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You didn’t think much of what he’d said at first. He was just a Grindr hookup, and tops will say literally anything. The message didn’t even crack the top 5 weirdest things you’d been sent. But still:

“Gonna see you fucked silly.”

It was so specific. Okay, maybe you looked like a bit of a dummy, with your sturdy muscles and habitual smile. But you were getting a doctorate! There was nothing silly about a PhD in Historiography.

“Gonna see you fucked silly.”

You looked at the message one last time as you waited rang for him to unlock the door of his building. You rolled your eyes. Bullshit tops.

But as his fat cock penetrated your hole, you started to feel weird. Your thoughts started to slow down and drift away. “What’s… happening?” you groaned as he bottomed out.

“You’re getting fucked silly, like all the other guys I top,” the top told you, and shifted inside you. You felt his cock rub up against your prostate and some of your thoughts popped like shiny, glittery soap bubbles.

“Noooo,” you moaned, shocked at how slutty your voice sounded. “I don’t wanna be a silly boyyyy.” You were smart, right? You were getting a Historo— Histrio— His— a big degree!

“Yeah, you do,” said the top, starting to fuck you harder. “You wanna be a silly bottom boi with big juicy muscles.”

“I’m moooore than a joocy muscle boiiiii,” you moaned, caught between bliss and horror as your whole body lit up from the fucking. More and more of your thoughts, memories, and knowledge slipped out of your grasp and vanished as he kept on fucking. You tried to hold onto things like your high school math class and your favourite show, but they vanished so fast you forgot you’d ever known them.

You felt your brain getting lighter and lighter as everything inside it dissolved and went away. As the top’s rhythm broke down with approaching orgasm, you moaned wantonly and fucked back into him, desperate for stimulation as the last of your smarts vanished.

The top came, and the sensation of him filling you up with his cum ripped away everything that you had left. You spurted all over the bed with an empty-headed groan. The sight of all the globs of cum on the sheets suddenly struck you as hilarious, and you started to laugh. “Huhuhuhu…”

The top pulled out. “Another happy customer,” he said, patting you on your broad back.

You twerked back at him, feeling empty. You flipped over and grinned up at him. “I wanna go dancingggg,” you whined in your new dumb, slutty voice. “Let’s go partyyyyy.” You were just a dumb, airheaded himbo with bouncy muscles and a goofy personality.

Fucking tops. It's Friday, nearly midnight and instead of dancing I'm stuck in the washroom at a gay club, hiding from some shithead.

"Tops, right?"

Next to me is a tall guy in a flannel shirt. He's pretty hot, but, urgh, he's the last thing I want to be thinking of right now.

"Yeah," I try to sound chatty, but it's clear I'm pretty annoyed "How did you know?"

He turns to me and crosses his arms, grinning, "Oh, you know. What happened? I bet you have loads of guys chasing after you"

It's true. I mean, look at this ass

"Urgh. This guy grabbed me from behind and started grinding against me. Can you believe it?? He didn't even ask, all I did was wink at him."

"Hmphh, you winked at him? Sounds like he was giving you what you wanted. You know, all you bottoms are the same. Needy. Demanding. Seeing real men as just dumb grunting animals. Maybe that guy was trying to do you a favour?"

I groan and turn around to leave "Oh, fuck you." Just what I need, another smug shithead.

He heckles me from behind. "God, twinks like you are so fucking lame. Maybe we're fed up of being nagged all the time?". He sounds kinda angry, but I ignore him, and roll my eyes.

"You know what, grab your dick."

I freeze, and my eyes go wide with shock. Why am I so shaken? That's not the worst thing I've heard at a club. I try to move but I can't, I just sputter, "Wh- what?? I'm not doing that"

He grins, "I'm not asking"

I feel something pull against my pants, but I look down and see it's my own arm

"WHAT THE FUCK! Are you... you're doing this?" My arm creeps down, playfully running my fingers over my tight stomach, and slips down through my waist band.

"Haha, yeah I am bro. So, bottom bottom bottom. What to do with you. What if I open your eyes a little?"

I, I start to shake. Something in me feels good. Beefy guys start to flash through my mind, and whatever's taken over my hand knows what it's doing down there. Athletes, wrestlers, big bulges in tight clothes...

"Here's the thing. There's enough brats like you around here bro. Someone's gotta do something. Think of it like, uh, giving back to the community."

The images in my mind start to change. The models get smaller, swapping out athletes for tight twinks in tighter shorts. Instead of biceps, I'm thinking of big, curvy asses, and my hand... I can't control myself. I wanna grab someone, anyone, and start grinding.

But then, one of my crushes slides by - Jason, a HUGE wrestler on my college team. Biggest pecs I have seen in my life. Thank fuck, finally, a real man. He looks at me with his big, brown eyes and oh my god, my heart flutters. I look up at him and in my mind I start to walk towards him

The guy in the flannels shirt is egging me on, "Go on, do it." How does he know what I'm thinking? Whatever.

I reach out, and Jason smiles. That big, goofy, handsome grin... and then he turns around. He gets down on the mats, on his hands and knees, raising his big, firm ass into the air. I'm looking right at it.

I squirm. "Oh god. No. No no no no no"

"Uh, actually, yes." The guy in the washroom grins. "I want you to be a dumb, grunting animal, you will do that for me. Are you starting to understand?"

I lean down over the sink, but in my fantasy I fall against Jason. I hold him tight, pinning his big sweaty form down against the mats. At first, there's barely anything I can do to control him - he's WAY bigger than me, but soon I start to feel... bolder. Firmer. He tries to roll me over, but I slip my arm around his shoulder and a vein pops up over my bicep. My legs strain and my glutes start to stretch. Fuck, my whole body is throbbing.

I grunt, and slam him downwards, which gives moment to catch my breathe. Does he feel less sweaty? I wipe my forehead. Wait, am I more sweaty?

"Yeah bro. I know what you're thinking, I know how much you love guys after they've worked out. Damp clothes, that manly smell... it's exactly what every bottom wants these days. Now it's yours"

We twist around each other, and I reach my arms across his body. Wait, all the way around? His shoulders have gotten smaller, thinner... twinkier. And, well, mine are the opposite. He lunges, but I grapple him. All the mass has gone from his legs, meanwhile, my biceps are big enough to crack a skull.

"I want to make you a real fuckboy, you know? Someone who just thinks with his dick. Gym, sex, gym, sex, gym, sex... I want you to always be turned on, I want it to control you, I want you to never get a break."

I've got him, firm between my legs. Jason's tiny now, the same size I was 2 minutes ago, and I start to grind my bulge against his soft, bubbly ass. Fuck. Fuck! It's so good. This is the best fantasy I've ever had in my life. I want to fuck him so bad.

My whole body is throbbing, shaking. Blood is pulsing through my, through my everything. Fuuuuuck. I feel almost dizzy. Everything about this almost feels real. I go to lift up my shirt, but it's gone, and I run my other hand over my stomach. It's like I can really feel the abs

I cum. Oh my god, did I just cum in a... a washroom at a night club? And, I was thinking about topping a guy??

"Ahem". I turn to stare at the guy next to me. He looks pleased with himself. Very pleased.

"There bro! How do you look?"

I look in the mirror, and it hits me like a fucking brick. My body... my clothes. Oh my god, everything's gone. THAT WAS REAL? I look like some stupid fuckboy. Am I a stupid fuckboy? Is that a JOCKSTRAP? My jeans are gone, now just a pair of shorts. Very short shorts. Is that it? Is that all I'm wearing? Over the top of my huge pecs I see my converses are gone too, swapped out for some worn down gym shoes.

This can't be real. If it is, my boyfriend is 100% going to break up with me. How do I even explain this? That I'm like, ripped now? No, wait... that's not it. I try to imagine him topping me but, but, fuck, it feels so gross. A total turnoff

"Of course you don't want to let him top you. You're not a bottom anymore... that's kind of the whole point."

But he would never let me top him. But maybe we don't need to have sex for a while. That wouldn't be so bad, would it...

"AHAHAHA, sorry, with your new sex drive? What part of a fucking animal don't you understand"

There's no way he would want to stay with a horny fuckboy, but, but...

what if I am a stupid fuckboy? I'm already thinking of a nice, tight twink. I'm not that interested in him anyway - he's too tall, too beefy. All the guys I saw earlier are racing through my head. The skinny guy I danced with with the great ass, that cute short one by the bar... urgh, he had those perfect legs, that cute crop top, tight stomach... I bite my lower lip and reach down...

"NO!!"

I start hyperventilating. "This isn't me. I'm not a jock, I am ABSOLUTELY not a top. And," I lift up my arm, "there's no way I actually smell like this"

He laughs, like he's having the fucking time of his life. Maybe he is. "HAHA, sorry dude, yeah you do. And, yeah, you are. Think of that fuck stick like a gift, not just to you, but also to every cute boy you see on grindr. You'll get used to it, trust me"

His words flood my head... I imagine scrolling through the app in bed later, looking at the sea of boys all desperate for me... I reach down again...

"NO! Fuck! Make it stop. Why are you doing this to me?!!"

He pauses for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head. His expression... he's looking at me like he thinks I'm stupid. Does he think I'm stupid? No way - this motherfucker!

"Really? I know I fried a few wires up there dude, but you cannot seriously be asking that. Why do you think I'm doing it?"

"I - I..." I can't find any words. I really don't know. I just don't fucking get it. He's ruining my body, my LIFE, and for what? Fun? Revenge?

But he laughs, and looks at me. I'd think he was being pitiful if he wasn't grinning so fucking hard.

"Bro," he says, "I'm doing this because I think it's hot."

My heart sinks. "You're doing this because, because it fucking turns you on? Don't you give a shit about me at ALL?? I'm going to lose my boyfriend, I'm trapped in this horny, sweaty, disgusting body..."

"Just stop complaining. You know, so what if you don't get in a say in this! Sometimes you just gotta take what life gives you, and right now that's a huge fucking cock"

I feel like I'm about to burst out crying. He grabs my new, boyish face, and pulls it up towards his. "So, yah! Glad I could clear that up," he laughs, "Look, ok, this isn't gonna work if you're gonna be such a fucking loser about it. It's also not gonna work out if you don't work out - you gotta be going to the gym from now on. Those biceps, those pecs... you're chiseled like a statue and I'm not gonna let those new muscles go to waste. You need to be in there DAILY."

He gives my cheeks a squeeze, then lets me go. I clutch my face. It feels different, unfamiliar. Am I crying?

"URGH, bro, will you just quit looking at me like that. Puppy dog eyes, I shouldn't have made you so fucking handsome... Look, I'm gonna give you one last chance, ok: cheer up, right fucking now, or else I'm gonna have to do some rewiring. Right now, all your decisions are being made up there", he flicks my forehead, and then he smirks and grabs my crotch. "But, if I flick the switch, this guy gets to do all the thinking. You'll be so dumb, so horny, HAH, you'll be drooling over your own dick. A real fucking animal. Got it?"

If I don't get a grip, it's over for me. But what do I do? I gulp, and try to swallow my tears. I wash my face a little in the sink. He stares down at me, and the two of us stand in silence. It feels like forever, but it must have been just a minute.

I look up at him, and let out a squeak. "Yeah. You're right. I got it"

"No." he says "I don't think you do."

Damnnnnn, look at these pecs. Fuck, what was I doing? Whatever, I gotta get back out there. See if that blonde guy by the bar is taken. Just thinking of him and his ass makes me wanna... I grab my crotch, and let out a moan.

Wait, is that cum? Yoo how did I not realise. I clean myself up and slide my waistband back over my jockstrap, letting it snap into place against my cum gutters. I flex, and light shines off my glistening, sweaty muscles - if someone were to see me now, they'd think I was a greek statue. These strong, firm thighs, the perfect curve of my glutes... these shoulders look like they were made by fucking Michelangelo.

It started almost as soon as Cole walked into the room, now. He stood in the doorway, a touch perplexed, wondering what had entirely possessed him to walk into his neighbor’s study… and Joe looked up at him from his desk with a warm, paternal smile and said, “Oh, is someone a sleepy boy, then? Did someone need a little nap, mm?” And despite himself, Cole heard those patronizing tones and felt himself bristle with a petulant defiance that he somehow knew Joe would have no trouble overcoming. Because it was true. He was tired… no, not even tired. ‘Tired’ was a word that strong-willed men used, men in control of their own faculties who didn’t find themselves gripped by the tug of instincts they couldn’t possibly resist. Cole wasn’t tired, he was sleepy. And getting sleepier by the minute.

He tried to turn around, to go back to his own house and his own bed and try to work out from there why his eyelids felt so suddenly heavy and his legs so suddenly wobbly… but the moment he began to move, a sense of giddiness swept over him and he had no choice but to cling to the doorframe until it passed. “Awww, someone’s over-tired, aren’t they?” Joe asked, rising from his chair. Cole couldn’t help noticing that the older man was entirely naked. “You’re just fighting sleep now, silly boy. Why don’t you let me help you, and then you can rest and relax and let go of all that resistance, okay?” He crossed the room, putting his hand warmly on Cole’s chest. Cole couldn’t help noticing that he was naked too.

That sparked a vague memory, a memory of walking into his neighbor’s unlocked house through the back door and immediately taking his clothes off, but at the same time it distracted him from the present. And that was something of a mistake. The more Cole paid attention to the fitful recollections flitting through his drowsy brain, the less he noticed Joe’s silky smooth voice in his ears. “…tired legs,” he caught, the end of some thought that the older man had slipped into Cole’s mind without resistance while he was off woolgathering. “It’s okay to let go now, knowing I’ve got you and I’m holding you and you can just gently sink down for me. There. Just like that.” Cole felt his hands and knees touch soft carpet. The texture seemed intimately familiar to him.

Something warm and salty touched his tongue, reminding Cole that his jaw had slackened and his lips had parted into a perfect ‘O’. Instinctively, he leaned forward, seeking more of the flavors of musk and salt, but Joe kept backing away with just enough speed to tantalize Cole into crawling forward. He didn’t know why he wanted that taste so badly, but the craving was irresistible. When Joe finally sat down on the couch by the far wall, Cole was so deeply gripped by his desire that he eagerly engulfed the older man’s entire shaft in a single swallow. “That’s my sleepy boy,” Joe purred. “That’s my good little sleepy cocksucker.”

That sparked a brief, futile moment of defiance in Cole’s sluggish mind–he knew what he was doing all of a sudden, knew he was bobbing his head up and down on another man’s cock in hypnotized rapture. But before he could even begin to translate that defiance into action, Joe’s fingers tangled into his hair and began to guide him faster, and Cole found his brain melting into slick and thoughtless ecstasy. Ecstasy that dribbled and drooled from his own shaft, leaking onto the carpet, making him too horny to think for himself. And Joe was right there to do the job for him. “Good cockslut,” he murmured, and Cole finally stopped fighting and went blank and empty for his owner.

The story of a teenage forced to entirely change his look entirely and conform to the style his parents decide for him (it’s my first post of Tumblr, and possibly the first part of a longer story, so all comments welcomed).

My dad made clear I would be punished for breaking the rules, but I wouldn’t receive the punishment until the weekend - and that the severity of the punishment would depend on me not breaking ANY further rules in the meantime. I had to act - and look - like an angel. Literally. Monday night was awful. I wasn’t allowed to watch TV or even change out of my uniform. Instead my dad showed me how to bull my shoes. 2 hours later and my already ridiculously shiny shoes were now reflecting my face in them. Grim. Tuesday morning and I was watched like a hawk as I was instructed on what to do. More pomade on my hair. slick it further back. Create a bounce in the quiff at the front. Put your glasses on. Make sure your tie is straight…. I sighed my reflection today hadn’t improved any from yesterday. Today my parents were taking no chances - my mum dropped me off right at the school gate much to the delight of my mates. There was no opportunity to try and alter my appearance before anyone saw me, and the derision was so much worse than yesterday. Everyone was loving that this once trendy guy in front of them had been totally transformed into a four-eyed, side-parted, formally attired, nerd, who was without doubt the most conservatively dressed person in the school. Even a couple of the teachers were commenting on my very sudden dramatic change in appearance - and I’m sure I caught at least a couple of them smirking. My form teacher told me that my mum had been in touch - if there was so much as a hair out of place on my head, then this was going to be reported immediately back to my parents and I knew the consequences. The week continued like this, with the kids trying to wind me up more and more - they’d take my glasses or scuff my shoes, or see what they could get to stick in my greasy hair. But each day I was forced to turn up looking like the class joke. It was so clear that no-one in their right mind would choose to look like this, and I was now clearly under the thumb of someone much older and draconian. My appearance was no longer down to me, it was dictated by someone who thought it was a good idea to look like a 1950s throwback. My relationship with my group of mates quickly became more distanced. I wasn’t allowed to hang out with them after school, and even trying to play a proper game of football was difficult in these shoes with the slippery soles and rigid construction - but ultimately, they just didn’t want to hang out with a nerd. And it was clear to all, that, despite all my years of being a normal, relatively trendy guy, now counted for nothing - and my haircut acting as clearly as a light up sign placed on top of my head - I was - suddenly and totally - a nerd. I was trapped in formality. By Friday afternoon I was just looking forward to the break from the humiliation. My dad met me at the school gates and told me we were going to get some weekend clothes for me. This didn’t sound good. At the shops my dad guided me round. First stop was for some check shirts in a variety of shades of creams and blues. Next stop was trousers. Some green twill trousers, blue corduroys and then a pair of fawn trousers were all selected - as if I’d wear any of this stuff? I was so frustrated. Then to cap it all off, a brown tweed jacket was added to the pile. This was like something out of an old-fashioned country magazine photoshoot. No one dressed like this. Despite my protests the items were all bought. Then it was a return to the shoe shop where a pair of very sensible brown brogues were purchased. My grandad owned a very similar pair. As did my dad. That figured.

In a dystopian future, where the iron grip of a totalitarian regime tightened its hold on society, the streets echoed with the clatter of jackboots and the hum of surveillance drones. The once-vibrant city now lay shrouded in fear, its citizens mere pawns in a game of power.

Chapter 1: The Arrest

The protest had started innocently enough—a gathering of voices demanding change. But the authorities saw it as a threat. The Special PVC Police, clad in their glossy black uniforms, descended upon the crowd. Their helmets obscured their faces, rendering them anonymous enforcers of the regime.

Among the protesters, a group of men stood defiant. They shouted slogans, their voices rising against the oppressive regime. But the PVC officers moved swiftly, their batons striking with brutal precision. The men were subdued, their hands bound with plastic restraints.

Chapter 2: The Transformation

The arrested men were taken to an undisclosed facility—a place where screams echoed through sterile corridors. Stripped of their identities, they were processed like raw materials. The regime had devised a sinister plan: to convert these rebels into loyal enforcers. In dimly lit rooms, they underwent a harrowing transformation.      

The protesters were strapped by a group of Black PVC Clad Police officers,   to cold metal tables, their eyes wide with defiance. A person who looked like a doctor walked into the room, he was wearing a tight White PVC uniform identical to the ones police unit.

He was the chief neurologist, he moved with clinical precision. His gloved hands cradled a neural extractor—a device that would unravel memories like fragile threads.

“Relax,” he whispered, his voice devoid of warmth. “This will be painless.”

But, he lied, getting satisfaction from the pain the prisoners were being subjected to. Memories surged forth—the taste of rebellion, laughter shared with comrades, whispered secrets in dimly lit alleys. The Doctor captured them all, digitizing their essence.

Chapter 2: The Void

The protesters already in their shiny, constricting PVC uniforms, were moved Into the next chamber, with police guards on either side, they walked like zombies they were placed into chairs where they sat in silence. Their heads were encased in neural helmets, wires snaking from their scalps. The helmets hummed, their screens flickering with coded symbols. The room pulsed with anticipation.

The Doctor initiated the transfer. The memories—their loves, fears, hopes—dissolved. Faces blurred. Names vanished. The void swallowed them whole.

“Repeat after me,” he commanded. “I am Unit 42. My purpose is obedience to the State.”

Their voices echoed in unison, devoid of inflection. “I am Unit 42. My purpose is obedience to the state.”

He repeated this to each prisoner, giving new unit numbers, as with the first. They responded, just like the first subject.

Chapter 3: The Imprint

The regime’s propaganda flooded their minds. Images of a utopian police state—orderly streets, smiling children, unwavering loyalty. The Doctor. adjusted the neural settings, embedding the narratives deep within their neural pathways.

“Your past is irrelevant,” he intoned. “Your duty is to serve The State.”

They nodded, eyes glazed. The protesters were no more. Now, they were Unit 42, Unit 17, and so on—faceless enforcers of the regime.

Chapter 4: The Final Seal

The protesters shed their old lives like snakeskin. Their heads, once filled with fire, now held only obedience. Helmets descended, sealing their fate.

As the neural interfaces connected, a collective consciousness emerged. Thoughts synchronized. Emotions muted. They became the regime’s hounds, patrolling the streets, hunting rebels, and enforcing curfews.  Their memories were erased, replaced by new designations—numbers etched into their minds. They became “Unit 42,” “Unit 17,” and so on. Their past lives dissolved, leaving behind only a void. they mirrored the cold efficiency of the regime. Clad in tight-fitting PVC uniforms, they joined the ranks of the Special Riot Cop Squad—the regime’s shock troops.

Their helmets sealed their fate. Once placed upon their heads, they lost all individuality. Their thoughts were synchronized, their loyalty unwavering. They became mindless extensions of the regime’s will, patrolling the streets, suppressing dissent, and enforcing curfews.

Chapter 5: The Hunt

Their mission was clear: capture other men who dared to resist. The converted enforcers moved silently through the shadows; their footsteps muffled by the same PVC boots that had once trampled their own rights. They hunted down rebels, dragging them to the conversion chambers.

The irony was not lost on them—the very men who had fought for freedom now perpetuated oppression. Yet, they felt no remorse. Their new purpose consumed them, drowning any lingering doubts. They were the ruthless police of the police state, the regime’s loyal hounds.

Hail The State! - We Obey, We Serve, We

are obedient