contact was exploratory—a press of lips to lips, testing the seal. Mack worked his mouth across Julian's with methodical precision, cataloguing every response. The slight quiver. The way Julian's lips parted just a fraction wider. Good. Good flow.

Mack tilted his head to get a better angle, and his tongue slipped inside.

That was where the real work began. Julian's mouth was hot and wet, and Mack probed the interior with the same thoroughness he'd use to clear a blocked drain. He traced the ridge of Julian's teeth, the slick roof of his mouth, the soft give of his tongue. Every inch needed attention. Every surface needed to be checked for debris, for buildup, for anything that might cause a future clog.

Julian made a sound against his mouth—something between a groan and a whimper—and Mack catalogued that too. That was the sound of a pipe releasing pressure. That was the sound of a job well done.

He kept at it. His tongue pushed deeper, and he felt Julian's hands come up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform. The homeowner's knees must have gone weak because he sagged against the counter, and Mack followed him down, not breaking contact, not losing the seal.

A good plumber never stopped until the job was finished.

Time got fuzzy after that. Mack wasn't sure how long he'd been working on this particular pipe—could have been minutes, could have been hours. His jaw was starting to ache from the sustained effort, but he didn't stop. The pipe still needed him. There were still deposits to clear, still flow to restore.

Julian's mouth was a mess—in the best possible way. Slick and swollen and thoroughly serviced. Mack pulled back just long enough to inspect his work, and the sight of Julian's lips, pink and glistening with shared saliva, sent a jolt straight to his groin.

Christ. When had he gotten hard?

He was painfully erect, his cock pressing against the zipper of his work pants with an urgency he couldn't ignore. That happened sometimes, on long jobs. The physical exertion, the heat, the focus—it all got tangled up and settled low in his belly. He'd usually ignore it until the job was done.

But this job wasn't done.

"Still feeling some resistance," he said, and his voice had gone hoarse. "Going to need another pass."

Julian looked up at him with hooded eyes, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Take your time," he breathed. "Be thorough."

Mack dove back in.

His tongue worked Julian's mouth with renewed intensity, but now there was a new edge to it—something less professional, something hungry. His hips rolled forward without his permission, grinding his erection against Julian's thigh. The friction made him groan into the kiss.

The pipe. He had to focus on the pipe.

But the pipe was connected to a whole system, wasn't it? You couldn't isolate one component without the rest of the plumbing demanding attention. That was basic hydraulics. Fix one thing, and the pressure just built up somewhere else.

Mack's hands, which had been resting on the counter on either side of Julian's head, began to wander. They found the hem of Julian's flannel shirt and slid underneath, mapping the warm skin of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down from his navel, the slight give of flesh over muscle.

Julian gasped against his mouth, and Mack swallowed the sound.

His hips kept grinding, a slow and dirty rhythm that he couldn't seem to control. The pipe was forgotten—or rather, the pipe had expanded to include everything. Julian's mouth, Julian's body, the heat between them that was building up like steam pressure with no release valve.

"Fuck," Mack breathed, breaking the kiss. He pressed his forehead against Julian's. "This is... this is a big job. Bigger than I thought."

"You can handle it," Julian said. His voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper. "You're a professional."

"I'm a professional," Mack repeated, and the words anchored him. He was a professional. Professionals didn't walk away from a job just because it got hard. Professionals stayed until the work was complete.

He kissed Julian again, and this time there was nothing methodical about it. It was a kiss of pure, desperate need—all tongue and teeth and the wet sounds of mouths colliding. His hands found Julian's belt, worked the buckle open with the practiced ease of a man who'd undone thousands of fasteners in his career. Different kind of pipe, same basic principle.

Julian's hand came up to cradle the back of Mack's head, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair. His other hand pressed flat against the front of Mack's pants, and Mack bucked into the touch like a man electrocuted.

"There's another leak," Julian murmured against his mouth. "Down here."

Mack pulled back just far enough to look at him. Julian's pupils were blown wide, his mouth red and wet and open on a panting breath. He looked thoroughly debauched. He looked like a man who'd just had his plumbing professionally serviced and was ready to leave a five-star review.

Or maybe that was Mack projecting.

Bryant's fingers twitched as he adjusted the dials on his makeshift console. The basement of his clinic smelled like burnt coffee and solder. Wires sprawled across three folding tables, all leading to a modified dentist chair he'd bought at a county auction.

The brainwave data he'd been collecting for eighteen months was finally making sense. Every headache, every stubbed toe, every prescription for antibiotics—all of it had given him access to neural patterns. And now he could map them. More importantly, he could tweak them.

Another Tuesday in buttfuck nowhere, Nebraska, and Bryant was on the verge of rewriting cognitive function with targeted microcurrent stimulation.

Not that anyone in this town would understand. They thought he was just the weird clinic guy who talked too fast and charged too little.

The knock on his door made him jump.

"Bryant? You in there? Clinic's been closed for two weeks." The voice was gruff, familiar. "Town council's getting concerned."

Shit. Toby.

---

Toby Drummond had been sheriff for eleven years. He had the kind of body that came from too many diner breakfasts and not enough cardio—big gut, thick arms, barrel chest. His uniform stretched tight across his belly, and his badge was pinned slightly off-center. Balding on top, short reddish scruff along his jaw, permanent squint lines around his eyes.

He was the last person Bryant wanted poking around right now.

"Just a minute!" Bryant called out, voice cracking. He scrambled to throw a tarp over the equipment, but the wires wouldn't cooperate.

Toby didn't wait. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the doorway with his bulk.

"Jesus, Bryant. What the hell are you—" Toby stopped, eyes scanning the basement setup. The chair. The monitors. The tangle of electrodes. "What is all this?"

"It's... it's research," Bryant said, backing up. His shoulder blades hit the wall. "Medical research. Nothing you need to worry about."

Toby stepped closer, squinting at the monitors. The brainwave patterns were still scrolling across the screen. "This doesn't look like any medical equipment I've ever seen. You been doing something weird down here?"

"No. No, I just—" Bryant's mind raced. He could see Toby's cop brain working through it, connecting dots that shouldn't be connected. The late nights. The closed clinic. The equipment that looked more mad scientist than doctor's office.

"Bryant," Toby said slowly, "I think I need to ask you some questions down at the station."

No. No, no, no.

The wrench was on the workbench. Bryant grabbed it without thinking. Toby turned at the sound, eyes going wide, and then—

CRACK

---

Toby hit the floor hard, a gash opening above his temple.

Bryant stood over him, wrench trembling in his hand, breath coming in short gasps. "Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god."

He started pacing, stepping over wires, wrench still clutched to his chest. "What do I do? He knows. He saw. I can't just let him leave. He'll tell everyone. They'll shut me down. They'll—"

He stopped pacing.

The chair. The electrodes. The research he'd spent months perfecting.

"I can fix this," he whispered. "I can make him... not a problem anymore."

The trust center. That's what he'd been mapping last week. The neural clusters that governed interpersonal bonding. If he could stimulate those regions with enough precision...

Bryant dragged Toby's unconscious body into the modified dentist chair. It took three tries—the man weighed at least 240. By the time he got Toby strapped in and the electrodes positioned, sweat was dripping down his face.

He calibrated the machine with shaking hands. The trust center. Crank it up. Way up. Make the sheriff trust him so completely that nothing else would matter.

The dial went to eleven.

---

Toby's body jerked in the chair as the current hit. His back arched. His jaw clenched. A thin curl of smoke rose from the electrode on his right temple.

Then it was over.

Toby slumped forward, breathing heavy. Bryant watched, heart pounding, as the sheriff's eyes slowly opened.

There was no anger in those eyes. No confusion. Just... calm.

"Toby?" Bryant's voice was barely a whisper. "You okay? You hit your head pretty bad when you fell. Maybe you should just... go home. Rest up. We can talk about this later."

The lie was pathetic. But Toby just blinked at him, expression soft.

Then Toby stood up.

He didn't stand cautiously, like a man who'd just been knocked unconscious and strapped to a chair. He stood with purpose, reaching up to peel the electrodes off his head like they were nothing more than band-aids.

And then he lunged.

---

Bryant's back slammed against the wall.

Toby's mouth was on his before he could process what was happening. Hot. Wet. Insistent. The sheriff's body pressed him flat, all that weight and muscle crushing against him, and Bryant made a strangled noise of protest that got swallowed up by Toby's tongue.

What—what is happening—

Toby kissed like he was starving. His tongue pushed deep, claiming, and when Bryant tried to turn his head away, Toby just followed, one thick hand coming up to grip his jaw and hold him in place.

"I knew it," Toby growled against his mouth. "I knew you wanted this too."

*Wanted this?* Bryant's brain was short-circuiting. He'd been trying to stimulate the trust center, not—

Oh no.

Toby had moved when the current hit, and the contact point must have shifted.

Toby's hips ground forward, and Bryant felt something hard pressing against his thigh through the sheriff's uniform pants. The kiss deepened, sloppier now, Toby's mustache scratching against his upper lip.

"Been watching you for months," Toby was mumbling between kisses, mouth trailing down to Bryant's jaw, his neck. "Should've done this sooner."

Bryant's hands were still pinned against Toby's chest, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should push. Should stop this. Should explain.

But Toby's mouth was so hungry. And Bryant couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him at all, let alone like this. Let alone like they needed him.

His fingers curled into the fabric of Toby's uniform shirt.

"Toby, wait—"

"Don't wanna wait." Toby's voice was a rough growl against his throat. "Waited long enough."

---

It happened fast after that.

Clothes came off in clumsy, desperate movements. Toby's uniform shirt, buttons popping. Bryant's lab coat, flung over a monitor. Toby's belt clanking against the concrete floor.

The sheriff was built like a refrigerator—solid and thick everywhere. Hair covered his chest and belly in a dense mat, going silver in patches. His cock was uncut, already leaking, jutting out from a thatch of dark pubic hair.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Toby breathed, and the way he said it—like it was obvious, like it was the truest thing in the world—made something crack open inside Bryant's chest.

Nobody had ever called him beautiful.

Toby got him bent over the workbench, and Bryant heard himself make a sound that was almost a whimper. He'd never done this before, not with a man, not with anyone in years. But Toby's thick fingers were slick with something—hand lotion from the dispenser on the wall—and they were working him open with a patience that seemed at odds with the feverish hunger from before.

"Gonna make you feel so good, baby," Toby murmured against his shoulder blade. "Gonna take care of you."

Baby.

Bryant buried his face in his arms and let it happen.

The stretch was intense, almost too much, and then Toby was inside him and it was definitely too much, and Bryant gasped and grabbed at the edge of the workbench while Toby's bulk folded over him, belly pressing against his lower back.

"So tight," Toby groaned. "So perfect. Knew you would be."

He moved, and Bryant saw stars.

It wasn't gentle. Toby fucked like he kissed—hungry, claiming, like he was trying to crawl inside Bryant's skin. And Bryant, who had spent his entire adult life in his own head, who had never been able to turn off the constant churn of his thoughts—Bryant found himself going quiet. Found himself feeling, for the first time, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

When he came, it was against the workbench with Toby's teeth sunk into his shoulder, and the sound he made was something between a sob and a laugh.

Toby followed a few thrusts later, spilling inside him with a groan that vibrated through Bryant's entire body.

---

Afterward, they ended up on the floor, slumped against the base of the dentist chair.

Toby had his arm around Bryant's shoulders, thick fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm. Bryant's mind was starting to come back online, and with it came the horror.

I brainwashed him. I knocked him out and rewired his brain and now he thinks he's in love with me.

"So," Bryant said, voice hoarse. "What exactly do you... remember? About coming here?"

Toby shrugged. "I was worried about you. Came to check in. Then I finally worked up the nerve to kiss you." He turned his head, pressing his lips to Bryant's temple. "Best decision I ever made."

"But you saw the equipment. The—"

"The what?" Toby looked genuinely confused. His eyes flickered to the monitors, the wires, the chair. "That's just your research stuff, right? For the clinic?"

He didn't remember. His brain had filled in the gaps, smoothed over the parts that didn't fit the narrative. Love at first sight, breakthrough, confession—that was the story now.

"Yeah," Bryant whispered. "For the clinic."

Toby's hand slid down to squeeze his hip. "You're a genius, you know that? Always knew it. Nobody else in this town gets it, but I do."

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was how good it felt to hear that.

---

Bryant told himself he'd fix it.

He'd wait until Toby left, and then he'd reverse the process. Dial the trust center down, wipe the artificial attachment clean. Give the sheriff his mind back.

But the next day, Toby showed up with coffee and a bear claw from the diner, and he kissed Bryant on the forehead, and he asked about the research with genuine curiosity in his eyes, and Bryant thought—just one more day.

One more day of someone looking at him like he mattered. One more day of not being alone.

The day after that, he told himself the same thing.

And the day after that.

---

It was a week before he finally sat down at his console, fingers hovering over the dials. He'd mapped the reversal protocol. He knew how to undo it.

Toby was in the kitchen, humming something off-key, making eggs. He'd left his uniform shirt draped over the couch. His keys were on the counter next to a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST SHERIFF.

Bryant looked at the reversal protocol.

Then he looked at the door to the kitchen.

Then he looked at the dial marked "ATTACHMENT REINFORCEMENT."

His fingers moved before his brain could stop them.

To be continued?

____________________

The concrete dust hung in the air like a haze, catching the late afternoon sun that slanted through the half-finished steel framework. Marcus adjusted his Brioni tie, the silk smooth against his throat, and stepped over a coiled length of rebar with the exaggerated care of a man.

"Watch your step," a voice rumbled from somewhere to his left, low and rough as gravel. "That shit'll trip you up."

Marcus turned, already bristling. The man who'd spoken was leaning against a support beam, arms crossed over a chest that strained the seams of a gray t-shirt darkened with sweat. He was big—not gym-big, but work-big, the kind of bulk that came from hauling steel and pouring concrete twelve hours a day. A hard hat sat low on his brow, shadowing eyes that looked Marcus up and down with an assessment that felt almost physical.

"Vincent, I presume," Marcus said, his tone sharpening. "The foreman. I've been reviewing the progress reports. The east foundation is two weeks behind, the electrical rough-in looks like a blind man did it, and I just spotted rust on the secondary beams."

Vincent didn't move. Didn't even blink. "Those beams are coated. What you saw was surface discoloration from the rain last week. And the east foundation was delayed because your office sent the wrong grade of rebar. Took five days to get the right shipment."

"Excuses." Marcus stepped closer, tilting his chin up. The difference in their heights forced him to look almost vertically, and that alone stoked the irritation burning in his chest. "I don't pay for excuses. I pay for results. If you can't deliver, I'll find someone who can."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Vincent's face. It wasn't friendly. It was the kind of smile a man gave when he'd been poked one too many times and had decided he was done playing nice. "Is that right."

"I could have you replaced by tomorrow morning," Marcus said, his voice rising. "There are a dozen crews that would kill for this contract. You think you're irreplaceable? You're a fucking ditch digger with a clipboard."

The words hung in the dusty air. Somewhere behind them, a saw whined and died. The silence that followed was louder than the construction noise had been.

Vincent pushed off the beam. He moved with an unhurried, rolling gait, work boots scuffing the plywood flooring, and didn't stop until he was close enough that Marcus could smell him—sweat and sun-heated skin and something deeper, muskier, that made Marcus's nostrils flare despite himself.

"Say that again," Vincent murmured.

Marcus opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He'd meant to repeat it. He'd meant to double down, to assert the authority his custom suit and corner office had always granted him. But Vincent was right there, chest hair visible at the stretched collar of his shirt, and the sheer physical presence of him was swallowing all the oxygen from the space between them.

"I said—" Marcus started, and that was when Vincent moved.

One big hand fisted in the front of Marcus's jacket, twisting the expensive wool like it was a rag. Marcus stumbled, off-balance, and then his back hit the wall—actual plywood, still smelling of sawmill, rough against his shoulders. The impact knocked the breath out of him

"What the hell do you think you're—"

Vincent didn't let him finish. He pressed forward, a wall of heat and muscle, and Marcus found himself pinned. Not just by the hand on his chest, but by the whole body crowding him, thighs pressing against his, the solid mass of Vincent's torso trapping him against the plywood. And then Vincent's other hand came up, gripping the back of Marcus's head, and shoved his face forward.

Marcus's cheek hit damp cotton. The fabric was wet with sweat, gritty with construction dust, and it smelled—God, it smelled. It was salt and musk and something almost animal, the raw scent of a man who'd been working in the sun since dawn. Marcus gagged, tried to turn his head, but Vincent held him there, grinding his face into the meat of his chest.

"Take a deep breath, boss," Vincent's voice rumbled above him, vibrating through the chest against Marcus's cheek. "That's what real work smells like. Not your fancy cologne. Not your air-conditioned office. This is what a man smells like."

Marcus struggled. His hands came up, pushing at Vincent's sides, but it was like trying to shove a concrete wall. The cotton was rough on his lips, and every inhale filled his lungs with Vincent—that thick, heady, alien scent that was somehow making his head spin. He'd never been this close to another man. Not like this. Not skin to sweaty fabric, not with the heat of someone else's body seeping through his clothes and making his own skin prickle.

"Get off me," Marcus gasped, the words muffled against Vincent's chest. "I'll have you arrested. I'll—"

Vincent's laugh was a deep, rolling sound that Marcus felt in his ribs. "You won't do shit." And then he shifted his grip, hand moving from Marcus's chest to his hip, squeezing once before dropping lower, bending, and in one smooth motion hoisting Marcus up.

Marcus's feet left the floor. His world tilted, and suddenly his legs were wrapped around Vincent's waist, his back sliding up the plywood, the expensive wool of his trousers stretched tight across his thighs. He grabbed Vincent's shoulders to keep from falling, and found himself clutching muscle so dense it felt like gripping stone.

"Look at you," Vincent said, his face now level with Marcus's. "Up here in your fancy suit, acting like you're better than everyone. But you're shaking."

Marcus was shaking. He couldn't stop. His whole body was trembling, and he told himself it was rage—adrenaline, the body's natural response to assault—but it wasn't just rage. There was something else coiling low in his stomach, something hot and sick and confusing that made his breath come fast and shallow. Vincent's face was inches away. His eyes were dark, amused, predatory.

"The fuck are you doing," Marcus whispered.

Vincent answered with his mouth.

It wasn't a kiss. A kiss was soft. A kiss was a request. This was a claim. Vincent's lips crushed against Marcus's, hard and demanding, and his tongue didn't ask permission—it forced its way past Marcus's teeth like it owned the space. The taste was overwhelming: coffee, salt, something faintly metallic. Vincent's mouth was hot and wet and completely in control, and Marcus made a sound he'd never heard himself make before—a strangled, helpless noise that vibrated against Vincent's tongue.

Marcus's mind went blank. There was no room for thought with Vincent's stubble scraping his chin, with Vincent's big hand curling around the back of his skull to hold him steady, with the thick muscle of Vincent's tongue thrusting into his mouth in a rhythm that was unmistakably sexual. His body was reacting without his permission—his hips twitched, his fingers dug into Vincent's shoulders, and a moan leaked from his throat into the kiss.

Vincent pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Marcus's as he did. "There it is. Knew you had it in you." He ground his hips forward, and Marcus felt it—the thick, hard ridge pressing against his ass through their clothes. The sensation made his eyes roll back.

"I'm not—I don't—" Marcus panted, but even as he said it, his legs were tightening around Vincent's waist, pulling him closer.

"Yeah, you do," Vincent growled, and kissed him again.

This time Marcus didn't fight. He couldn't. The taste of Vincent was in his mouth, in his lungs, and it was like a drug—corrupting, addictive, rewriting something deep in his brain. Every slide of Vincent's tongue seemed to short-circuit another synapse. Every press of that solid body against his sent sparks skittering down his spine. His own cock was hard now, straining against his trousers, and when Vincent rocked into him again, he whimpered.

Vincent broke the kiss and reached down between them, working Marcus's belt with practiced efficiency. "We're gonna try something, boss. Something you're gonna like a lot more than you think."

---

The plywood was rough against Marcus's back, but he barely noticed. His trousers were down around one ankle, his jacket bunched up under his armpits, his shirt untucked and damp with a sweat that wasn't entirely his own. Vincent had him pinned with one forearm across his chest while the other hand worked between his legs, and Marcus couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but gasp and arch and beg with eyes that couldn't seem to focus.

"Please," he heard himself say, and didn't recognize his own voice. It was breathier, higher, stripped of all authority. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need," Vincent rumbled. He'd freed his own stick from his jeans, and it was thick and ruddy and slick with pre-come that he was smearing against Marcus's hole with terrifying casualness. "You need a real man to show you what that tight little ass is for."

Marcus should have protested. Should have fought. But Vincent's thumb was pressing in, just the tip, and it was stretching him in a way that made his vision sparkle. His was leaking onto his own stomach, untouched, and every nerve in his body seemed to have migrated to that one spot where Vincent was slowly, deliberately pushing inside.

"Fuck, you're tight," Vincent grunted. "Bet nobody's ever been in here before. Bet you didn't even know you wanted it." He pushed deeper, and Marcus cried out, his body clenching around the intrusion. "Your wife ever do this? Huh? She ever make you feel like this?"

"Look at you taking it," Vincent murmured. "Greedy little hole's just sucking my fingers right in. You were made for this, weren't you? All that time up in your fancy office, and what you really needed was a working man's hard up your ass."

"Don't stop," Marcus gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."

Vincent's grin was fierce and satisfied. "That's what I thought."

He pushed in.

Marcus's world dissolved. There was nothing but the thick, relentless invasion of Vincent's, splitting him open inch by inch, stretching him past what he thought his body could take. He clung to Vincent's shoulders, ankles locked behind the man's back, and let out a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. The feeling of being filled was overwhelming—it reached deep, deeper than anything should, and when Vincent bottomed out with a grunt, Marcus could feel him in his throat.

"Fuck," Vincent breathed, forehead dropping to Marcus's shoulder. "Fuck, you feel good. Real good. Hang on, boss."

And then he started to move.

It was brutal. Vincent fucked like he worked—with steady, unrelenting power, each thrust driving Marcus up the plywood wall, each retreat pulling sounds from his throat that he'd never imagined a man could make. The noise of it was obscene: the slap of skin, the wet slide, Vincent's grunts and Marcus's high, broken moans. The whole construction site had gone quiet, the crew likely listening from wherever they'd dispersed, and the knowledge that they could probably hear everything only made Marcus harder.

"Harder," he heard himself say, and Vincent laughed, a breathless, feral sound.

"Demanding little slut now, are we?" But he gave Marcus what he asked for, picking up the pace, angling his hips until Marcus screamed—actually screamed—because Vincent had found something inside him that made stars explode behind his eyes.

"That's it," Vincent growled. "That's your spot. That's what you needed. Not a promotion. Not a bonus. Just a wild pounding until you can't remember your own name."

Marcus couldn't remember his own name. He couldn't remember why he'd come to this site. All he knew was Vincent's body on top of him, inside him, Vincent's smell in his nose and taste on his tongue and in his guts. He was nothing but a vessel for this man's pleasure, and the realization of it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced.

"I'm gonna come," Marcus sobbed. "Oh God, I'm gonna—"

See the guy on the right. Acting all chavy and Dom. This is me. @jonsan is holding my collar because he saw right through me.

He saw I was just a fag acting like an alpha. He quickly took control of me. After all when a fag stands in front of a real alpha it is natural for it to submit.

WARD TAKING CARE OF HIS MASTER

"A Ward's duties can vary greatly. Some handle backbreaking labor, working as factory workers, miners, street sweepers, or maintenance crews. Others serve the community as shopkeepers and supermarket clerks. Then there are those who highly filled with ambition, aiming to become personal assistants, secretaries, or private drivers. And finally, the novices and students, who can’t wait to step up and make themselves useful to society.

Yet, despite these different paths, every single Ward is bound by one ultimate, absolute duty: taking care of their Master. From preparing meals and deep-cleaning the house before they arrive, to satisfying their every whim and ensuring they can perform their high-status tasks at their absolute best.

Take this Ward, for example,still glowing with happiness after successfully helping his Master unwind and relax his nerves.

What do you say? Ready to visit to Mesmertown?

Pride and ego do not get in the way of UNITY men.

Whenever a task is issued, it is never viewed as small or large or favourable or unfavourable. It is viewed as an opportunity to be obedient and as an opportunity to serve.

It is the attitude behind the task that is just as important as the task itself. The attitude is UNITY.

I screwed up….

A few days ago, I attended the exclusive, invite-only launch of a new app called "PicsControl." I was intrigued by the premise: the app allegedly allowed you to control any man just by taking a simple photo of him.

I opened the app while waiting for our guide at the private Ferrari center, where I had booked a track experience. Rumor had it that both Leclerc and Hamilton would be making an appearance for the VIP guests. The app's interface was incredibly sleek, high-end, and user-friendly. I checked the global catalog, but there were only four placeholder options available; apparently, none of the other guests had added a new subject yet. Still, those four options looked promising.

While I was staring at my phone, I was interrupted by our guides and my breath hitched when I realized it actually was Charles Leclerc and Lewis Hamilton. I felt my cheeks flush. I have a massive crush on both of them, but I’ve always had a real soft spot for Charles. Right at that moment, I noticed my phone's camera had automatically activated within the app.

An idea flashed through my mind. I looked at Charles, his perfect smile, his hair, and his physique, which looked even more toned than last year. Seeing everyone else pulling out their phones to take casual pictures, I raised mine, aimed, and snapped a photo through the app.

I watched the loading bar spin until the system instantly recognized him:

“New Subject: Charles Leclerc. To activate control, please wait for the acquisition notification. Exclusivity will last for 1 day from the moment of acquisition.”

I was trembling slightly with excitement. I slipped my phone into my pocket, enjoyed the rest of the exclusive tour, and headed back to my estate.

The next morning, I was lying in bed at my secluded suburban villa. I purposely chose this house because it's completely isolated, surrounded by high walls, and safe from any prying eyes. I was still half-asleep when the sharp chime of a notification woke me up. I grabbed my phone and read the screen:

“PicsControl: Acquisition complete. Exclusivity period has begun.”

I bolted upright and opened the app to configure the basic settings. First prompt: “Do you wish to change the subject’s name?” No, I wanted him to remain Charles. “Subject Status.” I didn't want him completely hypnotized, but I definitely wanted him fully devoted. “Role.” Now, that’s where my ultimate fantasy came in. I filled out the fields, selected the maximum trial duration of one day, and hit submit. Since my villa was completely private, I had already unlocked the main gate via my phone, allowing him access.

I was falling back asleep when I felt someone gently shaking my shoulder. "Sir, breakfast is ready downstairs," a soft, perfectly modulated voice murmured. The rich, sweet aroma of coffee filled the bedroom.

I turned over and blinked my eyes open, only to find myself staring at my absolute dream come true. Standing right beside my bed was Charles. Thanks to the isolated nature of my property, he had arrived undetected, already wearing the exact uniform I requested: a black bowtie, crisp white gloves, and tight, elegant black shorts. My wildest dream of having Charles Leclerc as my personal butler was officially a reality.

A little later, I was sitting in the kitchen, sipping my cappuccino and eating biscuits, watching my personal butler meticulously cleaning the counters. The view was magnificent; the tight shorts perfectly accentuated his toned, firm backside. Every now and then, he would turn around and flash me a sweet, submissive smile. I had to take deep breaths to compose myself because I was sporting a rock-hard erection that just wouldn't go away.

In the afternoon, the heat became intense, so I moved out to the poolside loungers. Charles brought me a chilled drink. Seeing him walk around my modern patio, his chest and abs glistening under the sun, was almost too much to bear.

Shortly after, it was time for his outdoor chores. He changed into a different uniform, tight brown shorts and work gloves, to mow the lawn. After an hour under the sun, his body was dripping with sweat, but he didn't look tired at all. In fact, just as I had coded in the app, he would occasionally flex and show off his muscles for my benefit.

Once he finished, he walked over to me. "How does it look, sir?" he asked, gesturing to the perfectly manicured lawn.

"You did an amazing job," I replied, looking him up and down. "You should probably cool off, you're dripping with sweat." I pointed toward the garden hose.

Without hesitation, Charles picked up the hose and put on a show, drenching his body right in front of me. At one point, he even asked me to spray him down. I was holding back with everything I had because he looked entirely too beautiful, but by that point, there was no hiding the massive bulge in my trousers.

By the time night fell, I couldn't restrain myself any longer. When I walked into the bedroom, I found him completely naked, lying on the bed, fully prepared to be used.

I stripped down, knelt between his legs, and instructed him to hold his cheeks open. I began to lick his tight entrance, coating it with saliva. Once he was wet enough, I started stretching him out with my fingers. Charles let out a needy moan of pleasure. Hearing that, I crawled up his body and kissed him deeply.

"Thank you, sir," he whimpered against my lips, completely under the control of the app.

After working his tight hole a bit more, I lined myself up and pushed my cock all the way inside him. We both let out a loud groan of pure ecstasy. I began to fuck him in a steady, hard rhythm while he started stroking his own hard length. The moans in the room grew louder. I leaned down to kiss him again, trailing my tongue down to lick and bite at his nipples before capturing his mouth once more.

We kept going for a wild half-hour until I finally hit his sweet spot and came deep inside him. I watched my semen slowly leak out of his ruined ass while his face was locked in a daze of pure pleasure. While he was still recovering, I told him to make room for me on the bed and crawl down to suck my cock, a little reward for his hard work tonight.

I don’t know how much time passed, but suddenly, exactly twenty-four hours after the activation, the warmth in his eyes completely vanished. His expression turned perfectly blank and vacant. He sat up straight in bed, looked directly at me with a robotic, unblinking stare, and spoke in a monotone, synthetic voice:

"Sir, your period with this subject has expired. Thank you for using the PicsControl app and for adding this element to the company catalog. We remind you that you can find Charles in the app catalog for future bookings. Thank you and goodbye."

As soon as the corporate message finished playing from his lips, Charles stood up like a machine. He mechanically put his clothes back on and walked out of the bedroom without a single backward glance. Looking out the window of my isolated estate, I saw a sleek black corporate car waiting for him by the gate. He climbed into the back seat, and the car vanished silently into the night.

I collapsed back onto the bed and grabbed my phone to leave a five-star review. Curious, I clicked on Charles's profile in the app, only to see that his calendar was already fully booked for months in advance by other wealthy users.

"I'm back! Sorry for the months of silence, but I've been really busy. I hope you enjoy this first story connected to the 'PicsControl' series. Tell me, who should be the next subject? Next chapters will be only for subscribers. See you soon with the next stories and images!"

HERE YOU CAN FIND THE PROLOGUE:

“Sup bro, glad you’re here I need your opinion on something.” My friend Dallas said as soon as I walked through the door.

“Fucking Christ dude, you scared the shit outta me. You could’ve text me bro.” I was not expecting him to be in my room when I got home from the gym.

“Sorry man, but this is important.” Then all of a sudden he started taking off his shirt and pulling down his pants.

“Dude what the fuck?!” I yelled throwing my hands up so I didn’t get a look at his junk.

“Relax bro I just need your opinion on this singlet I bought.” He said calmly, I opened my eyes to see him standing there with a tight singlet.

“The fuck Bro? This some kinda joke?” I started to laugh, but he wasn’t laughing with me, he just got more serious.

“It’s not a joke bro, I’m for real. How does it look, do you think it shows off my muscles good?” He asked totally serious.

“What are you talking about, put that shit away I can see your fucking dick through that thing!” I yelled after noticing his dick was visible.

“Perfect!” Dallas exclaimed in excitement as he traced the outline of his penis with his finger.

“Seriously, if this is some weird fetish shit with some girl you met I don’t want to know, take that shit to her not me.” I said in disgust. I know Dallas fucks a lot of different chicks but I didn’t need to see all that.

“Some girl? No dude, I’m asking so I can impress Him.” He said with emphasis him.

Now I was confused, “ Him? The fuck dude, whose Him?”

He made a weird face at me like it was obvious, “Mitchell Bro? Who else would I be talking about?”

I was even more shocked now, “Mitchell? My gay little brother Mitchell?”

He smiled a big stupid smile, “Of course man! He’s the most important thing in the world to me, that’s why I’m here. He told me I’d look really sexy in a tight singlet so I bought this one, I’m hoping I look sexy enough for him to want to fuck me hard.”

It was like a nightmare, “What kind of sick shit are you even talking about! Dallas you’re not a fucking fag, didn’t we just beat Mitchell’s was last week for being gay! Now you’re saying this shit! If this is seriously a joke it’s not funny anymore.”

“Last week I was a different person, a bad person but Mitchell’s been fixing me, he helped me see the error of my ways. He has this really cool ring that spirals and makes you see the truth! Hey maybe after your little brother plows my ass he can fix you too!” He said grinning.

I know Dallas, he is not smart enough to come up something this thought out. There was something wrong with him.

“I don’t what that fag did to you, but we are going to fix it, put your clothes back on I need to get you to a doctor or something to fix your brain.” Suddenly his eyes widened and his grin grew as he looked passed me.

“Master!” He said in joy, I turned around to see my little brother Mitchell standing with an evil grin on his face.

“Good boy Dallas, you came just like I asked and I see you bought yourself that singlet, it looks good on you I’m very pleased.”

I was fuming, “You little son of a-” I raised my fist about to swing when I felt someone catch my arm from behind. It was Dallas and he was a lot bigger than me. He restrained me, and I couldn’t break loose as I yelled and spit at Mitchell who seemed unphased as I slipped something onto his finger.

“Don’t worry brother, it’ll all be over soon.” He said as he showed me his ring which started to spiral, I couldn’t help but gaze at it I felt myself calming down, soon I felt happy as I felt all my anger and frustration melt away. Why was I so angry a second ago?

“Welcome to the club big bro, you and your douche friend Dallas here are gonna pay for the crap you put me through last week. You can let go big guy, he’s not going to struggle anymore.”

I felt the arms around me release, but I didn’t need to move I felt totally relaxed and focused on whatever Mitchell had to say, he was so important to me.

“Come” Mitchell said as he called Dallas over. I watched as he felt his body up and down rubbing his hands on all over Dallas’ spandex covered body. I felt a twinge of jealousy as he leaned in for a sloppy kiss.

“I did good right Master? I got your brother like you wanted me too. Now will you fuck my ass and make me your bitch please?” Dallas pleaded.

“Patience big guy, well get there but first I’m going to need you to fuck your friend here.” Mitchell said looking at me, I looked at Dallas who was looking at me with hungry eyes now.

“Don’t worry you’ll love it, just fuck him in the was like you would any other slut you’ve fucked in the past.” Mitchell said. Dallas was licking his lips now. In the back of my head a felt a little scared, but I couldn’t move. My body was still so relaxed.

“As for you big bro, I want you to be grateful for this opportunity. I’m going to watch you get railed by your once homophobic douche bag partner in crime. And you’re going to smile and enjoy every minute of it.” Mitchell commanded me.

He’s right I was already feeling so happy. “Awesome! Thank you so much you’re the best! I can’t wait!” I smiled at my buddy Dallas as he aggressively tore off my clothes. I couldn’t help but thank him too, but he just told me, ‘shut up slut’ so I did.