Some male hypo n shit

Once you start. It’s hard to go back…

Body: Massive, obscene muscle. Huge bouncing pecs, veiny arms, tiny waist, and a fat, jiggly bubble butt that begs to be grabbed. You’ll eat, lift, and grow until you’re a walking wet dream. Thick thighs rubbing together, always pumped and ready to show off.

Mind: Properly retarded. Empty-headed, giggly, and slow. Thoughts melt away. Big words confuse you. You’ll drool and flex while repeating “Dumb boys don’t think, they just serve Daddy.” The dumber you get, the hornier you become.

Sexual: Your holes are Daddy’s property. Leaky, desperate, and always eager. You’ll beg to be used, choked, and bred like a brainless whore. Moan loud and take it messy. anytime, anywhere.

Perks: Luxury life, no responsibilities, black card, constant praise, and mind-melting orgasms when Daddy allows them.

Side Effects: Old life fades. You’ll get addicted to his cock and approval. Too stupid to go back. Too horny to care.

Empty head. Massive body. Owned by a rich Daddy.

AI GENERATED STORY

The mall buzzed with weekend energy—groups of teens loitered, couples strolled with shopping bags, and music spilled faintly from stores. But Stretch wasn’t interested in any of that. He’d been slinking through the ventilation ducts, invisible, watching, hunting. And then he saw him.

Dalton.

An 18-year-old walking wet dream. Shirtless under an open flannel, tight gym shorts that clung to his bubble butt like shrink wrap, and cheap black flip-flops slapping against the tile as he walked with zero urgency and zero thoughts. Blonde tousled hair. Smooth tan skin. A pair of big, blue, dumb puppy eyes. The definition of a Gen Z himbo—vacuous, horny, and built to be taken.

He stood in line for a pretzel, lips parted, scrolling aimlessly through TikTok on his phone, abs flexing as he shifted his weight. And Stretch could already tell—this boy was ripe. No resistance. No thoughts. Just meat.

Time to move.

Stretch slithered off the duct in a haze of smoke, invisible to the world as he zeroed in on Dalton. The boy yawned, thick tongue curling in his mouth as he stretched one arm lazily—his throat wide open. Perfect. Stretch surged forward with a distorted whisper:

"Oooopen wiiide, pretty boy…"

Dalton blinked, then gagged—eyes bulging as a thick, ghostly tentacle of Stretch’s essence jammed down his throat. His flip-flops scraped the tile as his legs kicked, mouth stuck open, the ghost stuffing deeper and deeper down his gullet. His flannel flew open, abs tensing and flexing uncontrollably. Dalton let out a wet, guttural "HRRRRK—!" before his whole body jerked and froze mid-spasm.

Then silence.

Dalton slowly lowered his arms. One flip-flop slid off slightly. He blinked.

Then smirked.

“Unnngh, yeeeahh, now that’s a fuckin’ ride,” he muttered with a chuckle—Stretch’s voice layered beneath Dalton’s dumb bro tone. He looked down at his new tan, muscular arms, then groped both pecs, giggling as he made them bounce.

“Holy shit, this flesh puppet’s perfect. Mmmff—tight lil bod, jiggly ass, and ohhh my fuckin’ god—”

He slapped his own bubble butt through the tight shorts, watching the ripple with awe. “I own this ass now? I’m gonna destroy it.”

He caught a glimpse of himself in a glass storefront and did a little bounce, biting his lip and puffing his cheeks.

“Bro… I can make such dumb fuckin’ faces…”

Stretch turned the body left and right, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes, flexing abs while drooling down his chin. “OHH yeah, I’m gonna goon so hard in this meat.”

With his cock swelling and balls already aching with a load, Stretch stumbled toward the nearest bathroom, one flip-flop half-off, a dopey grin plastered on Dalton’s face.

Inside the public restroom, Stretch locked the disabled stall, yanked the shorts down, and moaned.

Dalton’s cock sprang free—thick, veiny, fully hard, dripping pre like a faucet. And beneath it, those massive balls. Stretch let out a whistle.

“No wonder this fucker’s always horny—this cock’s a fuckin’ cannon.”

He pulled the shorts all the way off, stepping out and flexing in the mirror. The flip-flops stayed on. Of course.

“Yeahhh, keep the fuckin’ flops on… keep that dumb slut energy…”

Stretch posed, cock bobbing, and grabbed his own cheeks, spreading them, laughing breathlessly.

“Look at this slutty bubble butt… UUUNNNGH!”

He dropped to his knees, tongue lolling, as he jacked the fat meat slowly with both hands, watching himself in the stall’s scratched mirror. Dalton’s face was flushed, mouth open wide in a moaning ‘O’, eyes rolled up.

“This kid’s got hyperspermia, doesn’t he?” Stretch panted. “His cock’s leaking and I’ve been in here two fuckin’ minutes…”

He leaned back against the toilet, legs spread, flip-flops planted wide as he went full gooner mode.

“Yehhh bro… look at me… I’m just a dumb 18-year-old cumdump… nothin’ but meat, meat, meat…”

He stroked faster, moaning, balls bouncing between his thighs. Drool started slipping down his chin as he locked eyes with the mirror.

“UNNNGH—fuck—this face—fuckin’ beautiful—watch me cum, bro…”

And then it hit.

Dalton’s whole body spasmed. Stretch howled.

“OOOOHHH FUUUCKKKK—!!!”

SPLRRRRTTTT—!

Cum shot everywhere. Across his abs, onto his thighs, dripping from his chest. He pumped again—

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

Thick, pearly ropes sprayed the inside of the stall like a Jackson Pollock painting of pure depravity. Stretch was laughing between moans, drooling openly now, tongue out, face twisted into a blissed-out, slutty mess.

“AHAHAH—BRO—THIS DICK’S MAGICAL!” he cried, still jerking, still cumming. “He just keeps going!”

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. Still spurting.

Stretch choked out moans, writhing, muscles twitching uncontrollably as he rode the never-ending orgasm, cum splashing over the toilet seat, dripping from the stall door.

He looked into the mirror again, eyes wide, tongue out, spit and cum running down his chin, flexing his abs as he shot again.

“Yeahhh, look at you, Dalton… you’re mine now… and we’re gonna make this a daily ritual, slut.”

Stretch collapsed onto the floor, cock twitching, drooling on the tile, giggling dumbly.

“I ain’t never leavin’ this body…”

PART 2: LETS EXPERIMENT

The door to Dalton’s apartment slammed shut behind him with a lazy slap of his flip-flop. Stretch stretched his new host’s arms overhead, bones popping, pecs flexing, a smug grin spreading across Dalton’s pretty-boy face. His bubble butt peeked from under his gym shorts, damp from the sticky load he still hadn’t cleaned up from the mall bathroom earlier.

He dragged his fingers through his own golden-blonde hair and dropped onto the couch with a thick squelch. His shorts were soaked, and so was the cushion.

“Heh… damn, this kid’s body’s a fountain,” Stretch chuckled, patting Dalton’s jizz-plastered cock through the tight fabric. “Can’t believe how much he cums—fuckin’ hyperspermic slut…”

His eyes glazed over a little as his cock twitched just from saying it. Stretch yanked Dalton’s shorts down in one quick move, letting the thick, veiny cock slap up against his toned stomach, still leaking like a broken faucet.

“Alright, bro… let’s test the limits, yeah?”

He kicked his legs up, bare soles flopping onto the coffee table, flip-flops dangling from his toes. His bubble butt spread across the seat, cock pointed up and ready. In one hand? A fat glass measuring cup from the kitchen. In the other? A bottle of lube that was already halfway empty.

“Let’s see how much juice you really got, Dalton…”

Stretch began stroking.

Slow. Teasing. Biting his lip, he angled the measuring cup right under the head of that hyperspermic monster, whispering in Dalton’s own breathy voice.

“Fill it up, bro… be a good cumslut science project for Daddy Stretch…”

Dalton’s body reacted like it had been waiting for this. Balls tightening. Cock twitching. Veins bulging. His tongue hung out as his back arched. His tan feet scrunched on the table, flip-flops dropping off with a thud.

Then it hit.

“HRRRRAAAHHHH—FUUUUUCKKKK!!”

SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT.

Cum exploded from his cockhead, slamming into the bottom of the glass with brutal force, instantly coating the sides with thick white. The measuring cup shook in his grip as the sheer pressure made his wrist jolt.

Stretch’s face twisted into a slutty, unhinged grin. Eyes crossed. Drool dripping. He was giggling as the cup filled.

“Damn bro, you’re gonna overflow,” he gasped, edging harder, watching the creamy flood rise to the 100ml mark, then 200, then 300…

“OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK—BRO—THIS IS NUTS!”

SPLURRRRRRTTTT—!!

He overflowed it. Cum oozed down his hand, dripping onto the floor. Stretch dropped the cup and leaned forward, gasping, panting, cum still pouring from his swollen cock.

“New record…” he moaned.

He brought the measuring cup to his lips and gulped. A huge mouthful. Groaned. Then licked the rim.

“Bro’s got flavor, too…”

Experiment #2: Distance Test.

Stretch stood in the kitchen, still naked except for his flip-flops, gripping his cock like a firehose.

He aimed at the white wall.

“C’mon, Dalton… let’s repaint this bitch.”

Stroke. Stroke. Veins bulged along his arm, pecs flexing as he braced himself.

“NGGHH—RRRGHH—YEAH BRO—FUCKIN’—GOON BLAST!!!”

SPLAAAAT!

First shot hit the wall. Second arced across the microwave. Third splashed the floor. He stumbled, laughing, cum dripping off every surface.

He grabbed a Sharpie and marked the wall where the biggest load hit.

“Seven… fuckin’… feet,” he cackled. “You’re a cum sniper, Dalty boy.”

Experiment #3: “What Happens If I Edge for an Hour?”

Stretch laid back on the bed, setting up his camera, flip-flops crossed at the ankles, chest heaving, cock leaking nonstop onto a towel. Timer ticking on his phone.

He edged slow, whispering dirty talk to himself.

“Just a dumb science experiment, bro… turn your brain off… feel the cum boil…”

He slapped his thighs. Thrust his hips. Made Dalton’s sluttiest faces in the mirror. Crossed eyes, tongue out, drool string bouncing off his chin.

“Bro I’m gonna paint the fucking ceiling—nnnnggghhh!!”

Exactly one hour later?

BOOOOM—!!

The first blast shot past his head and smacked the headboard. He screamed in ecstasy, stroking furiously as wave after wave of cum drenched his chest, face, feet, and pillows.

“FUUUUUUCKKKK—BRO—IT’S IN MY HAIR!!!”

Experiment #4: “How many times in one day?”

Stretch lost count after nine.

His balls ached. His cock never fully went down. Every cumshot felt like pissing out a gallon of sticky white heat.

By the twelfth goon, he was cackling with joy.

“I fuckin’ broke this body, bro… Dalton’s just a walking cum volcano now…”

He rolled onto his side, eyes fluttering, covered in drying jizz, kissing his own shoulders and licking his fingers.

“Tomorrow, I’m testing what happens if I don’t cum for two days…”

He chuckled darkly.

“Bet I could flood the whole fuckin’ apartment.”

PART 3: SLUTTY DALTON HAS ARRIVED

It started with a Craigslist post.

18yo bro. Tan. Tight bubble butt. Home alone. Flip-flops on. Door’s unlocked. Come dump your load.

No name. No face. Just that. And within minutes of Stretch hitting “Post,” replies started pouring in.

But he didn’t care about names. Didn’t want bios. Didn’t want pleasantries.

He wanted anonymous cock inside the dumb, jizz-hungry body of Dalton—the tight-bodied, hyperspermic, 18-year-old flip-flop bro Stretch had possessed two days earlier and completely ruined.

He prepped the apartment like a goon altar.

Living room cleared. Rug pushed aside. A towel—already crusted from earlier experiments—laid out in the center. Mirrors positioned on every angle. Lights dimmed. Porn playing on mute. The air thick with sweat, poppers, and intent.

Stretch in Dalton’s body stood in the center of it all. Shirtless. Tanned. Flexing in the mirror with his cock leaking already, thick ropes of pre running down those muscled thighs. He wore nothing but a backwards cap and his black flip-flops.

“Goddamn, I’m the perfect little brohole,” Stretch moaned through Dalton’s voice, gripping that juicy bubble butt and spreading it in the mirror. “Let ‘em take me, bro. Use me. Dump it deep.”

He left the door unlocked.

First knock.

Stretch didn’t even answer. Just turned his back to the entrance and bent over on all fours, cock swinging between his legs, tongue out, flip-flops flexed on the hardwood as he wiggled his ass in slow, needy motions.

The door creaked open. A man’s breath caught.

Stretch heard him whisper, “Oh… fuck…” before the sound of a zipper sliding down filled the air.

Dalton’s possessed body shivered in anticipation.

The man didn’t say a word. Just dropped to his knees and slammed his cock in.

“NNNGHHHFFFUCKKKKYESSS!” Stretch screamed, head whipping back, drool flying from his lips as his hole got filled instantly. “Use me, bro! Fuckin’ split me open!”

The man did.

Hard. Grunting. Slamming into Dalton’s bubble butt like he’d paid for the privilege. Stretch moaned louder with every thrust, hands gripping the towel beneath him as his cock started leaking again, untouched.

“Yessir, yessir, use my fuckin’ brohole—fuck me dumb, bro—FILL ME—”

SPLURT.

He felt the first load shoot inside. Hot. Thick. Sloppy.

The man grunted and pulled out wordlessly, zipping up and walking out as fast as he came in.

Stretch collapsed onto his side, tongue out, cock twitching.

“One down…”

Ten minutes later. Another knock.

He didn’t look. Just flipped onto his back, cock standing proud, hole still wet and gaping. One flip-flop dangling from his toes.

“C’mere bro… got a cock to unload?” he slurred, eyes rolling. “Put it wherever. I’m your little goonsleeve tonight…”

The second guy stepped in—this one older. Beard. Jeans. He walked right over, dropped to his knees, and sucked.

“UUUNNNNGHHHH—BROOOOO—YEEESSSS!!”

Stretch’s cock exploded instantly. Hyperspermia in full force. He blasted everywhere—his chest, his throat, the guy’s face, even a shot across the mirror.

The man laughed, licking his lips.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding about the ‘super soaker’ dick.”

Stretch drooled, twitching, nodding dumbly. “More where that came from, daddy…”

The man slid two fingers into his hole, Stretch squealed.

The door kept opening.

By midnight? Stretch had taken five strangers. Two fucked him. One came on his flip-flops. One guy face-fucked him so hard Dalton’s cap flew off. Another stroked himself watching, saying nothing, until he blasted across Stretch’s feet and left without a word.

He loved it.

Stretch worshipped it.

Dalton’s body was soaked in spit, sweat, and layers of random cum. His cock had cum eight times already, and it still throbbed—eager, proud, ready.

He crawled back into position, ass in the air, flip-flops squelching with every shift of his thighs.

“Door’s still open, bro…” he whispered into the air, smiling like a brainless fuckdoll. “Keep comin’. I’m free real estate.”

The Final Load.

The last guy of the night was massive. Sleeveless hoodie. Gloves. Work boots.

He didn’t talk. Just walked in, grabbed Stretch by the neck, and bent him over.

“Yeah, stretch me out, bro…” Stretch moaned, shaking, drooling onto the towel as the man lined up.

When he slammed in, Stretch let out the loudest moan yet—Dalton’s body twitched, toes curling in those jizz-stained flip-flops, cock gushing a full-blown load with zero stroking.

“OHFUCK—Y’MAKIN’ ME CUM, BRO—UNNNGH—SHITTTT—!”

The man grunted, sped up, and dumped a final brutal load inside Dalton’s stretched-out hole.

He slapped that bubble butt, zipped up, and left the door wide open as he walked out.

Stretch just laid there, wrecked, twitching in a puddle of sweat and goon.

His voice came out in a moan-drunk whisper: “Dalton’s just a… just a public fuckhole now… a leaking, flip-flop-wearin’ cum collector…”

He smiled.

And passed out in the mess.

The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but Stretch was already leaking.

Dalton’s cock twitched against his abs, crusted in dried loads from the first Craigslist session—his bubble butt still raw, flip-flops still soaked with cum and spit. He lay on the floor, breathing slow, dumb grin on his pretty face, drool trailing down his cheek.

But Stretch? He was still hungry.

The Craigslist ad had already been edited.

18yo bro. Cumdump. Door’s unlocked. Bring a friend. Double me. Flip-flops stay on. Cock never soft. Holes wide open.

Attached was a blurry mirror selfie—Dalton bent over, hole spread, tongue out, wearing just flip-flops and a backwards hat. His cock visibly dripping onto the floor.

Stretch pressed “post” with a giggle.

“Alright, bros,” he muttered into the dark apartment, grabbing Dalton’s cheeks and spreading them open in the mirror. “Who’s gonna be first to double-stuff this himbo hole?”

Knock. Knock.

Stretch didn’t answer. Just laid belly-down on the living room floor, feet kicked up in the air, flip-flops clapping softly with every bounce of his thighs.

The door opened slow.

Two dudes. Early 30s. One in sweats. One shirtless in slides.

They saw Dalton—face down, ass up, tongue out.

“Holy shit,” one said.

The other? Already undoing his belt.

Stretch giggled through Dalton’s lips. “C’mon in, boys. Daddy’s open for business.”

The first guy spit on his cock and lined up behind Dalton’s gaping hole. The second circled around and shoved his meat right into Stretch’s drooling mouth.

BOTH went in at the same time.

Stretch screamed into the cock down his throat, muffled moans shaking his chest as both his ends got filled. His cock started spraying without warning—cum squirting onto the towel below him in steady, twitching bursts.

Dalton’s whole body convulsed as Stretch choked and moaned.

“Fuckin’… dumb fuckin’ bro slut…” the guy fucking his throat growled.

“Gonna split this hole wide open…” the one behind him spat, pounding faster.

Stretch couldn’t even think. The stimulation was overwhelming. He drooled, gagged, came again. His flip-flops slid across the floor as his hips jerked uncontrollably.

They came at the same time.

BOOM.

One deep down his throat. The other filling his ass so full, white fluid dripped out before he’d even pulled out.

Stretch twitched in silence for ten seconds.

Then moaned, “Next…”

Next wave.

More guys showed up.

Two frat bros. One trucker. One married couple who just watched.

Every time the door opened, Stretch was already in position—face down, feet flexed, moaning like a bitch in heat. His cock never went soft. His balls stayed heavy. Every load just boiled up again, faster and thicker.

One pair took turns on his ass, stretching him out, spit-slicked and raw, laughing about it while the other took pics.

Stretch loved it.

He begged between loads: “Yessss, bros… keep fillin’ me up… make me your fuckin’ public cumdrone… just a himbo in flip-flops beggin’ to be ruined…”

By Hour Two:

Dalton had cum twelve times.

His hole gaped so wide, he could feel the breeze.

His flip-flops were soaked with sweat, cum, and floor grime.

His voice was hoarse from moaning, sucking, and chanting dirty talk on loop.

And still, Stretch wasn’t done.

He crawled to the couch, still naked, hole leaking, and recorded a new JOI video.

He stared into the camera, eyes half-crossed, drool on his chest.

“Bro… this body’s addicted, man… I ain’t gonna stop… I’m just a slut now. You hear me? I’m a dumb, dripping, flip-flop-wearin’ fuckhole.”

He moaned loud, then jerked himself into a fresh cup, overfilling it in seconds.

Then whispered, “Next time? I want five cocks. All at once.”

He licked the rim of the cup.

Smiled.

And crawled back to the front door, cock still hard.

God damn, this has been an insanely amazing four months. And it's all thanks to 'Jin' here. It would be terrible to go back to boring old Marcus after the show ends.

I go to a pretty small performing arts school in the middle of West Virginia. I've wanted to be an actor since I was a kid, and I worked incredibly hard to be one. And though my talent shines in every role I take, the only problem has been my appearance. People rarely want to hire a pasty less-than average nobody. Try as I might at the gym and self-care habits, I couldn't even put on any muscle; it was like I was destined for the stage, but my body limited my potential to a terminal degree. Sure, I've gotten roles as 'best friend' or 'lead ensemble' I know I'm good enough for the staring roles.

My big break wouldn't come until the school's acting troupe decided to put on the harrowing stage show The Weight of His Name, a story of a second-generation Asian immigrant dealing with the struggles of growing up in America. The only issue was that in the entire performing arts program, there were zero guys who could fit the role. The story demanded a male asian lead. Without one, the show itself would be seen as insensitve and it would paint a target on the whole school's back.

With no other choice, the director of the show came up with a crazy plan. Enter Jin.

Jin wasn't an official student of the college; he wasn't even a real person. He was a persona, a realistic bodysuit that someone could slip into and become. No one except the director and a few choice confidants in the company would even know the true nature of Jin or what the director had in store. But out of pure luck, I just so happened to overhear their conversation. From the moment I heard it, I knew I had to win that role.

The casting call itself was rather vague and mysterious, evidently from the secrecy of what the actor would be doing. But with knowing confidence, I nailed the audition and landed the role. The first day of rehearsals was one of the best in my life. I had a private dressing space, as much of the cast didn't know about our secret fake actor. I was even sworn to secrecy before being told about skin. The director refused to elaborate on where he procured such a suit but assured that this is the only way to perform the show without an issue.

Was it illegal? not that I was aware. Was it morally questionable? very. In either case, I shrugged it off as I excitedly undressed to put on the handsome bodysuit.

As my scrawny legs first cascaded into the dark hole of the suits' stronger legs, it felt like pure euphoria, and as the first dressing had concluded and I was fully enveloped in his life-like form, I could feel his aura, his strong confidence. It was all in my head of course, but as I first gazed upon my new face, the strong jawline and perfectly sculpted details I knew I was going to get addicted to this new form.

Over the next month, I had to get into character not only as the stage character Zhang, but the actor Jin. Jin was so different from plain old Marcus. He had to be, he was really a real person to everyone else but those who knew the truth. Jin's life had to be private in all the ways that mattered, so I had my own dorm instead of sharing a bunk with a roommate. Jin liked different foods, different hobbies, music and clothes compared to who I once was. It was a mind-jostling experience, like I was an onion with layers upon layers. Eventually, I even forgot about my true self, that Marcus Hamilton who resided deep down. From rehearsals to putting on the show itself, it has been an incredible journey. One that I am now determined not to let end.

After getting back home from the last performance of the run, I took a long, steamy shower, exploring my body like it was the first time. Those delicious muscles that I could only dream about on my true figure sat comfortably on me like I spent half my life working out to achieve them. Looking in the mirror at my strong chisled face, I noticed the glue used to bind the pale loser actor inside starting to thin. It would not be noticeable to anyone nonethewiser, but to me it was a disgrace to the beauty. Applying the translucent cream and checking again, I was perfect; as handsome as when I first put on this miracle suit.

I floated the idea to the director at the after-party a few hours ago. I asked him if I could have the suit, even offering to pay so much more money than I actually owned. All for the sake of keeping the Jin suit. Calously, he refused my offers. It wasn't like he knew the true power, the potential of what I could do with this body. Drunk from the celebration, he ordered me to return backstage tomorrow, where he would peel me out. Where I would never see Jin or feel being him again.

With every rep, the good jockboy recites an affirmation…

I am a good jockboy.

I am a game. I am a thing to be played, I am a hole to be filled, and I am a challenge to be conquered.

I am a loser. I lost my ego, I lost my free will, and I lost my manhood.

I am winner. I won the right to serve, I won the right to worship, and I won the right to obey.

Promising a Good Time

Damn it, I told the higher-ups that this experience was not ready for order. Our company assures excellent quality for its hired bot services, but this was a rush-job and it showed.

People hire us for all kinds of events, bachelor parties, club openings, anywhere you need star-power. With our collection of hyper-realistic robots, your favorite athlete, celebrity, or model can be there to hype up the crowd and promise a good time.

But when the company received the contract for the Bachelorette party, they focused on the potential dollar signs and not the request itself. To be fair, no one could've expected the huge popularity of the show 'Heated Rivalry', so we didn't even plan on making models for the characters or the actors who portrayed them. But the client fell head over heels for the main lead, Hudson Williams, and we promised to provide.

There was only a month before the job. Typically, it takes a good three months to accurately manufacture one of our blank bots into the man or woman of the client's desires, with another month to hire an operator to study and learn the persona's traits for seamless performance. As head of the project, I was under a lot of pressure to make it happen. We couldn't just start from scratch - it would take too long for the conversion - so we had to make do with what was already in the warehouse. The team did their best with the time crunch, recycling an old 'young Keeyanu Reeves' bot that hasn't been ordered in years. They had a similar enough facial structure and height, so the majority of the fabrication was simulating his muscular hockey athelete-esque build. Still, we didn't fully have the time to fix him up with all the details of the real actor, hence why 'Hudson' had to wear his shades even indoors to hide the fact that the eye structure was different from the real deal. Luckily, his clothes were easy enough to proquire, as our Harry Styles bot had a huge closet to pick from.

The operator they gave us also didn't help the situation. Danny ,in real life, was this geeky theater kid right out of college. It was increasingly hard to find people willing to do the job for the pay and confidentiality demanded by the company. The bot would do a majority of the work with the voice replicator and built-in dance move, with Danny really there for interacting and custom minute locomotion. But even as he test ran the model, I had a feeling this wouldn't go swimmingly.

The real issues showed up during the event itself. I was at point with Danny in the company-owned van. That's where the operator stayed connected to the mental link controlling the bot like a remote control puppet, all the while 'Hudson' was inside the venue entertaining. Because we had so little time and the bot itself was not well-crafted, there were so many times it would spasm, lag in its movements, or fully shut down, much to the confusion of the party-goers. Danny, untrained in how to act during these situations, would often shy away, going against the cool and confident attitude of Shane Hollander in the show. By the end of the night, I could tell the client's feedback survey would not be positive.

“Since I’m paying for your gym membership, I expect you to send me daily progress updates. I want to make sure my investment is paying off.”

“Sir, yes, Sir! Here’s your first update, Sir.”

“Looking beautiful, boy. But next time I expect you dress way sluttier. There’s no reason for you to hide that hot body from the community.”

“Yes, keep flexing, just like that,” the Master said, smirking.

He beheld his latest acquisition from the gym, Max. It took over 72 hours of the most potent spiral video to wear his defenses down, along with additional 2 hours of direct eye contact with the Master. By the time he was done, “Max” was gone. Empty. A shell. 

“Hey, boss. I was trying to use a motivation trigger to help my buddy maximize his workout..but I think I got my triggers mixed up. He’s zonked out…I’ve never seen someone so entranced.”

“Ugh. Not again…okay, I’ll be right over. Don’t touch him until I get there.”

“Sorry, boss. I’m trying, I swear. It’s just…I’m still getting used to wielding this much power.”

Five: You are made of strong stock. Imagine your body is made of solid oak. Deep, sturdy, and rooted. You are unshakeable. You are part of the crew.

Four: The "hum" in your nervous system from the tractor or the tools has finally stopped. It is replaced by a low, resonant vibration of total peace. The thrumming in your soul is the pulse of work you did. Your commitment this farm, its roots in the soil.

Three: Your breath is now the only movement in the room. It is slow and deep, like the wind moving through a field of wheat. You are thankful for this job, for the abilty to be one with this farm. This collective. The sweat releases you.

Two: Your reward is the calm you now feel. You let it sink in. Redneck is not a bad word. It is work, it is collective, it is the smell of the farm. The beat of your heart, the sun on your skin.

Scott

Allow me to introduce you to one of my favorite slaves: Scott!

Scott was a promising rugby player before he joined my stable. But despite his formidable size and natural talent, he lacked the natural aggression to thrive in the sport. A gentle giant, if you will.

He was also quite shy. Growing up in a small town built on midwestern niceness, the boy needed to toughen up or pack his bags.

His coach — a smart man —sent him to me.

“Help me build him into a fierce competitor. If he turns out to be a lost cause, I’ll sell him to you for a fair price.”

To be honest, I could’ve made an incredible warrior out of him. But he’s fucking adorable. So as soon as he sat down for his first therapy session, I started enslaving his mind.

First, I helped him shed a few inhibitions. I love demure pussyboys—especially the beefy ones—but I’ve got enough docile big boys in stock. I opted to mold Scott into a Vixen. He loves the spotlight, loves showing off his body, and can charm the pants off any alpha male. I turned my shy boy into an unabashed muscle slut.

Next, I put him through rigorous sexual servitude training. He’s an Olympic champion when it comes cock worship. Actually, as I’m typing this on my my phone, Scott is deep throating my dick while throwing his pussy back on his former coach’s dick.

Oh, and his former coach… he had no intention of keeping Scott on the team. The gentleman knew Scott would be the perfect pussyboy for my stable. He recruited him specifically so I could train him, and gifted him to be me free of charge. He visits often, which make Scotty very happy.

“Right, Scotty?”

“Ymphhsrrr”

Tom is one of Master’s eldest slaves. He’s been enslaved for a few decades now. He first met Master in his mid-twenties. They worked at the same law firm—two young professionals on the verge of promising careers.

Master, of course, had other plans for Tom.

“Tom, you’re way too fuckable for the corporate lifestyle,” he told his (brainwashed) colleague. “You’re wasting your potential here.”

Tom agreed, obviously. With euphoric enthusiasm, Tom resigned from his position and moved into his Master’s house. His domestication training started immediately, kicking off with a lesson in cock-warming.

He accidentally slipped into a trance at the gym. Something about the repetitive movements of his workout—opening and closing his legs, over and over again—reminded him of his Master’s training.

His mind needed to be open to receive his Master’s training. His legs needed to be open to receive his Master’s training. His heart needed to be open to receive his Master’s training.