The Straight Case of Dr. Fields and Mister Dom
Dr. Colin Fields sat in his office, a dull ache pressing against his temples. He had been a man obsessedâobsessed with his work, with the unyielding drive to save humanity through his research. Nanogenes, HIV therapies, cancer studiesâhe had touched so many lives, or so he thought. Now, with the news that the department was being shut down due to Trump's budget cuts, his world felt like it was crumbling. All the tireless hours, the years spent perfecting his mind and his craft, had come to nothing.
He had been working on something that could change the worldâa drug that would make people more accepting, a cure for the hatred and division that plagued society. But now, with his department on the chopping block, it seemed like it was all for nothing. His frustration bubbled over that night when he called his husband, Ethan.
âIâve given everything to this job, Ethan,â Colin had ranted, his voice raw with anger. âI spent my life working for others, sacrificing everything. And now, they shut it all down. For what? For politics? Iâm being blacklistedâblacklisted for being gay. For DEI. None of it matters. They donât care.â
Ethanâs voice was softer, trying to calm him down. âColin, this might be a good thing. Youâll have more time now. We could even start a family. Maybe this is a new chapter.â
Colin hadnât wanted to hear it. âWhat the hell good is time? It doesnât matter. Itâs all over. My work was never going to matter to them.â
Now, alone in his office, the weight of his failure pressed on him even more. The anger was still there, smoldering beneath the surface, but something else was creeping in: a gnawing emptiness. It felt like everything he had worked for, all of his sacrifice, had been pointless. And then came the knock on the door.
The feds. They were closing in on him. His heart skipped a beat. Heâd been working on something dangerous, something that would change mankind, something he hadnât even fully tested. The drugâthe virusâthat would make humanity more compassionate, more accepting. He was on the verge of something huge. He couldnât let them take it.
Panicking, Colin quickly turned to his desk. Behind it was a secret panel, one he had installed in case things ever went sideways. He opened it and found the needleâthe one filled with his "gay drug." It was untested, unapproved, but it was his last hope.
But as he held it in his hand, a small doubt crept in. What if it didnât work? What if it made things worse? But the banging at the door grew louder. The feds were nearly here. His breath quickened. There was no time to second-guess himself.
He jammed the needle into his throat, feeling the cool rush of chemicals flooding his system. Almost immediately, the world around him seemed to fade. His limbs felt heavy, his mind sluggish. Thenânothing.
When he woke up, he wasnât sure how much time had passed. His eyes fluttered open slowly, his head still thick with fog. He felt strange, like he had just woken from a long sleep. The world seemed off-kilter, like the edges of it were soft, hazy.
âSweetie⌠Iâm glad youâre awake,â Ethanâs voice broke through the fog.
âI feel⌠fine,â he mumbled, but his voice sounded wrong, distant. It wasnât just his body that felt off. His brain was a jumble of confusion. He couldnât think clearly. Nothing seemed to make sense.
Ethan didnât seem convinced. âYou look pale. Are you sure you feel okay?â
The concern in Ethanâs voice irritated him. That whiny girly voice. Always hovering, always caring, always asking. It grated on Colin now, in a way it never had before.
âWill you fucking lay off me, bro?â Colin snapped, his tone sharp and angry, more aggressive than heâd ever been before. âGet me a fucking beer.â
Ethan recoiled, clearly startled by the sudden outburst. His eyes widened with hurt, but he said nothing, turning slowly to leave the room.
Colin rubbed his temples, trying to push past the fog in his mind. Why was he so angry? Why did Ethanâs voice bother him so much? Ethan had always been patient with him. Why now, of all times, did he find it irritating?
The silence settled in, thick and uncomfortable. His mind kept slipping. He tried to think about his research. The drug. The virus. What had gone wrong? He couldnât hold onto anything. It was like his thoughts were dissolving, unraveling at the edges. His memories⌠his past⌠everything he had worked for felt like a fading dream.
When Ethan returned with the beer, Colin didnât even look up. âThanks,â he muttered, taking the beer with trembling hands. He cracked it open and took a long drink, but it didnât feel right. The cold bitterness of the beer seemed to do nothing to ease his mind. He took another sip. Still nothing.
âJust leave me alone, okay?â Colin muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. He didnât want Ethan hovering over him. Didnât want him asking more questions. He just wanted quiet. Peace.
Ethan, though hurt, didnât argue. He stepped back, retreating to the other side of the room. Colin sank into the chair, trying to focus. The more he tried to concentrate on anythingâthe work heâd done, his researchâthe more it slipped away. Why was this so hard? His head pounded, his thoughts growing more muddled by the second. Words that had once come so easily now felt alien. The technical terms, the intricate details of his work, the memories of endless hours in the labâeverything was just gone. He could barely remember what a ânanogeneâ was, or what heâd even hoped to accomplish. The world of science, once so clear to him, now felt distant, like a fog was enveloping it.
His mind was growing slower. Endocytosis. Ecosystem. What did those even mean anymore? He couldnât connect the dots, couldnât hold onto the information. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. He felt dumber. Slower.
His memoriesâhis lifeâwere burning away like a fire consuming a forest. Years of education, of hard work, all dissolving. It felt like he was forgetting himself, piece by piece. And still, in the background, Ethanâs voiceâhis nagging, soft, whiny voiceâcontinued to pierce through the fog.
âDo you need anything, honey?â
The sound of it was grating now. The voice that once comforted him, that he had once loved, now filled him with disgust. Why had I ever married such a miserable man? The thought rose unbidden, sharp and cruel. Why had I let myself get trapped in this? He couldnât remember why it had ever mattered. He couldnât remember why it had ever been worth it.
He sat there, struggling to think, but the harder he tried, the harder it became. Memories, knowledge, even his sense of self were fading, slipping away like sand through his fingers. And the more it slipped away, the more he felt nothing.
He was becoming something else. Someone else. And he didnât care.
Ethanâs voice cut through again, softer now, asking, pleading, âIs there anything I can do for you, honey?â
But Colin didnât want to hear it anymore. He didnât want to think. He just wanted the peace of forgetting.
His mind, wrapped in a dense fog of rage and confusion. As the thought crossed his mindâWhy the hell did I marry a man in the first place?âit was as if the words themselves triggered something deep within him. His body started to react violently, each muscle twitching as his arms expanded, his skin stretching uncomfortably across his frame. The transformation wasnât subtle; it was brutal, painful, like fire surging through his veins.
His arms, once thin and pale, began to bulk up rapidly. Each fiber of muscle swelled, pressing against his skin as if desperate to break free. The pain was excruciating, each spasm in his body like a cruel twist, a reminder that something was terribly wrong. The sensation was like testosterone coursing through his blood, boiling under his skin, igniting every cell with raw power. His arms grew longer, thicker, and stronger with every moment, muscles twitching and contracting as though they had a life of their own.
The chest followed. His pecs expanded with a deep, aching stretch, the skin around them growing tight as they bloomed like mountains, rising up from his ribcage. His breath came in ragged gasps, every inhale a testament to the intensity of his changing body. His chest swelled, the definition sharp and clear, as if every fiber had been meticulously carved. Each flex made the muscles surge and ripple, commanding attention, as if they were reaching for something greater, something beyond the pain.
The transformation spread downward. His abs tightened, rippling, each muscle turning to stone, the lines sharp and etched into his body like a roadmap of pure strength. The V-line tapered down toward a narrow waist, while his obliques twisted with the power of his newfound physique. It was a body forged from rage and egoâflawless, relentless, and undeniable. It was the very embodiment of what he had always wanted to be, to look like.
His arms were no longer just armsâthey were weapons. His biceps swelled into twin cannonballs of muscle, veins pulsing across the forearms like rivers of raw strength. His triceps tightened into a perfect horseshoe, every movement deliberate and filled with power. With each flex, each motion, the arms screamed of the effort it took to build this body, of the sweat and pain that had forged this form.
The shoulders were next, swelling outwards with shocking speed. His deltoids spread like wings, massive and commanding, as though his body had been designed to carry the weight of the world. His traps rose from his neck like boulders, adding a brutal dimension of raw power to the frame. His body was a masterpieceâevery muscle was perfectly sculpted, each one a testament to effort and purpose, strength and rage.
The legs followed suit, thickening with muscle that rippled beneath the skin. His quads bulged, adding layers upon layers of strength to his body, while his hamstrings stretched taut like steel cables. His calves rounded and tightened into defined, powerful pillars of muscle. His glutes were sculpted to perfection, firm and powerful, adding a final piece to the impressive physique. With each step, he felt the ground beneath him tremble with his newfound power.
As his body grew, so too did his features. His cheekbones became sharper, his jawline more defined, chiseled with the kind of rugged masculinity that turned heads and commanded attention. His eyes gleamed with a new, dangerous confidence, a cocky smile curling at the corners of his lips as he surveyed his new form in the mirror. The transformation wasnât just physicalâit was mental, a complete reshaping of his identity.
The anger that had fueled the change was still there, coursing through him, sharp and unrelenting. His thoughts were more clouded than ever, but beneath it all, the rage burned bright. He looked at his body now, marveling at the power he had gained. The aches and pains were almost forgotten as he reveled in the raw strength that surged through him. He was perfect. He was the epitome of everything he had ever wanted to be.
He glanced down at himself, running his hands over his new, powerful chest, feeling the tautness of his skin, the definition in every muscle. His breath quickened as he took in the sight of his now-immaculate form. The stench of his sweat hit him, overpowering, thick with musk and testosterone. Normally, he would have been disgusted by the smell, but now, it only seemed to fuel his rage. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scent, letting it wash over him like a drug.
He had to get out of there. He couldnât stay in this houseâthis place that reminded him of his pathetic past, of Ethan.
Grabbing a pair of sweats and a tank top from Ethan's closet, he threw them on, the fabric clinging tightly to his new, powerful form. The clothes were too small, but that only fueled his anger. He didnât need to be here anymore.
âLeaving,â he shouted, his voice low, filled with a new, primal intensity. âWonât be back.â
Before Ethan could even react, Colin was out the door and in the car, speeding away. His mind raced with thoughts of power and dominance. As he drove, he slammed the radio on, the sound of a conservative talk show host blaring into the car. At first, the blaring words made Colin wince, but then something in the hostâs voice clicked. His words, full of bravado and strength, began to sink into Colinâs brain.
âReal men,â the host was saying, âare those who donât bow to weakness. They take what they deserve, they fight for whatâs theirs, and they never apologize. They make their own rules. They donât let anyone tell them they arenât enough.â
A dark smile spread across Colinâs face. The hostâs words filled him, amplified his growing anger. This is what Iâve been missing, he thought, his grip tightening on the wheel. He wasnât weak. He never had been. The more the host ranted about power, about dominance, the more Colinâs mind warped, aligning perfectly with every word.
His ego surged, filling the space in his head. He was powerful now. He was unstoppable. The years heâd spent with Ethan, the weakness, the compromises, all of it was gone. He was free. Free to live without apology, free to take what was his. The world was his playground, and everyone else was just there to watch him dominate.
The road stretched out ahead of him, endless and open, just like his future. And as he drove further from his past, the voice of the host continued to echo in his mind, louder and louder, drowning out everything else.
As Colin sped down the highway, leaving behind the life that had once anchored him, a storm of thoughts raged within him, as if the turmoil inside his mind was mirrored by the powerful engine of his car. The rumble of the tires against the asphalt was a steady rhythm, a counterpoint to the rapid fire of his emotions. His hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his mind a whirlpool of resentment and newfound power.
The anger that had been simmering just beneath the surface seemed to bubble up with every passing second. Why had he put up with that f*ggot for so long? His thoughts kept circling back to Ethan, to that weak, pathetic version of himself that had let him stay in a relationship where he felt anything but powerful. Now, all he felt was strength.
âThe modern man,â the voice from the podcast echoed, âis built for domination. Youâre not here to ask for permission. Youâre here to take. Men like us? We rise by force. Not by asking nicely, but by demanding whatâs ours. We lead through strength, not compromise. Listen up, patriots! I've had it up to here with this feminist bullshit and the gay agenda taking over our country. Men were meant to be the breadwinners, the protectors, the leaders. But now, these liberal snowflakes want us to believe that women can do our jobs just as well? Please! Women were put on this earth to look pretty, cook dinner, and spread their legs for their husbands. Anything else is unnatural and goes against God's plan. And don't even get me started on the gays. They're ruining everything with their pride parades and "love is love"nonsense. Marriage is between a man and a woman, period. Having a gay president or a gay CEO? Absurd! They're too busy chasing tail to run a country or a company. It's high time we take back our nation from these degenerates and restore traditional family values.â
Something inside Colin sparked, a fire kindled deep in his chest. At first, the words didnât make much sense. They rubbed him the wrong way, stirring his discomfort. But then, as the hostâs voice rattled on, something twisted in his gut, and his lips curled into a slow, confident smile. Take whatâs ours. That thought burrowed itself into his mind like a worm, wriggling and twisting, changing everything.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his jaw clenched, the smile never leaving his face. A wave of power surged through him, igniting every fiber of his being. The voice in his head, the one that had been angry and restless, now began to warp, evolving into something differentâsomething more dangerous.
His mind shifted. Dominance. Power. Strength. Every muscle in his body seemed to swell with new meaning as the mantra took hold of him. The anger that had once been a burning ember now flared into an uncontrollable blaze. As the miles ticked by, he began to visualize himself as the embodiment of that quote. A man who didnât just play the game, but redefined the rules. He was a walking contradictionâpolished, muscular, and perfect on the outside, but his core was built on self-preservation and a relentless drive to project strength.
Each thought stoked his ego. The polished Instagram videos of flexing, the perfect workout shotsâevery moment of self-aggrandizement was a calculated step toward becoming a god in his own world. His physique wasnât just muscle; it was a brand, a carefully curated image of perfection. His body, every muscle, every vein, every line carved into him, was proof of his superiority over the weak. And the world was taking notice. He could feel it in the air, in every glance he received as he passed by people. They all saw him now. He wasnât just some manâhe was the man.
He had been trained for this, molded by his past, his upbringing in the rough, unforgiving streets of Jersey Shore. Toughness wasnât a choiceâit was survival. Strength was the currency he spent, and it bought him everything he wanted. The polished swagger that flowed from him now, from every word he spoke to every movement, was the armor heâd built from years of sharpening his edge. The charm was calculated, designed to manipulate, to bend people to his will. The softer side of him? It didnât exist anymore. The door to vulnerability had been locked away, thrown out. Only power mattered.
Politically, his thoughts mirrored that same forceful energy. He clung to the idea that strength was synonymous with dominance, with being the apex predator in a world that rewarded the bold and the brutal. He had no interest in nuance. The world wasnât a place for compromise. It was a battlefield, and Colin was the one who would rise above it all. The weak were obstacles. The strong, like him, had to survive by crushing anyone who stood in their way.
His thoughts now spiraled further into the dark recesses of his own ego. I am the leader. I am the alpha. It wasnât just about physicality anymore. It was about asserting himself in every facet of life, from his career to his relationships, and especially on social media. Every "like," every comment, was validation that he was untouchable, that he was constantly at the top of the game.
As the miles flew by, his heart began to race with the exhilaration of his growing ego. Every word from the podcast only made it stronger, more twisted. Colin could feel it: He was a king. And no one, not even Ethan, could ever take that away from him. Colin soon found himself parked in front of a bar. Adjusting his junk, he steps into the bar.
Colin walked into the bar, the flickering neon lights casting sharp shadows across his newly sculpted face. His muscles rippled beneath his tight shirt as he strode in with the confidence of a man who owned the entire place. The air inside was thick with the smell of alcohol and sweat, the hum of music vibrating through the floor. A country song played in the background, but it felt distant, like the sounds of a life that no longer had any claim on him.
The bartenderâa middle-aged guy with a scruffy beard and a smirkâmet Colinâs gaze and gave him a nod, clearly accustomed to customers who thought they were something special. "Whatâll it be?" the bartender asked, ready to serve the man who obviously commanded attention.
Colin gave him a knowing look, as if expecting nothing less. "Whiskey. Neat," he grunted, his deep voice filling the air.
As the bartender got to work, Colin took in his surroundings. A few people sat at the bar, sipping their drinks and chatting. Most of them were men. As his eyes moved over them, the realization hit him like a punch in the gut: this was a gay bar. A place he used to frequent with Ethan. The memories began to bubble up, but as they did, they were twisted into something dark. Faggots. This place. This was where he wasted time. What the hell was I doing here with that man?
The thought boiled his blood. He gritted his teeth as his grip tightened on the bar, his new muscles flexing involuntarily. The sound of laughter and the sight of men dancing together only made his stomach churn, but the worst part was the small pang of disgust... and something else. Something darker. He hated them for it, for being here, for the memories that swirled in his mind like a toxic mix. But he hated himself too.
Fuck this, he thought. He was done with this place. He slammed back his drink, the fire of the whiskey burning his throat as he prepared to leave. But then, something caught his eye.
A woman. A stunning woman. She was dancing with a manâprobably gay, by the way he was eyeing herâbut Colin didnât care. She had that look, the one that made men stop in their tracks. The kind of woman who made your blood run hot with desire, who made you forget everything around you.
He grinned, the cocky smile spreading across his face as he pushed himself off the bar and strode toward her. He was a man on a mission now, fueled by a strange blend of confidence and rage. His feet moved with purpose, each step bringing him closer to the object of his desire.
He approached her and, with a deep breath, tried to introduce himself. "Uhhhhhh, nameâs uhhh Dominic D'Angelo. But you can call me Dom... or Big D, for short," he said, his voice thick with a bravado that only partially masked his own internal discomfort.
The woman raised an eyebrow and glanced him over, unimpressed. She gave him a cool smile, but it wasnât the smile that made her interestedâit was the smile of someone humoring a guy they werenât going to waste their time on.
Colinâs smile faltered for a moment, but then something inside him clicked. A switch flipped in his mind, and in that moment, the person he once wasâthe shy, reserved scientist who had tried to find meaning in his relationship with Ethanâvanished.
What the hell am I doing? he thought. I donât need her approval. I donât need anyoneâs approval.
In that instant, the personality of Dominic DâAngeloâa name that didnât even feel like his ownâtook full form in his mind. He was no longer the man who had spent too many nights crying alone in a sterile lab. He wasnât the confused man who had ever cared about the complexities of relationships. He was Dominic D'Angelo, a man who didn't care about the fragile, emotional mess that was the world around him. He was a man who took, who ruled, who commanded.
He didnât even need to think about what he was going to say nextâhis mind had already molded him into the guy he thought he should be. The one who didnât ask for permission. The one who demanded attention, and not just for his looks or strength, but for everything he was about to become. The guy who walked into a room and had every head turn toward him because he was the one who had earned it.
His hair, perfectly styled. His muscles, perfectly sculpted. The gold chain and cross hanging from his neck, glinting in the dim light like they were made for the sole purpose of making others see him as something greater.
He wasnât just walking into this bar; he was taking it over.
The woman looked at him with a half-amused smirk, but Dom could see her taking him in, sizing him up. In that moment, he didnât need her approval. He didnât need anyoneâs approval. He was Dominic D'Angelo, and the world had no choice but to follow his lead.
And so it began. The memories of who he wasâwho Colin wasâdrifted further and further away, replaced by the persona of a man who lived for himself, who was driven by one thing: power.
Power over his body. Power over others. Power over the world.
Born in the suburbs, raised on trashy media and a world that glorified excess, Colinâor rather, Dominicâhad been shaped into a man who believed the world owed him everything. The flashy cars, the gold chains, the tight shirts, the arrogance that dripped from every word he said. It was all part of the act, part of the brand he had built. He was the guy who didnât need to prove anythingâhe was just there, demanding attention, taking what was his by right. The world, he believed, revolved around him, and everyone else? They were just extras in the story of his life.
The woman, still turning away from him, seemed oblivious to the power he thought he exuded. Dominicâs eyes narrowed. She didnât get itânone of them did. He wasnât just some guy. He wasnât some half-hearted attempt at masculinityâhe was Dominic fucking D'Angelo, and everything about him screamed superiority. But she hadnât fallen for the charm he threw out like bait. No, this woman wasnât just rejecting him; she was rejecting what he representedâand that stung.
The rage bubbled under his skin, hot and raw, like lava ready to burst. He could feel his pulse thudding in his temples, but this wasnât about her anymore. This was about proving something to himselfâabout reaffirming the man he had become. Dominicâs fingers flexed, white knuckled around the glass, his jaw tightening until it almost hurt. His new lifeâhis new identityâwas slipping through his fingers if she didnât acknowledge him, if she didnât recognize who he was. It wasnât about winning her over; it was about making the world feel his presence.
He leaned in a little closer, his breath heavy, the scent of his cologne drowning the air between them. As he adjusted his posture, the thin chain around his neck shifted slightly, drawing his attention. The cross hanging thereâan accessory more than anythingâseemed almost to glow in the dim light. It was his marker, the stamp of his superiority. He wasnât just Dominic D'Angelo, the powerful man. He was Dominic D'Angelo, a man of faith, a man who used the world's most sacred symbols to fortify his image.
He sneered, lifting a hand to adjust the cross, letting it swing briefly before his fingers curled back around the glass. The gesture wasnât reverent. It wasnât respectful. It was his ownership, a part of the costume he had constructed for himself. His gaze fixed on her with an intensity that bordered on disturbing. âYou might wanna think twice about turning your back on me,â he muttered, his voice low but thick with threat. The words hung in the air between them like an invitation to test him, to challenge him, to see if she could survive in his orbit. He wasnât just a man; he was the man, the one who controlled every room, every conversation, every encounter.
The memories of the man he used to beâColin Fields, the soft, empathetic scientistâfaded with each passing second. He remembered how that man had been a shadow of the person he was meant to become, a weak fool who had believed in kindness, who had believed in connection over power. He was now disgusted by the very thought of those ideals. The intellectual discussions, the endless empathy, the constant questioning of his own motivesâall of it had been so pathetic.
Dominic wasnât interested in emotional messes anymore. He wasnât interested in heart-to-heart talks or understanding anyone elseâs pain. He didnât need compassion. Compassion was for the weak. Compassion was what had tied him to his old lifeâthe life that had failed him. He had been content with his husband, Ethanâweak, too. Always so soft, always so emotional, always seeking to heal and care and understand the world. It made him sick to think about it now. Ethan had been a prisoner of the worldâs idealsâan ideal Dominic had ruthlessly discarded.
He had shed those old beliefs, had torn them from his flesh like dead skin. He wasnât about to go back to being Colinâthe man who cared, the man who understood. The thought of it now filled him with disgust. It was beneath him. He was Dominic D'Angeloâhe was above it all. The epitome of a smug, self-righteous prick. A towering, beefcake of a man, with a jawline sharper than his wit and a haircut that screams "I spend more time styling my locks than you do thinking." He's the kind of guy who'd wear a Make America Great Again hat to Mass, just to piss off the priest. Dominic's thoughts are a toxic brew of Fox News talking points, outdated gender stereotypes, and an unhealthy obsession with his own superiority. He thinks he's God's gift to women, despite his personality being about as attractive as a kick to the nuts "Liberals are ruining this country," he'd mutter, sipping his Coors Light, "and I'm gonna be the one to save it, with my rippling abs and unshakeable faith in the free market."
The woman still didnât seem to register the intensity of his stare, so Dominic took another step closer, looming over her like an animal preparing to strike. The neon lights above them flickered again, casting sharp, unnatural glows over his face. His eyes glinted, almost feral. His muscles strained against the tight fabric of his shirt as he squared his shoulders. He was a king, surveying his kingdom, and no one was exempt from his dominanceânot even this woman, whose disinterest only fueled the fire inside him.
Dominic's eyes narrow into slits as he fixes his gaze on the mousy girl in front of him, her Black Lives Matter shirt a red flag waving in his face. He sneers internally, thinking, "Look at this little communist, thinking she's too good for me. Newsflash, sweetheart: no one's too good for a real man like me." His thoughts are a swirling vortex of contempt and superiority. "She probably spends her days virtue signaling online and her nights crying about her white privilege.Pathetic." He leans in closer, his breath hot on her neck as he whispers, "You know what else matters? My opinion. And I think you're a dumb bitch who needs to shut up and look pretty." His smirk widens, reveling in the power he holds over her, the power of his masculinity and his unshakeable belief in his own greatness.
He felt his chest tighten as anger roiled within him. Sheâs nothing, he thought, as his mind boiled over with resentment. Theyâre all nothing but distractions. Weak little toys I can break if I want to. The surge of power that came with his thoughts was intoxicating, and he couldnât help but feel even more alive.
Suddenly, the cross around his neck felt heavierâlike a burden he had to carry, but it didnât matter. It only served to remind him that everything in his life was a means to an end. The way people saw himâwhether they admired or feared himâdidnât matter. He was a man of strength, a man who demanded respect, a man who took whatever he wanted. Faith, in his twisted mind, was just another tool.
âI donât need you to look at me,â he said, his voice like gravel. âBut I will make sure you remember me.âHis rage intensified, his breath now ragged. He had let go of the man who cared about love, about understanding. He wasnât about to turn back. He was no longer just Dominicâhe was the kind of man who bent the world to his will, who took what he wanted, and left nothing behind but the wreckage of those who couldnât keep up. His blood pounded in his ears as he stared down at the woman, daring her to reject him again.
This was who he was now. He wasnât just angry; he was entitled. He deserved everything, and he wouldnât let anyoneâno oneâstand in his way. As he stepped back, his chest puffing out with a smug sense of triumph, he knew one thing for certain: the world didnât owe him anything. It was his to take.
Dominic's face contorts with rage, his eyes burning with fury as he grabs the girl by the shoulders, his grip tightening like a vice. "You fucking cunt," he snarls, spit flying from his mouth. Without hesitation, he crashes his lips against hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. The girl stiffens in shock, but as Dominic's dank saliva coats her tongue, she begins to change. Her once-brown hair lightens to a platinum blonde, cascading down her back in perfect waves. Her flat chest suddenly swells, straining against her shirt as her tits grow to an impossible size. Her makeup, previously subtle and natural, transforms into a caked-on mess of contour, highlight, and lip gloss. The girl's eyes flutter open, now a vacant blue, and she giggles in a high-pitched, valley girl accent. "Oh, Dommmy,"
The girl's former best friend, a lanky, effeminate twink with a rainbow pin on his backpack, watches in horror as his friend is transformed into a ditzy blonde bimbo. "S-Stop it!" he stammers, but Dominic ignores him, too focused on groping his new conquest. The fag's eyes widen as he notices the changes - the blonde hair, the fake tan, the exaggerated curves. Dominic turns to him, a cruel smirk on his face. "You should be a real man, like me," he sneers. "Take a whiff of this, homo." He leans in close and sneezes directly in the fag's face. The man recoils, wiping at his nose and cheeks. Suddenly, he feels an itching sensation spreading across his skin. He looks down to see his rainbow pin dissolving, leaving a red MAGA hat in its place. Dominic laughs, a deep, mocking sound. "Pathetic,"
Dominic grins wickedly. He turns back to the blonde bimbo, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. "Look at you, you stupid slut," he sneers, his hand groping her enlarged breasts. "You're just a pretty little plaything now." He spins her around and pushes her against the wall, hiking up her skirt. The girl giggles mindlessly, her vacant blue eyes staring straight ahead. Dominic unzips his pants, his hard cock springing out. "Open wide, bitch," he growls, forcing his dick into her mouth. She gags and chokes, but he just grabs her hair and holds her in place. "Fuck, your throat feels so good," he groans, pumping in and out. The fag watches in disgust, unable to look away as his former friend is used like a fuckdoll.
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