Young alpha.

And it’s not even summer bro 🔥

Vincent Hargrove was the prototype of a careerist in the renowned law firm "Blackstone & Associates." With his sharp intellect, ruthless ambition, and a dash of unscrupulousness, he had worked his way up in just five years from a simple associate to the top candidate for the next partnership. He walked over corpses – figuratively speaking, of course. Colleagues who stood in his way were cleared out with fabricated errors in reports or subtle acts of sabotage. "The end justifies the means" was his motto, which he liked to quote in meetings while stealing others' ideas and presenting himself as a genius. His colleagues secretly hated him, but no one dared to say anything. Vincent was simply too good at impressing the bosses.

Vincent had to go. On that, three of his colleagues—Tom, Mike, and Chris—were in complete agreement. Maybe he wouldn't even be bad for the firm as a partner. But it would be unbearable if that smug asshole became their boss too. They hatched a plan…

Vincent suspected nothing when the three colleagues invited him to lunch at an old diner called "Joe's Grill." It was a classic joint with red leather booths, a high density of consultants and lawyers, and the best burgers in town. "Vincent, old buddy," said Tom with a fake smile as they sat down. "We all know you're next. The next partner! You've earned it. Let's toast—to you!" Mike nodded eagerly and poured Vincent a glass of cola. "Exactly, you're the best. We'd be lost without you. Tell us how you cracked that last case—it was brilliant!" Chris slathered on even more flattery: "You're our role model, Vincent. We want to get on your good side before you become the boss."

Vincent, taking the flattery at face value, swallowed the last bite of his burger, leaned back, and grinned smugly. "Well, guys, it's tough, but someone has to do the dirty work. And I'm the only one who can do it right." While he basked in the praise, he turned his gaze away to call a waitress and order another cola. That was the moment the three had been waiting for. Tom discreetly pulled a small bottle from his pocket—a homemade "sauce" they had found in a dubious online forum. It was a brew of chemicals that supposedly caused "changes." They quickly drizzled it onto Vincent's burger while Mike chatted distractingly.

Vincent took another hearty bite, oblivious. At first, everything was normal. But after a few bites, he felt a pressure in his chest. Suddenly, a loud, booming belch escaped him, echoing through the entire diner—so loud that the woman at the next table dropped her fork and looked up in horror. "Sorry, guys," he muttered, embarrassed, "must be the food." The colleagues exchanged glances, suppressing grins. Tom whispered barely audibly: "It's starting." Vincent shook his head as if to shake off the dizziness and took a sip of cola that the waitress had just placed in front of him. But the pressure moved lower. His stomach rumbled audibly, and then came the fart—a long, trumpeting sound that startled the surrounding guests and spread a foul odor reminiscent of spoiled food. Vincent's face turned red as a tomato; he laughed it off nervously: "Haha, too much stress, right? It happens." But uncertainty flickered in his eyes. The colleagues giggled quietly, holding their napkins over their mouths to avoid bursting out.

But that was just the beginning. His mind began to fog, as if mist was creeping into his head. He stared at his plate and stammered: "Uh, what was I just saying? The case… uh… with the thingamajig? Wait, the client was named… Bob? Or was it Bill?" His thoughts frayed; complex legal arguments he had at his fingertips just minutes ago dissolved like sugar in hot coffee. Suddenly, his hair grew—not just a little, but explosively. His groomed business haircut turned into a wild mullet, long in the back, short on top, like a redneck from the 80s. Strands fell into his face, greasy and untamed, and he ran his hand through it, feeling the change. "Hey, guys, does my head feel weird? Like it's getting longer or something?" His voice had changed: deep, drawling accent, as if he came straight from the deep South, with a hint of gravel in his throat. "Y'all, this food's spicy, ain't it? Makes me all… uh… thirsty. Get me a beer instead of this fancy stuff here."

His muscles began to bulge, a pulsating growth that he could feel physically. Under his tailored shirt, his biceps and shoulders tensed, straining the seams to the breaking point. His chest puffed up, two buttons popped off and rolled across the table. "Damn, what's happening here? My shirt… it's bursting!" He stared at his arms, which now looked like those of a bodybuilder, veins protruding, muscles twitching uncontrollably. At the same time, sweat broke out—not just a light film, but torrents that soaked his shirt and created dark stains. The smell was overwhelming: a biting, animalistic sweat stench, mixed with the scent of earth and hard labor, enveloping the entire booth. "Phew, it's hot in here, or what? Smells like a construction site. Hey, y'all, do I stink? Haha, gotta go shower."

The colleagues were horrified at first—"Oh God, what have we done?" whispered Chris, his face pale with shock as Vincent's transformation unfolded before their eyes. Mike stared with his mouth open, unable to say anything, while Tom slapped his hands over his face. But when they saw Vincent's arrogant grin turn into a dumb, gap-toothed smile—a broad, simple-minded grin that showed nothing of his former cleverness—the shock gave way to pure schadenfreude. They burst into laughter, holding their noses while laughing, tears in their eyes. "It's working! Look at him—the great Vincent, now a hillbilly musclehead!" Tom snorted, waving his hand in front of his nose. Mike laughed so hard he had to hold onto the table edge: "The smell! Oh man, that's epic!" Chris gasped for air: "And the mullet—perfect! He looks like he's stepped out of an old movie."

Vincent, now a walking muscle mountain with a mullet and redneck dialect, grinned dumbly back, without understanding what was going on. He belched again, this time with a satisfied sigh, and scratched his head. "Hey, y'all, did I do something wrong? It was cool hangin' with you suit-wearers. But now I gotta get back to work, right? Got a lot to do… uh… haulin' cement bags or somethin'. My head feels empty, but strong, y'know?" He stood up, wobbling slightly, his new muscles uncoordinated, and left the diner without paying. The colleagues laughed themselves silly, leaning back and enjoying the sight—just like in that old photo that later circulated in the office: Three lawyers in a booth, laughing, while their rival disappeared.

Vincent didn't drive back to the office. Instead, as if guided by some primal instinct buried deep in his newly rewired brain, he steered his sleek luxury sedan toward the outskirts of town, where the skyline gave way to dusty lots and skeletal frameworks of half-built structures. The car's GPS beeped futilely, suggesting a U-turn back to the gleaming high-rise of Blackstone & Associates, but Vincent—now thinking of himself as "Vinnie"—ignored it completely. His massive hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles white, as beads of sweat continued to drip from his forehead, soaking into his already ruined shirt. The air inside the car grew thick with his pungent odor, a mix of unwashed labor and raw masculinity that made him chuckle dumbly to himself. "Dang, I smell like a real man now," he muttered, his drawl thickening with every mile.

Pulling up to the bustling construction site, Vinnie slammed on the brakes, kicking up a cloud of gravel and dust that billowed around the vehicle like a welcoming fog. Workers in hard hats and fluorescent vests paused mid-task, eyeing the incongruous sight of a high-end car amid the tractors and cement mixers. Vinnie stepped out, his polished loafers sinking into the mud, and immediately felt a surge of belonging. Without a second thought, he began stripping off his tailored suit—first the tie, flung into the dirt like a useless snake; then the shirt, torn open to reveal his rippling, sweat-glistened torso; and finally the pants, kicked aside in a heap. Standing there in nothing but his boxers, his mullet fluttering in the breeze, he scanned the site with a vacant grin, spotting a pile of spare helmets near a toolbox.

Grabbing one and plopping it on his head—it fit perfectly over his wild hair—Vinnie lumbered toward the foreman, a grizzled man barking orders into a walkie-talkie. "Hey, boss!" Vinnie bellowed, his voice booming across the site like a jackhammer. Heads turned; a few workers smirked at the newcomer who looked like he'd just escaped from a bad 80s action flick. Vinnie scratched his crotch absentmindedly, shifting his weight from one massive leg to the other, waiting nervously but eagerly for the response. The foreman sized him up, noting the bulging muscles and the dumb, earnest expression. "You look like you can handle things and don't ask smart questions," the foreman said, crossing his arms with a nod of approval.

"You can bet on that," Vinnie grunted back, flexing his biceps involuntarily as a wave of simple pride washed over him. His old life—the boardrooms, the power lunches, the cunning maneuvers—had evaporated like morning dew under the hot sun. All that mattered now was the weight of a cement bag on his shoulder, the satisfying thud of bricks stacking up, and the camaraderie of grunts and backslaps from his new crew. From that day forward, Vinnie hauled sacks of cement up rickety scaffolds, mixed mortar with a rhythmic churn that matched his steady heartbeat, and pulled up walls brick by brick, his sweat-soaked body glistening under the relentless sun. He laughed at crude jokes during smoke breaks, chugged cheap beer after shifts, and never once wondered about the fancy car he'd left parked haphazardly by the fence—it was towed away eventually, a forgotten relic.

Every week on Patreon, my higher tiers get a Photo Story and there's nearly 100 of them on the site at the moment. As part of the 3 year anniversary, I thought I'd share this one with all of you!

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Liam had played rugby since he was a teenager and at thirty-five, he couldn't help being happy with his body. He rarely worked out, outside of rugby training, but his thick thighs, meaty bubble butt and toned upper body never failed to pull any guy he wanted.

When he wasn't on the rugby pitch, he was either in the office or trawling bars for his next hookup. It never took much effort to get the guy he wanted. He always wore the tightest suit pants he could wrestle his ass into, and a quick lean against the bar with his cheeks pushed out against the straining seams would have the guys begging for him to take them home.

The only issue with that Liam had become a little too arrogant. He had an air of being better than any of the guys he chatted to, and he'd become rude to any guy that he didn't deem hot enough to even speak to him.

Unfortunately for Liam, he'd been rude to the wrong guy.

Shane was one of the richest men in the city, and although he wasn't the most attractive guy, he had a reputation for being kind and patient, even with the guys who were only trying to get to his bank balance. What most people didn't know was that Shane had a temper.

And on one Friday night, Liam had ignited Shane's temper with such ferocity that Shane had spent the following week raging about perfect Liam and his perfect bubble butt.

Shane had asked Liam if he could buy him a drink; a simple offer that should have garnered a polite decline. But Liam had laughed at him and said "as if". Shane was furious and had been able to stop plotting some sort of payback. He knew he wasn't being creative, but he was past caring. He'd found some juicy info about Liam online and if it proved to be right, then by the time Shane was done, no one would be that bothered about doing anything with Liam again.

Liam needed to be taught a lesson.

The next Friday, Shane headed back to the same bar. He'd seen Liam in there plenty of times before and just after seven, there he was in a lightly checked white shirt and a pair of light grey suit pants that looked like they'd been painted on his sculpted muscular legs.

Shane got himself a drink and sat a little way from the bar, watching Liam dismiss multiple men as he ordered himself drink and drink.

A little before ten, Shane finally got his chance as Liam made his way to the bathroom.

Shane jumped up from his seat, downed his drink and followed Liam.

When he pushed open the door, Shane found Liam at one of the urinals, thick cock in hand as he sprayed piss over the wall, not caring about the poor staff who would have to clean it up later, which just made Shane angrier.

"Are you gonna clean that up?" he barked at Liam.

Liam looked at him and laughed. "They have people to do that. I'm not cleaning."

Liam continued to laugh to himself as he washed his hands, which was Shane struck.

As Liam put his hands underneath the hand dryer, Shane came up behind him, duct tape at the ready and wrapped Liam's hands to the dryer at lightning speed. In his tipsy state, Liam was more bemused than anything else, but when Shane had finished, Liam's hands were stuck fast to the hand dryer.

Shane switched off the hand dryer so that the heat wouldn't burn Liam or the duct tape.

"What the hell's going on?" Liam asked when he realised he couldn't pull his hands away.

"A lesson in humility," Shane said as he reached his arms around Liam's chest and ripped his shirt wide open, buttons pinging against the walls. "You think you can treat people like dirt and get away with it, and I'm here to prove otherwise."

Liam yanked against the restraints, but he was stuck tight as Shane ripped more at his shirt until he was left with just two sleeves.

"You fucking perv. You just want to get your hands on my ass."

"Oh no," Shane said, as he put his hands around Liam's waist and unbuttoned his suit pants. "Your ass may be impressive, but I've heard you've got a tiny dick that you keep very well hidden. It's time everyone got to see."

Liam suddenly started tugging harder at his taped hands. "Look, dude, please, you've had your fun."

Shane laughed as he yanked down the fly on Liam's suit pants. "I'm just getting started."

Liam tried to kick out but by the time Shane had yanked Liam's suit pants to his ankles, he could barely move his legs.

"Let's see if the rumours are right, shall we?" Shane said with a satisfied chuckle as he grabbed the sides of Liam's briefs and yanked them to his knees.

Shane moved to the side and sure enough, the rumours were correct. Beneath his toned stomach, Liam had a hefty set of balls and a small nub of a dick. Despite the cruelty of it, Shane couldn't help but laugh at this arrogant, macho guy with a tiny dick.

Liam desperately tried to cross his thighs, but with his suit pants around his knees, he couldn't cover himself.

"Please, I am begging you," Liam said in a quiet voice. "Cut me free. I can't have anyone seeing me like this."

"I'm intrigued to know how much bigger it gets," Shaun said with a frown, his intrigue getting the better of his good nature.

Liam tried to squirm away but Shane grabbed Liam's dick with his thumb and forefinger and started to slowly jerk it back and forth.

"Please don't do this," Liam whispered. "You'll ruin me."

Shane ignored Liam's protests and it took only a matter of seconds before Liam's small cock started to harden.

"Dude, how big is that? Like three inches?"

Liam hung his head in shame as his small cock throbbed and pulsed.

"I think that's exactly how you need to be left for the other guys to see," Shane said with a satisfied grin. "But first . . ."

Shane wrapped duct tape around Liam's legs where the top of his suit pants were resting. It wouldn't stop someone from being able to pull them up, but it would make a lot more difficult.

"And we don't want anyone getting any ideas," Shane said as he taped a line of tape over Liam's butt crack.

"Good luck."

Liam's yells were drowned out by the music bar as Shane left the restroom. He went round to every single person in the bar and told them there was a surprise piece of entertainment tied to the hand dryer. He didn't wait around to see what people's reactions were, opting to go home and revel in the knowledge that Liam would be a better person in the future.

Or would he?

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I walked daily to my office in a bank. Every day i passed a steer construction site and watched men working. Young workers in their hi-viz yellow gear did look good. It was interesting to see the progress of the work  And at the same time to take a quick look at the young men. But also indicating me being much better of than they are.

As i walked by the site quite regularly the workers recognized me in my suit. Once one said “hi” and i replied. Over time we had several short discussions with each other.

One day i walked as usual by the site, relaxed, had taken my jacket off. One of the workers shouted HI again and i stopped, had a short chat with him and told that i am about to start my summer vacation now. He asked others there, too. The he suggested would i like to see the construction site a bit more closely. Of course i was interested to see more. Then i jumped on their side of the fence and they showed me all kinds of things.  As we chatted and walked we entered in a barrack or shelter. Suddenly i was grabbed by two workers, they pulled my pants down so I could not run away and took my wallet to see my identity card.

One worker in dirty hi-viz put his work glove on my mouth and said right to my ear. “this is your life for next 4 weeks, the time of your vacation”. They took all I had, now they knew who I am, in return i got a workers helmet, hi-viz coveralls rubber boots and work gloves, the ones used by an ex-worker.

To work in a public street construction site for 4 weeks did taught me the lesson.

I wrote this story for Patreon but sadly, it got reported, so I'm posting it here instead!

Ollie attends a Halloween party and ends up getting drugged, jerked off, stripped and left chained up outside!

Ollie had been excited for the Halloween party for weeks! He’d put in extra time at the gym so that his Captain America costume really showed off his muscular body. The Lycra hugged every muscle and curve and he knew he would get laid at least once wearing such a hot costume.

The party was being held at his buddy Brett’s house, and when he arrived, there were pumpkins all over the front lawn, and people milling around in all sorts of costumes. There were some, like him, who’d really made an effort, like a guy he used to play ball with who was wearing an Incredible Hulk costume. And then there were those who clearly made no effort at all, like the guy wearing just a pair of denim shorts and a cowboy hat.

Everyone was immediately focused on Ollie in his Captain America costume. At 6'4, he usually got a lot of attention, but with his muscular frame and his juicy bubble butt packed into his skintight costume, there wasn't a single person that didn't look his way.

What Ollie didn't know was that one of the guys in attendance used to go to the same college, and experienced Ollie's snide remarks and childish pranks. Ollie had always been a typical frat bro during his college years, which meant that he'd picked on more than his fair share of guys.

Paul was one of those guys, and he was dressed in a fairly reserved Gandalf costume, grateful to hide behind his beard and cloak so that the guy who'd made his college years miserable didn't recognise him. As an art major, Paul had never been the most popular guy, but for some reason, Ollie had made it his mission to tease and bully Paul whenever he could, and Paul had held that grudge ever since.

After a few hours, the party was in full swing and there were very few people who weren't drunk, making out with someone or dancing.

Paul was the exception. He'd just finished his second paper cup of Diet Coke and was finally ready to put his long awaited revenge plan into action.

Ollie had just finished doing shots with a group of guys who were all cheering and yelling at their success. Ollie stumbled back from them and headed towards the kitchen to grab another beer.

"You after another beer?" Paul said to Ollie, holding out an opened bottle.

Ollie grinned. "Sweet! I sure was."

Paul watched with suppressed glee as Ollie downed most of the bottle, utterly unaware of the dregs of the drug that had been floating in the liquid.

Paul watched the seconds tick by as Ollie told him about the epic round of shots he'd just done. Within a matter of minutes, he started to slur and then shook his head as if trying to clear it.

"You okay there, bud?" Paul asked in his best bro voice.

"I feel a bit . . . weird," Ollie said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Let me help you outside to get some air," Paul said, grinning behind his fake beard.

At 5'9, it wasn't particularly easy for Paul to help Ollie outside, but he managed it, and with no one noticing them.

The backyard was off limits for the party - partly because it was already cold out, and because the guy hosting didn't want anyone drunkenly drowning in his pool.

Thankfully, Paul had secured the key to the back door early on, and was already locking it behind him so that he and Ollie wouldn't be disturbed.

"How are you feeling?" Paul asked as Ollie leaned against the wall, his pupils blown and his mouth slightly open.

"It's so hot," Ollie said, tugging at his costume.

"No worries. Let me help you out of that costume and then you'll feel a lot cooler."

Paul had been desperate to get Ollie naked since his first year of college, and now he finally had his chance.

"You lean there big guy and I'll get this costume off you."

"Ah thanks man," Ollie slurred.

Paul wasted no time in pulling the headpiece away from Ollie's brown curls before unzipping the back of the costume from Ollie's neck to the top of his butt. A quick peek inside the costume revealed that Ollie was commando, and Paul couldn't hide his smile as he pulled the material off of Ollie's shoulders and down his arms.

The reveal of Ollie's meaty pecs and flat stomach happened too quickly for Paul's liking, but he was almost greedily removing the costume, in the desperate hope that he'd have more time with Ollie naked.

"Nearly there," Paul said as he tugged the costume down to Ollie's knees, freeing his thick cock and muscular thighs.

Paul practically drooled at the sight before him, before manoeuvring Ollie's feet up one at a time so he could remove the rest of the onesie.

Ollie naked was even more impressive than Paul had imagined and he couldn't stop himself from running his hands over Ollie's pecs and tweaking his perfect nipples.

"Mmmm fuck yeah baby," Ollie moaned, his eyes rolled back.

Pete hadn't planned on Ollie reacting in that way, and hadn't intended to do anything sexual to Ollie at all, but maybe he could? Maybe he could play with him a little more.

Pete ran his hands down Ollie's back to his juicy bubble butt, squeezing his cheeks and massaging them, before running a finger between his meaty globes, which elicited a giggle and a moan from Ollie.

By now, Pete had noticed that Ollie's cock was at half mast, and as much as he knew that he shouldn't, he couldn't stop himself.

Pete reached out and wrapped his hand around Ollie's 7 inch dick, which immediately pulsed itself to a full blown erection.

"Oh fuck, that feels good."

Laughing to himself at how well his plan had ended up, Pete started to jerk Ollie's cock, using his free hand to either play with Ollie's balls, tweak and tease his nipples or grope his epic cheeks.

After a few minutes, Pete could feel the damp coating of precum over his hand as he jerked Ollie faster. Ollie's breathing was ragged, his eyes still rolled back as he tried to thrust his hips but couldn't do more than twitch where he leaned back against the wall.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Ollie moaned.

Pete watched in awe as Ollie's balls tightened and then his cock spewed a hot load all over his hand. Pete continued jerking him until Ollie begged him to stop.

With his hand covered in Ollie's cum, Pete couldn't resist tasting it and savoured the salty drop that he licked from his wrist.

"Maybe you should try some," Pete said, pushing one of his fingers into Ollie's mouth.

"That tastes like me," Ollie giggled.

"Yes it does," Pete agreed.

Pete realised that he didn't have much time left, and pushed Ollie's costume into the rucksack under his cloak, after pulling out the couple of items he needed . . . handcuffs and zip ties.

In his drugged state, Ollie was easy to get into position, and once Pete had him leaning forward, his hands cuffed and tied to the window frame, Pete pulled out his paint palette and got to work.

An hour later, Pete stepped back from his handiwork and took as many photos as he could. He then slid his hand between Ollie's spread legs and stroked his cock until he was fully hard again.

"Wait! What's going on?" Ollie asked, the slur gone from his voice.

"Oh, you're about to find out!" Pete said in his ear.

Pete unlocked the back door, flicked the switch for the floodlights and yelled for people to come and check out the back yard.

People immediately started to drunkenly pass each other out of the way to get through the door, and when they did get outside, they were treated to the sight of Ollie, bent over, legs spread, butt naked, with a pumpkin painted over his thick bubble butt, his hard cock bobbing between his legs.

"Now that's my kinda pumpkin," one of the guys yelled.

Pete stayed and watched people taking photos with Ollie's painted butt, watched people stroke his cock and watched some people grope or slap his cheeks. But after a while, he snuck out of the party to go home and jerk off before he exploded. He'd recorded everything he'd done with Ollie, and couldn't wait to rewatch the footage.

Hypnotism is a powerful thing, as Paul is finding out.

As a top executive, Paul is used to being the big man around the office. He had a habit of being condescending and demanding, and was generally an unlikable guy... He didn't really care how his coworkers and colleagues felt and had no interest in making any friends.

It had been a complete surprise when he was not only invited to the company's New Year party, but was asked to come as the guest of honor. The president of the company had told him in no uncertain terms that Paul should attend, so he'd really had no choice.

There had been food, drinks, games... and a late-night hypnotist show. Paul had been volunteered by his coworkers and then... things got a little blurry.

A businessman, named Crispin, clad in his finest suit, strides confidently through the city street. His leather shoes click against the concrete pathways as he makes his way towards the construction site. He barely registers the workers around him; skinheads, mostly. They're a rough-looking lot, but he pays them no mind. He has more important things to worry about, like closing his next big deal. He thinks of them as nothing, unlike him, well-educated and worked hard to get to where he was now. He felt his supremacy over all others.

As he nears the site, he notices the foreman, a burly man with a shaved head and a permanent scowl, watching him approach. Something about the way he's standing makes the businessman's stomach turn to ice. How dare he look at him that way. He is just a worker, something he would scrape the mud off his shoes. He's about to turn around and leave when the foreman growls, "You're wanted in the office."

Crispin, reluctantly follows the foreman into a small, cramped trailer. Inside, the foreman slams the door shut and leans in close, his breath reeking of cigarettes and coffee.

"You think you're better than us, don't you?" he growls. "With your fancy suit and your college degree. Well, let me tell you something. You're nothing but a slave to your own ignorance."

Crispin blanches, unable to hide his shock. "I-I don't understand. I'm just here to oversee the project."

"Oh, you're just here to 'oversee', are you?" the foreman scoffs. "Well, let me tell you something. This site is our home. Our lives, our blood. And you, you just come in here, with your fancy clothes and your stupid degrees, and think you can just 'oversee' us? We're not some animals in a zoo, you pathetic little twit."

The foreman steps closer, his breath hot and rank in the businessman's face. "You want to know what I think? I think you're a waste of fucking space. And you know what? I'm going to teach you a lesson. A lesson you'll never forget."

Crispin swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. "W-what do you mean?" he manages to stammer.

The foreman grins, revealing a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. "Oh, you'll see soon enough. Just wait until tonight. And don't bother trying to call for help, because we've got eyes everywhere. And ears."

He spits on the floor and turns away, leaving the businessman to stew in his own fear and confusion. The air in the trailer feels thick with tension, and the businessman can't shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen.

As the day drags on, he tries to focus on his work, but his mind keeps wandering back to the foreman's words. He can't help but notice the way the other workers are starting to treat him differently. They're no longer avoiding him or looking away when he passes by. Instead, they're starting to eye him suspiciously, their gazes lingering on him in a way that makes him feel uncomfortable.

Finally, night falls, and he's relieved to leave the construction site behind. But as he's walking back to his car, he feels a hard object pressing against his back. The foreman and several of his thuggish friends surround him, their faces twisted with anger and hate.

"Alright, you piece of shit," the foreman growls. "It's time to learn your place."

He forces the businessman to his knees, his hands bound behind his back. The other workers form a circle around them, cheering and jeering.

"You think you're so fucking smart, huh?" the foreman growls, spitting on the ground. "Well, let's see how smart you will be after we have finished with you."

Chripin. is overpowered by the work crew. and a chloroform rag is placed over his nose and mouth. His vision blurs and he feels his limbs go limp as he loses consciousness.

When he comes to, his head is pounding and his body feels like it's been run over by a truck. His hands are still bound behind his back, and he's lying on a dirty mattress in some sort of abandoned trailer. The air smells of mold and rot, and he can hear water dripping somewhere nearby.

He tries to sit up, but a sharp pain shoots through his shoulder, and he winces, falling back down. "What happened?" he croaks, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Where am I?"

There's a long silence before a voice answers, "You're in our place now, fucker. Don't worry about that." The voice is calm, almost reassuring, but there's an undercurrent of menace to it that sends a shiver down his spine.

We are going to administer this drug, when it has taken hold, you will undergo an attitude adjustment, to make you fit in with the crew. It's just a little thing we have to do to make sure you stay here with us." Chrispin tries to struggle against his bonds, but it's no use. He feels a needle prick his arm, and moments later, a wave of dizziness washes over him.

The drug takes hold, and he feels his entire body go limp. His mind starts to cloud over, and he loses all sense of time and place. He feels like he's floating, disconnected from his body. The foreman leans in close, his breath hot against his ear.

"This is just the beginning. From now on, you belong to us. You're going to be one of us. You understand?" The businessman tries to nod, but his body feels too heavy to move. "Good. Now, let's see if we can get rid of your smarts."

the foreman calls one of the worker forward, bring the electrodes and a table. "Now, let's see what you remember." he says with a sickly smile. "This won't hurt, it's just a little”. He laughs.

He straps him to the table, his arms and legs spread wide. A worker connects the electrodes to his body, one to his groin, one to his chest, and a set to his head. He feels a tingling sensation as the current begins to flow through his body.

"You're a smart one, aren't you?" the foreman taunts. "Well, let's see how smart you are after this little shock therapy." He adjusts the dial on the machine, and the current intensifies. His body convulses violently as the pain shoots through him. His vision blurs, and he feels like he's about to black out.

"Remember, this is just the beginning," the foreman says, his voice distant and echoing. "You belong to us now. You're one of us. You understand?" The tingling sensation in his groin intensifies, sending a wave of shame and humiliation through the businessman.

He tries to nod, but his body won't move. He feels like he's trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape the pain and the degradation. The current surges through him, making his muscles spasm uncontrollably. His vision blurs, and for a moment, he thinks he sees flashes of his old life: his wife, his kids, his comfortable home. But then it's gone, replaced by the grimy walls of the trailer  and the cruel smiles of his captors.

The foreman watches, his expression unreadable. "That's it,  Just let go. You don't need that smart stuff anymore." He turns to the worker who's been watching the machine. "Time for another round."

He feels his body convulse again, as if every muscle is being forced to contract at once. He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper. He can't move, he can't think, he can't feel anything but pain. The current surges through him, and he's sure this time his heart will stop.

But it doesn't. Instead, he feels himself going limp again, the drug taking hold once more. He tries to fight it, to resist the numbing effects, but it's no use. His vision blurs, and he can barely make out the figures of the foreman and the worker standing over him.

The foreman smiles down at him. "That's better. Now you're starting to get it." He pats the man's cheek, gently, almost affectionately. "You belong to us now. You're one of my boys, my crew. You understand?"

The worker who is in the room nods, adjusting the dial on the machine. "Yeah, he's one of us now." He grins, revealing a gold tooth. "No more thinking, just following orders."

The procedure was repeated way into the night. Crispin felt like his body was nothing more than a puppet, being controlled by the machine and his captors. He lost count of how many times he was subjected to the shocks and the drugs. The pain and humiliation became a constant background noise, drowning out any hope of resistance or escape.

Eventually, they let him collapse onto a filthy mattress on the floor. He felt like he was floating, detached from his own body. His mind was a haze of pain and confusion. He tried to close his eyes, to find some semblance of peace, but every time he drifted off, he was jolted awake by the sound of the machine or the rough hands of his captors.

The foreman knelt down beside him, his face inches from the businessman's. "You know, it's not so bad here. Once you learn your place, you'll be one of us. You'll see." He patted the businessman's cheek, gently but firmly. "Now, why don't you get some rest? Tomorrow's going to be another long day."

He felt himself nodding dully, his body too exhausted to resist. As he drifted off, he could hear the machine humming in the background, the sound of his captors moving around the trailer. He tried to cling to the thought that maybe it wasn't so bad here, that he could learn to live with this new life. But deep down, he knew that every part of him was screaming in protest.

The next morning the foreman approached him to ask him some questions to see how the conditioning had gone.

"What's your name, cunt?"

the man opened his eyes, struggling to focus on the man's face. "I... I don't remember." He winced, as if even speaking caused him pain.

"That's all right," the foreman said, smiling. "Here, let me help you with that." He turned to one of the workers, who handed him a clipboard. "His name's... let me see..." The foreman scanned the paper on the clipboard. "Ah, yes.

His name's now 'Cog'. Like the machine you've been hooked up to. He's a good worker, Cog. He understands his place. You're going to fit right in here." He patted the businessman's shoulder, almost affectionately. "Now, how about we get you up and moving? There's work to be done."

one of the workers took Cog's arm and helped him to his feet. He felt dizzy and unsteady, but he followed the worker's lead. they headed to a shed, where the worker ordered Cog, to put on the work gear. Inside, there were rows of filthy hi viz, all hanging from hooks on the wall.

He picked one out and helped Cog put it on. then came a set of dirty well used rubber boots.

Next Cog was taken to a room where his hair was buzzed off and then wet shaved. Finally, he was led outside to meet the foreman.

"Well, Cog," the foreman said, clapping him on the shoulder, "welcome to your new home. how do you feel now?

"Fuckin Good," Cog replied, his voice still raspy from disuse. "I... I think I'm ready to work, and follow orders."

The foreman smiled and clapped him on the shoulder again. "That's what I like to hear. Follow me, and I'll show you where to go." They set off through the building site, the other workers nodding in acknowledgment as they passed.

Cog followed the foreman to a large construction vehicle, where a group of workers were already gathered. The foreman introduced him to the group, explaining that Cog was their newest recruit. The workers smiled and welcomed him, clapping him cigarette-stained hands. The foreman then assigned him a task, helping one of the workers with a pile of bricks. Cog nodded, feeling a sense of purpose and belonging for the first time since his transformation.

Weeks went by, and cog became one of the crew. He woke up every morning in the same cold, damp bed in the trailer. The sound of the machines humming outside lulled him back to sleep every night. He ate the same bland, institutional food from the cafeteria, and he worked on the same construction site, day after day, week after week. But somehow, he didn't mind.

This was his life now. No more thinking for himself, he just did what he was told.

THE JANITOR’S REVENGE : PART 1

Here’s another story I’ve been working on, concerning a cocky young executive…and a burly, dominant maintenance man who is tired of putting up with his shit.  Please let me know your thoughts and suggestions…they would be MUCH appreciated!  Part 2 is coming soon, but needs some tweaking.

For over a century, the Weston Family had controlled on of the country's largest private banks, running it like a private fiefdom an reaping enormous financial gains. The distinguished Mr. Edward James Weston IV and his son, Edward James V, with his newly-minted Harvard MBA, were the epitome of WASP privilege. Both occupied well-appointed offices in the the company's headquarters, popping in and out of the firm on their way from country club, to charity ball, to St. Bart's. Neither was particularly adept at their job, nor blessed with much ambition or business acumen. What both had in spades was their gold-plated surname, their patrician good looks, and their entitled, somewhat arrogant demeanors, developed from lives of ease and wealth. When Weston Bank decided to sell its stake in a local manufacturing concern to a foreign conglomerate, the "Edwards" stood to reap a fortune. The workers at said factories would, as usual, be kicked to the curb and left with decimated pensions and no hope of new jobs. It was a sad story, but all too common in this day and age. A group of laborers, fed up with such callous treatment, decided a change of pace was needed. One evening, Mr. Weston Sr. was grabbed while leaving a gold tournament, and Weston Jr. was knocked out while leaving the apartment of his mistress. Their disappearance resulted in a state-wide manhunt, but neither was ever found. What was discovered were financial irregularities at Weston Bank, including fraud committed at the highest levels. The sale of the factory was quickly called off when the bank collapsed, and the resulting scandal and ill-will toward the Mr. Weston's, soon eclipsed the need to find them. It was just assumed they had fled the country, and the news cycle soon moved on. What was not known to the general public was the true fate of Edward James Weston IV and V. Both men had undergone an intense and rather brutal form of reprogramming...an act of revenge for the generations of heartless capitalism practiced by the Weston family. Both men had been summarily stripped, bound, and crudely shaved. Protesting, screaming, pleading, they were chained in an abandoned warehouse, father facing son, and subjected to the most degrading treatment imaginable. Used and abused for weeks on end, both men's minds were irreparably fucked. Sadistic tattoo artists and piercers were brought in to "practice" on blank canvases. Father and son were fed with a combination of junk foods, cheap vodka, and cigarettes. The Edwards soon sank into a fog of confusion and despair, losing any an all hope of rescue or escape. Many months later, a rough, uncouth, dirty duo appeared on the streets of the city. The scurried around in the late hours of the evening, driving a rusted pickup truck, scavenging for scrap metal and trash to sell at the local salvage yards. Both men were obscenely overweight, and neither looked to have seen a shower in recent memory. With their guttural accents and foul language, passersby who happened upon them steered clear of their presence, often passing to the other side of the street. They were truly the dregs of society, two cretins who had nothing...no status, no money, no intelligence. They were the lowest of the low. No one would suspect that they had once been Mr. Edward James Weston IV and his golden-boy son.

THE JANITOR’S REVENGE : PART 1

Here’s another story I’ve been working on, concerning a cocky young executive…and a burly, dominant maintenance man who is tired of putting up with his shit.  Please let me know your thoughts and suggestions…they would be MUCH appreciated!  Part 2 is coming soon, but needs some tweaking.