Humiliation for Hunks

Darryl was too proud to tell his wife he'd lost his job at the law firm. 

When her husband left wearing his suit and tie every morning, Sarah assumed he was still going to the office, meeting with clients, poring over case law, and building his way up to making partner someday. Little did she know the only time he was wearing that professional garb was for his commute to the only place he could still bring home the same kind of money an up-and-coming corporate lawyer was making. That is to say, Darryl was not employed at another law firm, but rather a high-class gay strip club in the next town over where someone with his manly charm and stellar physique received VERY generous tips from the "gentlemen" in attendance.

Of course, Darryl told himself this was all just temporary -- a way to cover expenses while he was between legitimate lines of work. But that plan, Darryl realized, required that no one in his "real life" found out about what he was doing to pay the bills.

For that reason, the DILF stripper almost had a heart attack when he stepped out on stage dressed as the world's sluttiest cowboy and spotted his 19-year-old stepson, Quinn, sitting front and centre among all the other men there to watch him.

Darryl had never been sure if Quinn was really a fag, although he'd called the boy that -- and worse -- many times before. His philosophy was one of "tough love" (minus the "love" part most of the time), believing that lanky, limp-wristed Quinn needed be taught how to "man up" after being raised by a single woman for most of his life.

Darryl kept his hat sitting low on his brow as he started with his usual moves, hoping that the brim and its shadow would hide his features enough that he could remain anonymous. He got through about half of his routine before his nerves got the better of him. He was panicking at the idea that anyone (especially his stepson of all people) would find out that "manly lawyer Darryl" had become nothing more than "slutty boy-toy Darryl" now.

He stumbled backstage, motioning for the next dancer to go on instead. He couldn't do this anymore today -- he'd tell the boss he was sick and get the hell out of there before Quinn could confirm that the male stripper he'd seen selling his body like a piece of meat to an audience of hungry homos was indeed his asshole stepfather.

Nevertheless, the boss man spoke before Darryl could even get a word in edge-wise. "Someone bought a lap dance from you, pretty boy," he said, counting the bills in his hand. "Show him a good time and you can take the rest of the day off."

Maybe fate was smiling on him, giving him a way out without having to get on the boss's bad side. Darryl nodded (even tipping his cowboy hat for added effect) and went over to the curtain the boss man had gestured to.

"Howdy, cowboy!" Quinn exclaimed gleefully as Darryl stepped into the room behind the curtain.

God-fucking-damn it! Of course it had to be Quinn!

Darryl briefly wondered how the 19-year-old boy could afford a private lap dance, remembering now that his stepson had bragged about "making money in crypto" at their last family dinner. At the time, Darryl had made a snide remark about Quinn needing to get a "real job" if he wanted to "make it in the real world" -- although he now realized he should have been paying closer attention to what Quinn had actually been getting up to.

"Hey now, don't get any ideas about leaving," his stepson added, no doubt noticing that Darryl had turned swiftly on his heals upon seeing him. "I think you should get on my good side, unless you want Mom to find out what I've seen here today," he continued, holding his phone to snap a picture of his DILFy stepdad in his ridiculous-looking cowboy costume.

Darryl sighed in defeat, eyes downcast and unwilling to look up at the 19-year-old boy leaning back coolly while confidently man-spreading in the seat in front of him.

"What... what do you want, Quinn?" Darryl asked, glancing up hesitantly at the teenager grinning contentedly back at him.

"I want the dance I paid for, hot stuff," Quinn replied, patting his lap playfully.

With a groan of exasperation, Darryl reluctantly stepped towards Quinn, starting to move his body seductively in front of his teenage stepson.

"Come on, stud, I don't bite," Quinn said, patting his lap again as a sign he wanted Darryl to come into a much more intimate space.

Cursing under his breath, Darryl closed the gap between them, gyrating right in the lap of the kid he'd been an asshole stepfather to for years.

"So, in case you're wondering, 'Dad'," Quinn began, using a mocking tone for the final word. "Here's how it gonna be if you want me to keep your little secret."

Darryl dreaded what Quinn was going to say next, but he remained stone-faced, not wanting to let the teenage twink know just how intimidated he truly was.

"This kind of thing," the younger man said, gesturing to the slutty get-up Darryl was wearing, "It's your 'uniform' now any time Mom's not around, got it?"

Darryl felt sick hearing his stepson's first condition. He felt stupid enough wearing these outfits in the strip club itself -- and wearing them anywhere else would not even afford him the comfort of it being a "normal" thing to wear in that environment, either.

Still, Darryl said nothing, continuing the lap dance and waiting to hear what else Quinn was going to say.

"And I mean ANY time," Quinn added, reaching down to adjust the surprisingly large tent forming in his pants. "That includes when my friends are over, got it?"

If Darryl had been having a hard time imagining being dressed like a man-servant at home in front of just his stepson, the idea of doing it in front of OTHERS was a bridge too far. He knew Quinn's "friends" and they were all just like him -- the kind of scrawny little fairies Darryl had spent his own adolescence beating the shit out of. Parading around like a man-whore selling his body in front of them would mean flipping his whole world on its head.

Darryl stopped the dance entirely, now actually meeting Quinn's gaze.

"No," he stated in his gruff, manly voice. "No fucking way, kid," he spat, puffing out his chest and rolling back his shoulders to try and make himself look more intimidating.

Unfortunately for Darryl, his attempt to seem more "manly" had the opposite effect, as the huge tent that had formed in the crotch of Quinn's pants throbbed noticeably in response to his display.

"Cool, well, let me just call Mom..." Quinn said casually, pulling his phone back out and starting to flip through his contacts.

Darryl quickly weighed his options. He could tell Quinn to fuck off and, as a result, run the risk of completing losing the respect of his wife and everyone else this information would leak out to. Or, he could keep the kid happy and keep this all a secret.

"Fuck it," Darryl said in exasperation. "Fine, fine... Whatever you say."

Quinn smirked at the half-naked DILF in front of him, no doubt feeling like he'd won the first power struggle of the new reality between them. "Good boy," he said, causing Darryl to bristle (but bite his tongue, nevertheless).

Then, in a particularly bold move, Quinn reached out and brought his stepfather's hand to the monster throbbing in his pants.

"Maybe you can think of some other ways to convince me to keep your secret," he said simply.

Darryl was doubly shocked by this. 

First, he'd never imagined that this scrawny little twerp could possibly be hung like a horse. This was yet another way in which Quinn had just succeeded at emasculating him as the DILF knew that -- despite the hairy, toned, manly body he could sell to the patrons of the strip club -- one place he himself was sorely lacking was between the legs.

Second, the boldness of what his stepson had done had him unsure of how to react. Technically, the club had a "no touching" policy. Any other time a man in that seat had broken that rule, Darryl had immediately said the session was over and left the room to report the situation to his boss. However, this was different. He couldn't march out of here, or really do anything that would displease the kid sitting in front of him. Quinn had him over a fucking barrel.

"Fuck... that thing is fucking huge," Darryl finally said, almost in awe, his choice of words surprising even him.

Still holding his stepfather's hand in place, Quinn started to guide it along the length of his throbbing manhood.

"You know, 'Dad'," he said, again using that mocking tone on the final word. "Mom's not gonna be home for a few hours."

With his other hand, Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. From it, he took several hundred dollar bills (more of the proceeds of that "crypto trading" he'd alluded to, no doubt) and stuffed them into the waistband of Darryl's slutty-looking sparkly blue underwear.

Darryl considered the situation that was presenting itself. His stepson was apparently making money hand over fist -- giving Darryl a possible way to cut back on his hours at the club and better keep his reputation intact. 

Standing up and pushing past Darryl to walk over to the curtain, Quinn looked back and offered his stepfather some parting words.

Aaron had originally hoped to be a “fitness influencer.” After all, he was easy on the eyes and spent more time in the gym than out of it — why shouldn’t he be able to profit off of the good genes his parents had given him and the body he’d earned through countless hours of pumping iron?

Unfortunately for Aaron, there was a snag in his plan: hot guys with hot bodies providing workout advice on Instagram and YouTube were a dime a dozen. He quickly realized he needed a way to break through the noise. Looking closely at which of his videos were getting the most views — and realizing that they all contained his package flopping around in some way, albeit not intentionally at that point — it dawned on him: his “target audience” wasn’t really people trying to get fit. Instead, the people who were watching the ads before his videos and consuming his sponsored content were just the perverts who wanted to see an already-fit guy put on a show for them.

Needless to say, it didn’t take long for Aaron’s content to start catering towards his viewers. Less and less clothing was worn until eventually he took the inevitable dive from “legitimate” platforms to a more illicit one: OnlyFans.

Unsurprisingly, his content blew up almost immediately on the subscription-only, adult-oriented platform. His totally naked workouts — especially the ones where he let his one-eyed snake flop around obscenely for everyone to gawk at — were a huge hit! Aaron was making money hand over fist thanks to his OnlyFans  subscribers alone.

Still, while Aaron was not surprised that a gym-fit stud like he was could amass a fan base of voyeurs hungry to objectify his body in every way they could, what did surprise him were the comments and requests he started getting.

Based on what almost everyone was saying in the comments section of his content and his DMs, it quickly became clear that his fan base wasn’t just composed of voyeuristic men who liked seeing a hot himbo show his body off. Instead, it seemed that it was composed of primarily sadistic men who wanted to see a hot himbo show them his body in pain.

When he started losing subscribers almost as fast as he originally got them, Aaron had no choice but to cave and start giving the people what they wanted.

He started off the video like normal: naked jump rope for every watching. However, to “up the intensity,” instead of trying to increase speed or add in ankle weights or anything like that, Aaron instead attached a weight to his genitals and started to skip again, each jump causing him to wince in agony.

But he didn’t stop there. He attached another and another and another until he could barely move from the pain they were causing him. Tears were running down his face as he choked out his usual sign off: “Thanks for watching, guys.”

The reaction to the video was much greater than Aaron had expected. The tips poured in like rain. Subscribers returned in droves. He even heard gifs of his “weighted jump rope” exercise were making their way across all the adult-oriented social media like wildfire.

Of course, Aaron reacted to this turn of events with as much apprehension as relief. This, after all, was only the start. He’d have to think of ways to keep upping the ante — to give the people what they wanted.

They didn’t want a “fitness influencer.” He never was one and never would be one now. He broke through the noise and found a steady flow of income by doing something no one else would do.

When Aiden approached John with the photos that showed he knew the older man was cheating on his wife, John assumed the 18-year-old neighbour boy was looking for a payout.

The photos showed undeniable proof that John had been fucking not only his secretary, but also his wife's best friend -- and that he'd done the deed with both of them on the pool deck in the backyard of his family home. John had thought the area was totally private, not having realized just how well you could see the whole area from Aiden's bedroom window next door.

John would do anything to keep this a secret. Not only did he love his wife -- despite his indiscretions -- but he knew his continued political career depended on being able to present himself as a "good Christian family man" and not a soon-to-be divorcé who'd cheated on his wife multiple times.

John was already thinking of a number to offer Aiden when the teenager spoke. "I don't want money, John" he said calmly, a confident grin forming on his face. It was the first time he'd called the older man by his first name instead of "Mr. Stuart."

John cocked his head, surprised both by his teenage neighbour's statement and his newfound boldness. Just what was Aiden getting at?

Aiden's eyes scanned up and down John's body, sizing him up appreciatively. "I want you," he said with the same calm confidence as before.

John knitted his brow. "You want..." he began unsteadily, obviously confused by the much younger Aiden's statement. "You want... me...?" he said in response, not sure he'd even heard correctly.

"Let me make it clearer," Aiden said, smirking and chuckling. "I want your ass, John."

The older man's eyebrows shot up in shock. This kid wasn't serious, was he?

Apparently, he was.

"I want both your holes, actually," he continued, looking John up and down again. "But I want to start by ripping open that tight little ass you've been wagging down here."

John was stunned, searching for words, having no clue how to respond to something he wouldn't have ever expected his teenage neighbour to say.

"And I want to do it right here," he added, motioning to the pool deck on which he'd photographed John cheating on his wife. "I want to fuck you silly like you did with the sluts you brought here."

"I, uh, wha... what do you..." John stammered, still totally caught off-guard by what Aiden had been saying.

"Take off your clothes and get in the pool," Aiden said, his smile gone and now replaced by a dead-serious leer. "Or those photos are going straight to Mrs. Stuart."

John swallowed nervously, unsure about how to proceed. But Aiden didn't wait a second, pulling off his shirt to reveal a lithe, tan torso before unzipping his pants and lowering them to the ground. John swallowed even harder when he saw what flopped out from Aiden's boxer shorts: a massive member that, even soft, was easily twice the size of his own cock was when rock-hard.

Finally realizing that the much younger man was serious about this, John tried to speak again, "Listen, uh, Aiden, I have money..." he said, his eyes glued to the imposing snake swinging between the teenager's legs. "You, uh, must need money for... uh... college... uh... tuition this fall... right?" he said desperately, tearing his eyes away from Aiden's crotch to meet his eyes again.

"I said: take off your clothes and get in the pool," Aiden snapped back, irritation clear in his voice. "This isn't a negotiation."

John could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. This was really happening. This is really what he had to do to save not only his marriage, but his career.

Eyes downcast, John started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his well-muscled torso. Even in middle-age, he had so far managed to avoid "dad bod," still even keeping a hint of the prominent abs he'd had when he was younger.

Aiden started to walk around him in a circle, sizing him up from every angle. "Come on," he said firmly. "Pants too."

Still staring at the ground -- trying to pretend this wasn't happening -- John unbuckled his belt and looped his thumbs through the waistbands of his pants and briefs, pulling both of them down. He stepped out of the pile of clothes at his feet, moving to cover his crotch with his hands.

Aiden didn't seem to notice or care the John was covering up his cock and balls, with the younger man having eyes for only one thing: the perky posterior he'd spotted on display from his bedroom window when John had fucked all his sluts out in the open here.

He stepped up behind John, cupping his ass cheeks in his hands and letting his semi-hard dick brush up against the crevice between them. John shivered at the touch, but knew better than to pull away.

"Get in the pool, slut," he whispered directly into the older man's ear, pushing him gently forward.

John did as he was told, climbing into the pool. Looking up at Aiden, he saw his teenage neighbour squirting lube onto his almost-hard cock. Seeing John looking up at him, Aiden smirked as he proudly stroked his now-9" member in front of him.

"Hope you're ready for this," Aiden said with a wink.

He climbed into the pool, making sure he stayed in an area shallow enough that the lube didn't get washed off his throbbing-hard cock.

"Okay, slut, lean over the edge there for me," Aiden instructed, pointing to exactly where he wanted John to be.

He moved right behind the older man, rubbing his pulsing member between John's tight, toned ass cheeks. "Now, look up and to your right," Aiden instructed, leaning in so his cock pressed firmly against John and he could speak in a whisper to him.

As the middle-aged man's eyes searched the space he was told to look at, Aiden added, "That's my bedroom window up there, you know?"

John squinted, making out what looked like something sitting on tripod in the window before Aiden confirmed his suspicions. 

"Smile for the camera, slut," the teenage blackmailer said with a chuckle.

John closed his eyes in a silent prayer as a new horror dawned on him. He'd lose his marriage for sure if his wife saw the photos of the affairs -- but he'd lose EVERYTHING if footage of him giving up as his ass to the neighbour's teenage son somehow --

-- Not wanting to waste any more time, Aiden rammed himself into John's virgin asshole before John could even finish his thought. Hearing the much older man yelp in pain as he penetrated his tight little twat, Aiden felt his member swell up to its full 10-inches inside him.

Finding himself on his back, legs spread wide open, and about to take a third load from the man who was pummelling his hole like there was no tomorrow, it was hard to believe that Henry was supposed to be getting married to a member of the opposite sex this weekend.

Worse yet, the man who seemed intent on shooting his next load as deep into Henry's guts as possible was his fiancée's gay younger brother.

This wasn't the way things were supposed to go. Henry was supposed to marry a nice girl, settle down, get a little place in the suburbs and raise 2.5 kids while their dog ran around in a yard surrounded by a white picket fence.

But somehow, one thing had led to another when Greg was the only one left at his bachelor party...

Before he knew it, Henry started flirting back.

Before he knew it, Henry leaned in for a kiss.

Before he knew it, Henry was down on his knees.

Before he knew it, Henry was on his back with nine thick inches of cock splitting the formerly "straight" stud in two.

Looking up in wonder at the man who was supposed to be his brother-in-law, Henry knew he'd have to call the wedding off. After all, he could only see one future for himself now and it didn't involve any of the images of respectable manhood he'd previously envisioned.

Instead of being a husband, he'd be a whore. 

Instead of being a father, he'd be a faggot. 

Instead of being a dog-owner, he'd be the dog begging every real man for a bone for the rest of his days.

Bring Your Kid to Work Day

Not only was Timmy’s image of his father totally destroyed in the moment the announcer had welcomed "Dirk the DILF" to the stage, but something else dawned on him in the same instant: if word got out among his classmates of what his dad did for work, he knew that the “Tough Guy Tim” image he’d worked so hard to cultivate would be shattered.

Almost as though someone had heard that thought passing through Timmy’s head, it only took a second for a familiar voice to let him know how quickly that his new fear of irreparable reputational damage could become a reality: “Tim? That you?”

Timmy froze, hoping that, if he didn't turn around, then he could just slip out the back before whoever thought they recognized him could confirm it.

"Tim, hey! It's me, Freddy," the familiar voice continued, reaching out and grabbing hold of Timmy's shoulder to make sure he couldn't ignore him anymore.

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Of course it had to be "Freddy the Fairy" who spotted him here. Given how frequently Timmy had bullied this limp-wristed faggot, he had a strong suspicion that Freddy wouldn't hesitate to spread some reputation-destroying information among everyone at their high school.

"Uh, hey, Freddy..." Timmy said hesitantly, still not looking his classmate in the face as he tried to think of a way to explain his presence here without letting it slip that his own father was the one who'd just been shaking his ass in a skimpy little g-string on stage.

"So, I guess we have some common interests," Freddy said, clearly thinking that Timmy had come here to enjoy the show. That would explain why Freddy seemed pleased to see someone he normally recoiled in fear from: he evidently thought that he'd just discovered that Timmy was secretly as gay as he was.

While Timmy could have -- and probably should have -- used that as a cover story, he didn't think through his instinctive response: "Oh, fuck off! I'm not a fruitcake like you are you little --"

Timmy was cut off by another familiar voice coming from behind him. While not speaking to him this time, just hearing what it said was enough to knock him off-kilter.

"Hey there, hot stuff," his dad said, apparently speaking to Freddy. Noticing Timmy standing next to his #1 fan, Dirk added, "Oh, great, I see you've already met my son."

Timmy went bright red, a reaction caused in equal parts by humiliation and by rage.

"What the fuck, Dad?!" Timmy spat. "What is all this?!" he continued, gesturing at the sleazy male strip club around him. "And why the fuck are you calling Freddy the Fairy 'hot stuff'?!"

Dirk's face made an expression Timmy was familiar with: it was the one he'd worn when he'd told Timmy he and his mother were getting a divorce, when he'd told Timmy they couldn't take a summer vacation, and when he'd told Timmy he couldn't afford to send him to college next year. Normally, it was a gentle, fatherly look that helped to put his son at ease -- although, given that his dad was still wearing a g-strip with dollar bills sticking out of it, it was hard for Timmy to feel "reassured" by someone who looked like a cheap man-whore.

"Oh, wow, Timmy... I'm sorry," he started, putting a hand on his son's shoulder. "It's just, well... I thought you knew this is what I did for work."

Timmy's mind played back all the things his dad had said and done since getting a "job at the club" on the outskirts of town. The clues were all there, he realized now -- he'd just chosen to ignore the obvious because of what it would mean.

"And, well, I don't want to drop too many bombshells on you at once, but..." Dirk looked to Freddy and then back to his son. "Well... Freddy here is my boyfriend, son."

Timmy's jaw dropped. This was too much. It was bad enough to think that his dad would let all of those men grab and grope at his body for money, but this?! He'd just revealed to his son that he was DATING the weak twerp Timmy had terrorized for years.

"Listen, I'll give you some time to process that," Dirk said, looking to see where his fellow stripper was in his own routine on stage. "I gotta get back up there in a minute, so we can talk afterwards."

Stepping over to Freddy, Dirk continued (now in a sultry, seductive tone), "And I'll see you afterwards too."

It would have been hard for Timmy to see his father kissing another man -- but what actually happened was even worse than that. Freddy took Dirk's head in one hand and pressed the DILF's mouth forcefully into his own, his tongue obviously invading the older man's orifice as soon as they connected. Dirk eagerly allowed it happen, obviously enjoying submitting to whatever Freddy wanted to do to him. As though that weren't enough, Freddy's other hand reached around and gropingly manhandled Dirk's bare butt all the while.

The body language spoke volumes: twinky little Freddy was "the man" here, while Timmy's dad was nothing more than a fucktoy himbo.

Freddy gave Dirk's ass a firm slap as the older man turned to start walking away, his eyes then glued to those two beefy globes until he turned the corner to go backstage.

"So, uh, 'Timmy'," Freddy said, dropping the "Tim" moniker that his bully had used to make himself seem more manly than his given name of "Timmy" suggested. "I have a feeling things are gonna be different from now on."

Timmy felt sick. He'd just learned that the faggy kid he'd been pummelling with his fists was now going to be pummelling his own butt-slut father with his twink cock from here on out. How was he supposed to handle any of this?

"But, uh, hey, how about this," Freddy said, putting a sympathetic hand on Timmy's shoulder in an imitation of the fatherly gesture his dad had used on him only a moment ago. "I've been getting pretty sick of Dirk telling me we have to 'keep it down' when I'm plowing into his muscle-cunt on the other side of your bedroom wall. So, I'll keep quiet about all of this," he said, gesturing around him, "if you let me and your dad make all the noise we want at your place, hmm?"

As Dirk the DILF returned to the stage, Timmy swallowed hard and nodded in agreement to the conditions Freddy had just set. His reputation was all he had and he'd do anything to preserve it.

“Your country needs you.”

When Lt. Stevens heard those words, he didn’t hesitate to say he’d do whatever was necessary to serve his country.

"Hey, you mind if I drop this?"

Rex flashed his million-dollar smile as he asked the question, not really waiting for Terry's reply before he undid the towel and let it fall to the floor. Those pearly whites stayed on display as Rex stood there, acting as though it was the most normal thing in the world to totally expose himself to his new dorm-mate the very first time he was meeting him.

Internally, Rex was horrified by what he was doing -- not that anyone would ever suspect such a thing while he wore that confident look on his face, of course. The science students who'd "rewired" Rex's brain yesterday had been very intentional about how it all worked, making sure that Rex's true consciousness stayed present even when his body was following quite a different set of newly-implanted commands.

It was really too bad that Terry never got to meet the real Rex. If he'd just moved in 24 hours prior, he would have seen what those science students spotted yesterday: a bully who'd never learned his lesson, a conservative Republican who was happy to spread hate, and a frat-boy-in-the-making ready to roofie some drinks if that's what he had to do to pound all the pussy he knew he deserved.

Yet, before anyone got a chance to meet that Rex, a group of well-meaning scientists-in-training came to the rescue, nabbing the beautiful bastard and hooking him up to their neural redesign matrix before he'd figured out what was going on.

Now, Terry watched as his newly-exhibitionist roommate strode out into the middle of their dorm room, stretching when he got there, apparently trying to make sure Terry got an even better look at his manly and well-muscled physique from additional angles.

A very run-of-the-mill and ordinary guy, Terry tried to make sense of what was going on. He knew college was going to introduce him to some pretty "out there" kinds of people... And he supposed if he had a body as nice as Rex's (instead of the very average form he currently kept beneath several layers of clothing), he might be inclined to show it off a bit more too, right...?

"Uh, okay, uh... yeah, sure, bro..." Terry awkwardly choked out, never having been very good at social situations. "I mean, hey, I guess I'd want to show off too if I had what you have," he said unsteadily, gesturing awkwardly to everything Rex had on display.

"Oh, yeah?" Rex asked cheekily, obviously goading his roommate to say more about his body.

"Oh, umm, I mean, like..." Terry trailed off, uncomfortably looking at and then away from Rex's one man show. He didn't know what to say, really. As a fairly awkward guy in general, Terry had never had many male friends... Just what did men say about each other's bodies without sounding gay?

"I mean, you've got a great cock," Terry blurted out, regretting it immediately when he said it. He'd been trying to think of something "normal sounding" to say and instead just put his foot in his mouth by commenting on the most sexual thing he could.

To his surprise, Rex was unfazed. "Yeah, thanks, but you should just ignore it," Rex stated matter-of-factly, walking past Terry and over to his side of the room. "I'm a gay total bottom."

It was at that point that Terry noticed the metallic object sitting on Rex's nightstand -- an apparent penis-prison he held up for Terry to see. "I just take this off for cleaning about once a week, but otherwise it's 100% 'out of sight, out of mind' for this little guy," he said good-naturedly as he slipped the base ring for his cage into place behind his balls.

"Shit... uh, wow..." Terry said, genuinely at a loss for words. Was this guy serious? It was one thing for him to be a nudist or whatever, but this was quickly veering into "total pervert" territory.

"That doesn't bother you, right?" Rex asked casually as he clicked the tube section of his chastity cage into place, nonchalantly rendering his dick totally useless right in front of his new roommate. 

"Umm, well, I'm not, like... I'm not homophobic or anything, but..." Terry stuttered out, trying to think of a way to gracefully extricate himself from this situation and race down to the Student Services office to request an urgent room reassignment.

"Awesome," Rex said, flashing his winning smile yet again. "Well, maybe you can hold on to the key for me then?"

"Oh, uh, I think we both get our own room keys..." Terry said, looking to the door and back as though that would tell him something about how many keys they needed.

Rex laughed like Terry had said the funniest thing in the world. It was a full-throated and warm laugh -- one that, Terry was sure, must have seemed charming to any girls... err, any guys that Rex would flirt with.

"Nah, I mean the key for my cage," Rex said with a bit of a chuckle still in his voice. "Like I said, I just forget about this little guy," he said, reaching down and flopping his pathetic-looking caged cock around obscenely. "So, maybe you could be in charge of the key for me?"

"Uh... no, uh, thanks..." Terry said, somehow feeling even more uncomfortable than he had before. It was bad enough when Rex just seemed like an exhibitionist who needed someone to watch him act like a depraved perv, but now he was asking Terry to be involved with this somehow? Terry considered himself to be accommodating and open-minded, but it was a firm "fuck no" from him on this one.

"Hey, no worries, bro," Rex replied with a dismissive shrug. "I'm saving up to get a cage that doesn't need to come off for cleaning, so the whole key issue isn't going to matter much in a few weeks."

"Uh, great..." Terry muttered uncomfortably, learning much more about the intricacies of permanent chastity than he'd ever wanted to. "You know, I need to get going," he said, giving up on trying to think of an excuse to leave, just wanting to get the fuck out of this room now.

"Oh, right, you probably need to go grab your stuff!" Rex said, that charming smile still on his face. "Let me throw on some shorts and I'll help you carry your boxes or whatever."

At that, Rex turned around and bent over right in front of Terry. Before his roommate could look away and avert his gaze, his eyes landed on something other than what he'd expected to see. Rather than Rex's manhole winking back at him, the wide and thick base of a buttplug stuck out between Rex's well-muscled cheeks.

Turning back around, Rex stepped into the garment he'd pulled from his drawer, with Terry thinking that his roommate made some kind of mistake.

In what world were those "shorts"? The underwear Terry had on under his pants covered more than that skimpy get-up did -- to say nothing of how the combination of sheer white material and clingy spandex left nothing to the imagination when Rex got them on (with every curve of his body and ridge of his chastity cage totally visible even when "clothed" in this way).

"Uh, thanks, but, uh..." Terry awkwardly choked out. "I'll just do it myself, thanks."

"Cool, whatever you say," Rex said, seemingly unfazed by Terry's abundantly apparent discomfort. He took a couple steps over to their dorm room window, looking out at the quad just beyond it. "Well, it's a beautiful day, so I'm gonna head out for a run," he added, putting on the only other thing he'd be wearing on his body as he jogged around campus: an arm band to hold his phone and room key.

"Right, great..." Terry said, waiting for Rex to leave first (as he didn't even want to be seen walking next to someone who looked like such a perverted exhibitionist in that "outfit").

"Oh, before I forget," Rex said, starting to step towards the door. "All my clothes are in there," he said, pointing only to the nightstand. "All my dildos are all in the wardrobe over there," he added, gesturing to where clothes would normally be kept. "And all my BDSM stuff is in the desk drawers."

Terry was, once again, at a loss for words -- and now he was counting the seconds until he could get down to the Student Services office and get himself away from this depraved slut for good.

"But all the other side of the room is yours," Rex concluded, flashing his winning smile and stepping out to take his run -- after he made one important pitstop on the way, that is.

***

Back at the lab, Rex was strapped into the neural redesign matrix once more. His eyes pleaded desperately to be let go, but the rest of him remained paralyzed as the science students reviewed the footage from the camera he'd set up in his room and read over the brain scan results from the first 24 hours.

"Looks like his brain accepted most of the new networks," a chubby redhead sitting next to Rex said as he looked over the numbers in front of him.

"Yeah, but we need to find a way to get the sex-specific ones to activate," a tall twink with thick glasses said as he studied the information on his own screen. "We got him to expose and humiliate himself, but he didn't even offer once to blow his roommate."

"Fair, fair..." the redhead replied. "His aversion to sex with men must be a lot higher than we'd originally thought."

"Exactly," the third member of their group -- a short, pale blond -- added. "He should have been begging to get DP'd from both ends today, based on everything we dumped in his brain yesterday, but he won't go further than taking a buttplug up his muscle-cunt."

"Well, let's just try upping his libido somewhere between 400 and 500% and see if that does the trick?" the tall twink asked, tweaking some numbers on the device attached to Rex's head. "His 'permanent chastity' neutral networking took, so he's bound to start using his holes a lot more if we do that."

"Hmm, I'm still not totally pleased with it," the pale blond science student said hesitantly. "But, you're right, it should get him asking other men to fuck the living daylights out of his man-cunt sooner rather than later."

The ad Daniel saw didn’t exactly describe his ideal job: “WORKSHOP MODEL NEEDED ASAP - must be comfortable with nudity and adult content.”

Daniel was not particularly "comfortable with nudity" and, being a Christian father of three, "adult content" also wasn't something he usually condoned of. Still, money was tight and the pay they were offering for this position was incredible -- he even wondered if he could squeeze a few more dollars out of them since a "workshop model" was apparently needed so urgently.

When he called the man named "Alan" listed in the ad, a young-sounding guy picked up on the first ring. Saying he was interested in the "workshop model" position they had advertised -- if they could sweeten the deal with a couple extra hundred thrown on top -- the person on the other end didn't hesitate: "Yes, absolutely, I can make that work. The position's yours if you can be here in 15 minutes."

Daniel wasted no time going to the address he was provided with. To his surprise, the building had a sign saying "Learning Annex" out front -- and the specific suite to which he'd been directed seemed to have an art class in session.

Peaking in the barely-cracked-open door, Daniel saw a group of people painting at their easels in a circle, all of whom seemed to be paying attention to a flabby, old naked man standing on the platform at the centre. From this alone, he figured this must be the position for which he was being hired -- and, while he didn't love the idea of being totally exposed in such a public way, he did feel a bit of thrill at the idea of showing off his athletic physique and meaty package to a crowd of mostly young women. 

He was faithful to his wife, that was for sure. But who didn't like being "noticed" by members of the opposite sex? No doubt these ladies would much prefer to be studying a fine specimen of middle-aged manhood like Daniel over the dumpy-looking geriatric currently in their gazes -- no wonder they were willing to pay so much for another model to take his place ASAP!

"Are you Daniel?" a 20-something young guy in a button-up shirt (presumably the "Alan" he'd spoken to on the phone) asked anxiously as he came to the DILF spying on the class in session.

"Uh, yeah, I'm here for the, uh, modelling," he replied, having decided he would definitely take the job if it meant getting some appreciative attention from some very good-looking ladies in there.

"Oh, thank God," the slender young man said with a sigh as he looked Daniel up and down. "I thought we'd have to cancel tonight -- but you look like you'll be perfect for this!"

Daniel didn't love hearing that from another man -- especially one who seemed like he was probably a flaming homo -- but he was, at least, pleased to know he would be getting the payout and the thrill he'd started to hope this "workshop model" position would give him.

"We don't have much time," Alan continued, setting down a large sack next to him and starting to pull things out. "Here's a robe and a key to employee bathroom. Just leave all your things there and bring the key back to me," he said quickly, shoving the terrycloth garment into Daniel's arms.

Before DILFy Daniel had a chance to ask a question, Alan pointed down the hallway (presumably towards the employee bathroom) and added, "We'll go over the paperwork and any questions you have if there's still time when you get back."

Accepting that time was of the essence, Daniel did as he was bid and made his way to where he'd be sent. He made quick work of peeling off his clothes and setting them in a neat pile on the counter before donning the robe he'd been given. 

Going back out to find Alan again, Daniel saw the door to the suite was now open. He tentatively stepped inside to find the platform now empty and the students casually talking to each other.

"Oh, perfect," Alan said, thrusting a clipboard into Daniel's hands. "Just fill this out and we can get set up."

Noticing an attractive, young brunette sizing him up, Daniel barely looked at the forms he'd just been handed. Aside from making sure he spelled his name correctly and signed in the right places, he didn't bother to read most of it, just circling "N/A" wherever he could to speed up the process and quicken how soon he could show the hot young things in this room why they should be calling him "Daddy."

Absentmindedly passing the clipboard back to Alan, the younger man said, "Okay, I'll just look over your limits and everything if you want to go get comfortable on the platform."

If Daniel had been paying attention to something other than the fine pieces of ass in the room, he probably would have questioned that word Alan had just used: "limits." He probably would have realized that that form was asking about some very important things -- and that circling "N/A" was the worst thing he could have possibly done.

But Daniel was caught up in the moment, mounting the platform and -- with a deep breath to steady his resolve -- throwing off his robe to expose himself fully to everyone present.

The young ladies he'd been eying definitely all responded positively, eyeing Daniel's well-toned DILF bod hungrily. 

But, just when Daniel had convinced himself that this was something he was going to enjoy, Alan said something that surprised him: "Okay, folks, you'll have to clear out of here now so we can get set up."

The on-display Daniel gave Alan a quizzical look as everyone around him started to pack up their stuff. 

Maybe he would be posing for another group of art students? That had to be it. He just hoped that the next bunch would have as many -- if not more -- fine-looking young ladies in the mix.

"Let's get you in position," Alan said, climbing the platform and motioning for Daniel to put his legs on either side of the stool there.

Just as the last of the art students left the room, Alan began to pull a new item out of the bag he had with him. Daniel's eyes bulged when the young man produced what looked like shackles and started to attach them to the naked DILF's left ankle.

"Whoa, uh, is that... is that really necessary?" Daniel asked, a nervous laugh trying to cover how very anxious he felt in that moment.

"We need to make sure you stay in place through everything," Alan said casually, not looking away from what he was doing as he locked a second shackle onto Daniel's other ankle. "And the workshop participants go wild for this aesthetic," he continued, standing up to attach a connected set of shackles to Daniel's arms behind his back.

While feeling very apprehensive -- and suddenly quite aware of how very vulnerable he was (totally bare-ass, alone in a room with a fully-dressed stranger who'd just bound him in place) -- Daniel was willing to accept that Alan's explanation made a certain kind of sense. He would need to stay in place for the students to draw him, sure. And, all right, the shackles seemed a bit excessive, but in if they really made "the workshop participants go wild," maybe he could put up with the cold metal bondage for a few minutes...

Alan went back to rummaging through his bag, speaking absentmindedly to Daniel as he did so.

"You're really such a great find, you know?" he said casually. "Our normal model isn't anywhere near as fit as you are," he continued, seeming to find what he was looking for in his sack. "And all his limits mean that we can never get into the really extreme stuff most of our participants actually want to see."

There was that word again: "limits." This time, Daniel heard it. This time, it worried him. This time, he had to ask just what Alan meant by that.

Unfortunately for Daniel, he'd opened his mouth to speak in the same moment Alan was placing the item he'd just pulled out where it needed to go: a ball-gag right in the middle of the naked-and-bound DILF's mouth which he swiftly tightened in place.

In another moment of exceptionally bad timing, Daniel began his futile grunts of alarm and struggling against his bonds just as the first workshop participant entered the room. In Alan's mind, Daniel was just doing this for "added effect" -- acting the part of the "terrified victim" or playing up the image of a "reluctant submissive" for his audience.

"Is this the gay BDSM workshop?" the twinky newcomer asked, almost licking his lips as he sized up the well-muscled model on whom everything would be demonstrated very soon.

"Yep, you're in the right place!" Alan said causally, unloading more things from his bag and setting them up as more men filed into the room and found seats for themselves. Clearly, everyone had just been waiting for the cue to enter and, hearing Alan's words, were now eagerly filling the room.

Daniel continued to struggle helplessly and grunt in distress, trying to beg anyone to let him out of here. Being served up like a piece of meat to a bunch of fags was a nightmare -- one which was going to get much worse very soon.

"Can we record this?" a heavy-set guy sitting near Daniel asked, already holding up his phone to capture everything.

"Great question!" Alan said, using this as his cue to get started. "Hi, everyone, welcome!" he continued. "You'll be pleased to know that our model tonight has waived any rights to his image, so you can record and post away!"

Daniel went white as a sheet.

Fuck. Fuck! Fuck!!!

He should have read those forms more closely. Whatever happened now -- however invasive and nightmarish it ended up being -- would not just be limited to this moment and this room.

Visions of his totally-naked, shackled body (displayed on a stage in the centre of a group of otherwise casually-dressed gay men) being posted all over the internet flooded his mind. He would never be able to live this down. Everyone -- his friends, his family, his wife -- would see him getting reduced to nothing more than a pain-slut himbo by a scawny-looking fag who was young enough to be his son.

Yet, quickly stealing his focus from that train of thought was the next bombshell Alan dropped: "In some more good news, Daniel here has identified himself as a truly limitless submissive."

There were some sounds of surprise and approval from the audience, this crowd clearly curious to find out just what that meant.

"As you can see," Alan said, running his hand down Daniel's toned torso and then roughly grabbing hold of his his cock and balls. "Our model is very well-endowed."

The hold Alan had on Daniel's balls caused the bound DILF to bite down hard on the ball-gag in his mouth. It wasn't a particularly firm hold, but one which had been taken careless enough to cause an immediate reaction. Daniel's dick and balls were both extremely sensitive -- such that he always told the women he was with that they absolutely needed to be "handled with care."

"So, we'll spend our first hour on CBT," Alan said, releasing Daniel's manhood so that he could retrieve something he'd previously set on the side of the platform.

CBT? Where had Daniel heard that before? It sounded familiar, something he'd heard in a porn, he was sure...

Seeing Alan lift up a croquet mallet, it suddenly -- and horrifyingly -- came to him: "CBT" was "Cock and Ball Torture."

Daniel redoubled his pathetic attempts to beg for help and escape his shackles as Alan sauntered back up in front of him. "Since we had to stop at Level-3 CBT with our model last week, we'll pick up there today."

He mimed swinging the mallet like a golf club, lining it up directly with Daniel's heavy-set, defenceless balls.

"Once we get to Level 5, Daniel's package will be pretty much pulverized, providing an opportunity to move into two additional lessons," Alan said matter-of-factly, still miming the violent attack that was going to take place on Daniel's super-sensitive, totally defenceless genitals any moment now. "We'll go over how to provide effective First Aid when dishing out the most extreme forms of CBT," he continued. "And we'll also cover how this kind of CBT can be a great way to play with your sub's mind and convince him to beg you to keep his naughty bits 'safely' in chastity."

Frank didn’t know why he’d crushed his once-impressive cock into a nub-sized chastity cage and promptly destroyed the key that morning.

He didn’t know why he felt compelled to show the humiliating state of his “manhood” to everyone, either. Even now, relaxing in the steam room at the gym like he had a thousand times before, he couldn’t help himself from unwrapping the towel around his waist and man-spreading widely to make sure every guy there had an unobstructed view of his private shame.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t stop looking at all those men. Ever since the change had come over him, the thoughts he had about his fellow men had become quite different. He wanted them in every way, trying (and soon failing) to resist the urge to beg them to piss in his mouth, to cum down his throat, to fuck him up the ass — and to fist him up there too for good measure.

Frank didn’t know much, but he did know one thing: he shouldn’t have pissed off a hypnotist.

He wondered if there was a way to undo this. He wondered if he could convince the hypnotist he’d learned his lesson — that he deserved to be a free man with free manhood once more.

When he stepped into the living room wearing only a towel, Vince hadn't realized that his roommate was home -- let alone that Randall appeared to be hosting some kind of event, judging by the half dozen other men seated in front of him. He didn't recognize any of them, but they appeared to be uniformly all of the same type: fat, old, ugly, and seemingly fixated on Vince.

"Vince," Randall said, smirking like he knew something his roommate did not. "Can you come here for a second?"

Vince had two reasons to hesitate. The first was that this was the first time all week his roommate had looked at him with something other than a scowl on his face. Randall had been covering Vince's share of the rent for three months now -- something he had been doing on the belief that Vince had fallen on hard times. When Randall discovered earlier that week that Vince had actually been spending his rent money on a pricy gym membership -- alongside everything else that had helped him gradually build his body into a work of art -- suffice it to say that he was none too pleased to have discovered that his apparently self-absorbed roommate had been taking advantage of him all that time.

Secondly -- and most pressing in this moment -- Vince was wearing nothing but a towel in a room full of strangers (all of whom, he noticed now, were eying him up with a definite hunger in their eyes). Did Randall really need him right now?

"Uh, just let me get --"

"It will only take a second," Randall interrupted. "Really."

Reluctantly walking up where his roommate was standing, Vince hardly a moment to gauge the situation before Randall suddenly yanked the towel away from around his waist and casually threw it aside.

"What the fuck?!?" he exclaimed, not yet having processed anything more than the initial shock.

Acting as though he was trying to calm his roommate down, Randall pointed to the laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of him and said something which had quite the opposite effect: "Just look at the camera..."

"Camera! What?!"

Finally putting the pieces together -- and realizing he was now totally exposed not just in front of the strange older men sitting in the room with him, but untold numbers of viewers online -- a feeling of total mortification overtook Vince. Coming to his senses, he quickly attempted to provide himself with some level of modesty by cupping his hands in front of his crotch (something which mattered little to those who would replaying the recording of his exposure later).

"Yeah, you see, Vince," Randall said, smirking even more widely now as he took in the sight of Vince's stellar physique and petrified expression. "I told my friends here about our little predicament," he continued, gesturing to the other men in the room.

Adding more anxiety to an already nightmare-inducing situation, Vince noticed with horror that several of the men had risen to their feet, obscenely rubbing their crotches as the tents within their pants grew -- and grew, and grew, and grew -- in size.

"You've got to prioritize working on that body of yours -- best gym membership, a personal trainer, top-quality protein powders, the best supplements a body can buy..." Randall began, making no effort to hide the way he was sizing up Vince's body like a piece of meat he was about to purchase from a butcher. "You can't possibly pay your share of the rent when you're investing in all that..."

The men in the room were coming closer. Vince knew -- with sudden terror filling him up -- that, despite being big, strong, and manly, he was prey this pack was about to pounce on.

"My friends here, they're gonna help both of us make enough today to cover a year's worth of rent," Randall said, stepping away to make room for a creepy old man fishing a shockingly large cock out of his pants to get closer to Vince.

When Adam woke up with an irresistible urge to shave off his beard, he thought the whole thing was kind of silly. He smirked playfully as he lathered up his skin, telling himself that he'd clearly grown bored of the manly hair covering his face and that he was eager for a change.

However, as Adam washed away the last of the shaving cream from his now-completely-smooth jawline, his smile faltered. It seemed that, as soon as he'd completed his first task, another very insistent thought popped into his head: he had to shave the rest of his body too.

His amused grin now replaced by a confused grimace and a knotted brow, Adam got to work lathering the rest of his body up. Despite wholeheartedly believing that he'd never want to shave himself smooth, he assiduously removed every follicle from his chest, abs, and underarms.

With shock and horror, he even found himself covering his entire crotch with shaving cream, removing every trace of manly hair from his pubes, the base of his cock, and the folds of his nut sac.

Washing off what was left on his body, he couldn't even bring himself to look in the mirror to see the results of what he'd done. What the fuck could have possessed him to shave himself completely smooth like some fucking faggot?

When he stepped out of the bathroom -- still dazed and confused -- his eyes went to an email notification on his phone.

Opening it, he saw that it was an e-ticket for a familiar event: "Dr. Mesmer's Night of Mind Control Madness."

Receiving a ticket for tonight's show immediately struck Adam as odd, since he'd gone to the previous evening's performance. Tickets had been cheap and, to be honest, he'd just bought a couple as an excuse to take out the chick he'd been trying to bang for the past few days.

He thought back on the previous night's performance, realizing that he couldn't quite remember what happened after the show had started... He'd said something out loud after the first few "tricks" were pretty lame, hadn't he? In fact, he remembered outright heckling the hypnotist at one point... right before he was called up on stage?

But what had happened after that? It was all a blank.

Looking at the e-ticket on his device, Adam was made uncomfortable by the memory of the previous night (and the lack thereof). But he was made even more uncomfortable by what felt like an irresistible urge to attend tonight's performance, as well.

To his surprise, as he scrolled down, he saw that the event details were a little different than they'd been before. This one clearly read "18+, ADULTS ONLY" and described the event as containing "mature content."

Adam felt his stomach tie in knots as another irrepressible urge popped into his head: he had to -- HAD TO -- volunteer to go up on stage again tonight.

Closing the email, Adam saw that something else unexpected had arrived in his inbox: a message telling him that his order from a company called "X-Treme Chastity Emporium" had apparently arrived at the front desk of his building.

Things were falling into place in Adam's mind. Hypnosis, it seemed, was much more real than he'd originally believed. "Dr. Mesmer" had apparently arranged for Adam to show up -- and volunteer -- at his "adults only" show tonight already looking like an eager, submissive fag under his normal clothes: shaven everywhere below the neck, with his cock locked in an "extreme" chastity cage before the show even started.

As Gerald unceremoniously groped one of Carson's perky butt cheeks -- under the guise of innocently "applying sunscreen," of course -- he could tell that his roommate was hating every last second of this very public humiliation.

Thinking back on how they'd gotten here, Gerald's smile only grew at Carson's reaction.

Carson was, to put it mildly, an arrogant asshole. From the moment Student Services had randomly assigned them to the same room, Gerald had had to put up with a guy who was much wealthier than he was (Gerald was there on a "financial need" scholarship, while Carson was a "legacy admission"), was hotter than he was (not that Gerald was unattractive, but he just couldn't compete with a total 10 like Carson), and also insisted on letting everyone know just how rich and good-looking he was.

To make matters worse, Carson's views on everything were deeply conservative -- and he didn't keep that to himself for a second. Gerald quickly decided he wasn't going to reveal his sexuality to his roommate for that reason, given the openly homophobic statements that he'd made without prompting on their first day together in residence. While Gerald could, thankfully, "pass" as straight -- and Carson was too self-involved to notice any of the "tells" Gerald gave -- he resented having to hide who he was (having thought he'd left those days of being in the closet long behind him).

However, as it turned out, Gerald had something on his side that would quickly give him the upper hand over the cocky prick he shared a room with. It was his interest in hypnotism that had inspired Gerald to major in psychology and, after a few lessons on the nature of "knowledge" and "belief" in the brain, he felt comfortable trying out his skills on Carson.

Not the brightest bulb in the box, Carson had easily accepted the "relaxation playlist" Gerald provided him with without a second thought. By the end of the week, a hypersonic message of Gerald's voice had been drilled into the beautiful bastard's head: "You'll believe anything I say."

On Saturday morning, Carson rose groggily from bed, having drunk far too much the previous night. He wore only a loose pair of boxer shorts -- typical nighttime attire.

Upon seeing him, Gerald quickly decided to test out how well the "relaxation playlist" had worked over the previous week. "Hey, big guy, ready for the beach?"

Carson gave his roommate a quizzical look, still a bit drowsy. "Beach...?" he asked uncertainly, scratching his head.

"Yeah, we go to the beach every weekend," Gerald replied, watching Carson's reaction closely.

"Oh... right... Yeah, you're right..." Carson said, confused and uncertain as he spoke. He glanced back towards his dresser and added, "Just, uh, let me get my trunks, bro..."

Gerald was pleased with how this was going so far, but "going to the beach on the weekends" was an easy belief to instil. Why would Carson question it, especially since he was still drowsy from sleep and, in fairness, had gone to the beach with Gerald at least once before?

The psych major decided to test out a stronger "belief" on Carson. "You don't have any swim trunks," he said calmly. "It's a clothing optional beach."

Carson narrowed his eyes, like he was struggling to understand the very words his roommate was speaking. He looked to his dresser, back to Gerald, and then back again before finally saying, "Oh, right..."

"You know, big guy," Gerald continued, emboldened by his apparent success so far, "you don't even wear anything on the trip there."

"I... I don't?" Carson asked, again narrowing his eyes in confusion.

"Nah," Gerald said, taking a step closer and putting a thumb in Carson's waistband. "It's just a short drive there, you know?"

Carson instinctively recoiled from Gerald's intimate touch, roughly pushing his hand away. The psych major had a moment of panic. Maybe the hypnotic command hadn't worked?

"I can take my own shorts off, bro," Carson said bitingly, apparently appalled only by Gerald's touch and not by his words. Although he still seemed a bit confused, Carson wasted no time in lowering his boxers to the ground and stepping out of them.

He stood awkwardly for a minute, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. This wasn't like a locker room where he and a buddy might be talking naked in the shower. No, he was bare-ass and on display while Gerald was still just dressed normally.

"You better let me carry your stuff," Gerald said, pocketing the car keys (among other things) and walking to the door. "Since, you know, you don't have anywhere to put it."

Carson was obviously feeling apprehensive about following his roommate past the threshold to their dorm room. Gerald's statement had definitely underscored how very vulnerable he was in this state -- no clothes, no keys, no wallet, no phone. He looked around the room, almost like he was trying to find an answer to why this all felt so unnatural despite his belief that he did this all the time.

Growing concerned that the thick-headed rich boy was going to figure out what was going on -- at least enough to spoil his fun -- Gerald volunteered another "belief" for Carson: "You're always in such a hurry to get there, you know?"

Blinking as though a bright light had just been shone in his eyes, Carson's attention shot back to Gerald.

"Yeah, shit, what am I doing wasting time?" he said, marching up beside his roommate. "Let's catch some rays!" he continued, now walking ahead.

Carson may have been convinced this was normal -- him walking bare-ass down the halls of their residence building -- but Gerald noticed right away that his instinctive reactions were still there. The arrogant jock had his hands cupped in front of his crotch, trying to preserve some sense of modesty. He even seemed to blush when they walked by their first fellow student.

"Sup," Carson said, trying to act casual.

"Sup," the other guy replied, eyeing up Carson's nudity skeptically, but saying nothing about it.

Much as Gerald had hoped, that guy's reaction was shared by everyone else they walked past. Yes, it was unusual for Carson to be parading around in his birthday suit, but this was college! Who knows what Carson got up to last night or what inane dare his buddies put him up to today? And Carson was selling it, hardly letting his embarrassment show (although Gerald could see the signs of blushes and cold sweats when looked for them).

When the two reached the parking lot, Gerald kept hold of the keys, unlocking the car and hopping in the passenger seat. Why give the keys back to Carson when all that was needed for the car to start was just having the fob inside the vehicle?

Watching the bare-ass Carson climb into the driver's seat beside him, Gerald felt like he could get used to having a chauffeur -- especially one who wore such an appealing "uniform."

"You always let me pick what we listen to," Gerald said as Carson started to pull the car onto road. The cocky jock eyed his roommate suspiciously, but did nothing to stop him as he hooked his phone up to the vehicle's media system.

As Kylie Minogue sang "Padam Padam" through the speakers, Carson gave Gerald the side eye and spat out, "Yo, why are we listening to this gay shit?"

Feeling empowered, Gerald said simply, "Because I'm gay."

Carson took his eyes fully off the road, looking directly over at the man sitting next to him. "Whoa, are you fucking serious?!"

Gerald thought about changing Carson's mind on this one. It would be easy, based on everything he'd accomplished so far. Just a few words saying "You've always been fine my sexuality" or "You've always supported gay rights" or anything like that would probably do it.

But there was something about keeping Carson's personality exactly as it was that appealed to Gerald much more than changing it. After all, where's the fun in hypnotism if not in making someone do things they know they don't really want to do?

"You don't want to talk about this right now," Gerald said, looking out and seeing the lake. "We're almost there."

"What... but you said you're a fa..." Carson said, confused, almost like he was forgetting what he'd been saying a moment ago. "Right, yeah, okay..." he mumbled. "We'll talk about that later, yeah..."

As they pulled into the parking lot, Gerald could tell Carson was growing apprehensive again. The beach wasn't crowded, but there were at least a couple dozen other college students there.

"You, uh... you sure this is a clothing optional beach?" Carson asked as they pulled the car up to the side of the road, no doubt seeing that everyone there was either fully dressed or in a regular swimsuit.

"Well, the clothing optional section is a couple miles down that way," Gerald said, gesturing to the distance as he opened his door to get out. "But we always walk along this part of the beach to get there."

"Ri... right..." Carson replied hesitantly, self-consciously covering his crotch again as he hopped out the driver's side.

All eyes were on the totally naked stud standing in their midst as soon as the two roommates stepped foot on the beach. Thankfully, since they were all college-aged folks as well, they seemed to think the same things those on campus had: this guy either lost his pants in a night of blackout drinking or was getting up to some kind of frat boy shenanigans right now.

Still, in this very public place, the reactions were more apparent, with a lot of the people looking over and gasping or laughing at the bare-ass jock strutting his stuff. Noticing that several of them had pulled out their phones to take a picture, Gerald volunteered another "belief" for Carson: "You never cover your crotch like that."

The well-built bastard let his hands fall to his side, blushing profusely as he became even more exposed in this very public place. He seemed to be trying to find a way to question this -- that couldn't be true, could it? -- when Gerald casually peeled off his shirt and handed Carson the sunscreen.

"You always get my back," he said simply, turning so that his face wouldn't be in the pictures.

"Oh... right, yeah..." Carson said confusedly, squirting some sunscreen onto his hands and awkwardly working it into Gerald's back. With any luck, the photos that came out of this would be even more humiliating than just ones featuring Carson in the nude would be -- instead, they'd featured Carson apparently massaging sunblock onto another man's back, giving everything a "gay vibe" the butt-naked homophobe would be horrified to see.

"And I always get your back too," Gerald added, promptly taking the bottle from Carson and squeezing some sunscreen into his hands.

"Oh... yeah, right, okay..." Carson said with the same confusion, blushing as he turned around and brought his totally-exposed cock and balls back into view of everyone else on the beached. He bristled at Gerald's touch like he had in their room, but didn't pull away this time (apparently "believing" this is what always happened). Gerald gave his roommate's well-muscled back a quick once over before proceeding to openly grope and fondle his bare butt in front of everyone.

"Really gotta get it on good," Gerald said as he publicly manhandled Carson's perky posterior.

"Uhh... yeah, umm, shouldn't we get going down to the clothing optional beach, bro?" Carson asked, obviously extremely uncomfortable with what was happening to him, nervously eyeing the people taking pictures of this public degradation.

"You call me 'Sir'," Gerald said, squeezing Carson's butt, not making any effort to disguise it as the application of sunscreen anymore.

"What?" Carson said, more fear than confusion in his voice.

"You always call me 'Sir' in front of other people," Gerald stated again, treating Carson's butt cheeks like a toy to play with as he spoke. "Because you want them to know I'm your superior."

Carson snapped at that, pulling away from Gerald. He whipped around, his full manly might and strength on display as he glared at his roommate like an animal about to attack.

"'Superior'?! What the FUCK are you talking about, Sir?!" Carson snapped, apparently not noticing how his new title for Gerald had slipped in there.

For all the virility and power Carson was displaying, Gerald couldn't help but smirk. The big guy looked ridiculous, standing there totally bare-ass in public and trying to act all big and manly.

"Well, I mean, think about it," Gerald said, picking his shirt up and putting it back on causally. "You always insist on being totally naked for me, even though I normally stayed fully dressed," Gerald added, gesturing to both of their bodies (and causing a blush to form once more on Carson's face). "You always want to drive me everywhere," he continued, gesturing to Carson's luxury vehicle. "And you always call me 'Sir' when you think someone else might hear you."

"That... well... yeah, that's all true, but... but..." Carson said, going pale now as his world seemed to come crashing down around him. His mind was racing trying to make sense of so much conflicting information.

"You know you've got more money," Gerald said, laying out the facts. "You know you're hotter than I am," he continued. "But you've always believed I'm your superior."

"I... I..." Carson stuttered, the internal conflict too great for him to even form words. He had obviously always thought no one was better than him. With such a deeply held belief in conflict with the new "belief" he'd given the arrogant asshole standing in front of him, Gerald didn't know if this one would stick.

"You know what?" Gerald said, digging something out of his pocket. "Why don't you take some time to think that one over?"

Carson hesitated, clearly uncertain about what to do or say. Thankfully, Gerald had something in mind to keep things moving along as the "belief" that he was Carson's superior wormed its way deeper into the big guy's brain.

Handing Carson's own wallet to him, Gerald continued, "You love buying things for me." He gestured to the concession stand at the edge of the beach, adding, "So, how about you go buy me an ice cream?"

Carson looked at his wallet as though he was seeing it for the first time. He studied the item in his hand, clearly trying to make sense of what he was running through his head. Finally, he looked up and met Gerald's gaze.

Ricky had absolutely no idea why he'd stripped completely and totally naked when his roommate Ian had told him to. Normally, he would have told the fruitcake he reluctantly shared an apartment with to fuck off with his faggy fantasies unless he wanted to be eating a knuckle sandwich for his next meal.

Something had changed, though. Ever since Ian had shown him that strange video -- what had that even been, anyway? what were all those odd colours, shapes, and sounds? -- there was something about Ian's voice that made it impossible for Ricky to do anything other than exactly whatever the scrawny little poof told him to.

Just stripping down in front of him was humiliating enough on its own. Ian -- dressed like he had somewhere important to be -- had regarded Ricky with an almost clinical gaze as the beefy bodybuilder had peeled off each article of clothing, making him feel significantly more vulnerable and exposed than he did when undressing in the locker room or getting naked with a sexual partner.

But that was far from the end of what Ian was going to order his homophobic roommate to do for him. Before the bare-ass beefcake had even had a second to process what he'd just done, Ian handed Ricky a bottle and issued a simple command: "oil up."

"Heh, okay, come on, bro, you've had your fun," Ricky said nervously, trying to act like this was not freaking him out as much as it was. Despite his profound desire to escape this situation, he was nevertheless doing exactly as he was told, starting by rubbing the baby oil all over his meaty pectorals as Ian looked on hungrily.

"Don't stop there," Ian said, ignoring Ricky's words, openly objectifying him by paying attention only to his body. "Make sure to get plenty on your abs and biceps, too."

"Right... cool, but... uh, this is probably enough of this shit now, right?" Ricky asked with the same nervousness in his voice as -- despite himself -- he applied more baby oil to his well-muscled flesh.

"Dick too," Ian said plainly, gesturing to the nether regions where he wanted Ricky to continue oiling himself up.

"Fuck, come on, Ian," Ricky pleaded as he applied the slick substance to his crotch. "I know I was a jerk, but don't you think whatever you're doing has gone far enough now?"

"Arms above your head," Ian stated, again ignoring Ricky's words in favour of his body alone. As the burly bodybuilder lifted his arms, Ian circled around him, evaluating him like a piece of meat for purchase instead of a person he shared an apartment with.

When the slender, smaller man had finished his walk around the Greek god currently displaying himself like a cheap whore for sale, he finally looked Ricky in the face. The beefy meathead's hope for a response to his plaintiff pleas for mercy were dashed when Ian's next command came: "No more talking, got it?"

While not an order that came with a physical action like the others had, Ricky felt his body obeying, his tongue choosing a position to rest in and his jaw clenching shut ever-so-slightly.

"And to answer your question," Ian began, studying Ricky's oiled-up physique as he spoke. "I've barely gotten started."

Ricky swallowed hard as a vindictive expression came over Ian's face.

"You think I don't know the shit you get up to?" he said, contempt in his voice. "Date-raping all those girls you bring home?!" Ian spat. "Acting like a goddamn neo-Nazi at all those fucking far right rallies?!" he continued. His eyes narrowed and his voice went ice cold as he concluded: "Beating the shit out of my best friend and his boyfriend for holding hands in public?"

Ricky felt his stomach drop. Ian knew. Ian knew all of it. And, thanks to whatever impossible trick he had used to put Ricky into his current state, Ian was going to make sure that this malicious macho man learned an important lesson: karma's a bitch.

Ricky jumped when a knock came suddenly at the door to their apartment.

Ian glanced at his wristwatch, a sly grin forming on his face. "Looks like some of my guests must be early," he said simply.

Ricky, unable to speak, pleaded with his eyes, knowing he deserved no mercy but still praying that he might receive it.

"Not to worry, though. It won't take me long to set things up for the party..." Ian said, reaching down to start pulling items out of a sack that had been sitting at his feet. Calmly and methodically, he set the first few items down on the table in front of him: a leather flogger, shark-tooth nipple clamps, a full-sized wooden frat paddle, and a spiked chastity cage.

Ricky didn't know what mortified him more: the torture devices Ian had just spread out on the table, or the fact that the bag that these BDSM nightmares had come from still appeared to be three-quarters full.

A knock came at the door once more, this time louder and more insistent.

"Well, don't just stand there," Ian said to the white-as-a-sheet Ricky as he began to dig in the sack once more. "Be a good boy and let our guests in."

Dreading what would come next (answering the door -- naked, oiled up, and on full display -- to a couple of fags who loved his muscles and hated his guts) and what would come after (a night -- or more -- of sadistic sexual torment from every last homo Ian knew), Ricky still had to do as he was commanded.

The Anatomy Lesson

Howard normally dreaded the part of the day he'd have to spend in Mr. Kent's class. As the school's "physical education" teacher, time with Mr. Kent usually meant one thing: "gym class."

Fat and effeminate, Howard would naturally be the target of bullying from other the other boys his age — even at 18 years old, many of them still acted like children, after all. Perhaps that's something he could have dealt with. But the relentless taunting he received from Mr. Kent was on a different level.

It seemed every day Mr. Kent would single out Howard, either for his more-than-average weight, his less-than-masculine mannerisms, or a combination of the two.

Today, however, Howard was feeling very different about having Mr. Kent for second period. It wasn't just that this was a "classroom day" -- one of the rare times the meathead Mr. Kent had to pretend to be able to teach "health studies." Rather, it was that Howard had a feeling he'd finally figured out how to test the project he'd been working on for psych class.

Howard made sure to be the first one in the classroom that day, scoping out the best place to sit. Where his normal tactic was sitting in the back to try to avoid Mr. Kent's notice as much as possible, today he knew he'd want to be near the centre of the action.

The classroom gradually filled up, with every student eventually finding a seat. A couple seemed surprised to see Howard sitting right in the middle of the second row, but no one was fazed beyond that. Instead, most students seemed more interested in the empty space at the front of the room, with Mr. Kent normally being there well before the class began.

As the minutes ticked by, Howard began to worry that maybe he would not be getting what he had hoped for. He knew Mr. Kent had seen the hypnosis videos -- his IP address was all over the site he'd anonymously sent to the buff blockhead last night -- but perhaps the effect had not been what Howard had expected...? Mind control was tricking business, after all. Maybe Mr. Kent was still snoozing away in the "deep sleep" of a trance he must have entered into...

The high school senior let out a sigh of relief when the physical education teacher walked into the classroom, seeming like he was in a bit of a daze.

"Sorry I'm late," Mr. Kent said as the room of teenage boys quieted down and he took his place front and centre of the classroom. "As you all know," he began, mostly sounding and acting like he normally did (a certain vacancy in his eyes only visible to someone who knew to look for it). "We're supposed to have our human anatomy lesson with a model to demonstrate today."

This was, of course, completely untrue. The anatomy lesson, in reality, tended to consist of little more than a series of slides and some worksheets to fill in. But Mr. Kent spoke with such certainty, everyone in the class just accepted that this must have been something they'd already been told and which they'd simply forgotten about.

"Unfortunately, I was just informed our model has the flu," Mr. Kent said matter-of-factly. "But, thankfully, Principal Shaw has authorized an alternative."

Without missing a beat, Mr. Kent peeled off his shirt and casually threw it aside, revealing an impressive physique. With his clothes on, it was clear that Mr. Kent was a muscular man, but the details were always left to the imagination. Now, with bulging biceps, plump pectorals, and rippling abs on full display, it was apparent that whatever this man lacked between his ears was more than made up for with the body he possessed.

Acting as though his behaviour was not out of the ordinary at all, the physical education teacher undid his pants as he continued to speak normally. "Since I'll be the model today," he said plainly as he began pulling down his waistband and fully exposing himself to his class, "I'll need someone to walk us through the lesson plan."

Casually, he stepped out of his trousers and adjusted his ample package like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. "Howard, since you're the only honours student in the class, I'd like you to do that, please."

"Sure thing, Mr. Kent," Howard said, grinning widely as he got to his feet and made his way to the front of the class.

This bastard had spent years making fun of Howard's body. If it wasn't his rolls of fat, it was his limp wrists. If it wasn't how winded he got, it was his lisp when he spoke. In other words, he'd made Howard a laughing stock because of the body he moved around the world in.

Turnabout was fair play, right?

So far, no one in the class was objecting, so Howard figured he'd start out slow and gradually ramp things up. He didn't want to spook anyone and end things before they even got started.

A few muscle groups explained, a few poses from his puppet -- and Mr. Kent would gradually get an erection all the while. If the exhibitionist display on its own wasn't enough to have the class thinking Mr. Kent was a bit of a pervert, the pre-cum that would soon be oozing out of his rock-hard and throbbing cock any time Howard touched him during the lesson would send that message much more clearly. Eventually, the bare-ass beefcake would be blissfully blowing his load from his totally-untouched cock when the hands-on portion for the "buttocks and anal region" began.

Still, they were not there yet. Before any of that could get underway, Howard had a very important instruction for the class.

"No notes today, guys," he said cheerfully, looking around the room before returning his gaze to his totally-exposed tormentor standing next to him without a clue about what was really going on. "I'll need your full attention on Mr. Kent, so feel free to pull out your phones and record if you think you'll want to refer back to this later."

Based on the hungry look a few guys in the room had on their faces, Howard knew many of them would be "referring back" to this often. Still others, he was sure, would waste no time spreading the footage around, ensuring everyone got to enjoy Mr. Kent's anatomy as much as they did.