Untitled

Aufgeblähtes Gummitier

„Was das Eis mit deinem Körper macht, sorgt dafür, dass du besser schwimmst.“ Auftrieb ist Auftrieb egal ob durch Fett oder durch Luft.

Bloated Inflatable

They are not simply bored. Boredom is too small a word for what they have cultivated. They are performing indifference as if it were a family crest. Their father has dragged them here again, into one of his formal rooms, into one of his formal afternoons, into another endless display of furniture, history, discipline, expectations and money they did not earn. They stand and sit as though the room itself is an inconvenience arranged around them.

They know he is rich. Obviously. They know he was not always rich. He tells that story too often. Something about effort, risk, humiliation, discipline, hunger, work and not having a father to rescue him. They have stopped listening to the details. The money arrived before they were old enough to ask where it came from, and in their private logic that means the money belongs to the weather. It simply exists. It falls around them. It pays for shoes, clubs, cars, tailors, hotels, rooms they leave wrecked behind them and apologies somebody else makes on their behalf.

Their father sees them in the photograph and does not see sons. He sees expensive driftwood. Two blond ornaments wrapped in tailoring and vanity. Two young men who believe that beauty is a profession, that arrogance is personality, and that a father’s patience is infinite.

They feel none of that yet. They feel only the heavy dullness of being made to attend.

Nobody noticed the music change at first. It was still bass heavy enough to shake the floorboards, still modern enough to make the bodies in the room move without thinking, but underneath it there came a second rhythm, thin and bright, like a needle finding the groove of an old record. It threaded itself under the beat and made the air feel dusty. The drinks tasted sweeter than expected, with something sharp under the fruit and soda, not bitter enough to reject, not strange enough to question. The first boy to drink was Malik, still in his red hoodie, one hand curled around the cup and the other gesturing as he laughed at Noah’s shorts. The laugh stopped in his throat. His shoulders twitched. He looked down, annoyed at first, as if someone had tugged the fabric of his hoodie from behind, but then the cotton began to tighten on him. It did not rip. That was the worst part. It behaved as if it had always been something else and was only now remembering its proper shape. The hood flattened and folded into a dark burgundy knit that crawled over his chest, thickening into a sweater vest with ribbed edges. The sleeves withdrew from his arms, sliding back until white shirt cuffs appeared beneath them, crisp and impossible, hugging his wrists with a cold starch that made him gasp. His loose black jeans climbed up his calves, the denim roughening, thickening, turning into brown tweed short trousers that fastened high at his waist with a pressure like firm hands closing buttons he could not reach. He tried to pull them down, but his fingers hit suspenders he had not been wearing a second before, straps snapping into place beneath the new vest, hidden but tight enough that every breath reminded him they were there.

Across the room, another young man dropped his cup, but the red plastic did not spill. It simply rolled in a neat half circle and stopped at Felix’s shoe. The boy, Aaron, had been holding his phone high over the crowd, filming everyone. The phone remained in his hand while his body betrayed him. His sneakers hardened first, white rubber yellowing into pale soles, then darkening into polished brown leather that pinched his toes together and forced his stance narrower. He bent forward with a sound that was almost a sob as his socks shot upward beneath his trousers, climbing his shins like living wool, burgundy bands gripping below the knee. His jeans shrank into grey shorts, hems smoothing into pressed cuffs, his belt vanishing as the waistband rose and tightened. His T shirt bleached white from the collar outward, fabric thickening against his skin, every casual wrinkle flattening into formal obedience. Buttons pushed themselves through holes that opened in perfect alignment. A tie slid around his throat like a smooth, deliberate snake, blue and narrow at first, then widening as it knotted itself beneath his chin. He clawed at it, but the knot only became more precise, drawing his collar points down and forcing his head upright. The phone camera caught his own face as it changed, not into someone else, but into a crueler version of himself, scrubbed clean of softness, hair lifting from his forehead and then being dragged sideways by an invisible comb. The sides shortened with a dry whispering sound, curls and uneven strands falling away into nothing before they touched the floor. Pomade appeared as a black shine at the roots and spread over the top of his head, slicking every strand flat into a conservative side part so hard and glossy it reflected the LED lights like wet paint.

Then the panic became general. It moved through the crowd faster than the transformation itself, because each of them understood a second before it reached them. They saw Malik staring at his own hands, now emerging from white shirt cuffs beneath a vest that made him look like a boy from a school photograph found in a dead relative’s attic. They saw Aaron’s hair sealed into place while his expression trembled underneath it. They saw the girls near the center grab at their shimmering tops and black jeans as the fabric fluttered, faded, and reassembled into short pastel dresses with neat collars, fitted waists, and crisp little skirts that swayed too cheerfully around their thighs. Their hair snapped upward into ponytails, fringes forming across their foreheads with a series of tiny tugging pulls that made them cry out and then laugh in terror when the sound came out too bright. But the young men changed more violently, not because there was blood or breaking, but because every casual part of them was being corrected. Hoodies lost their hoods. Trainers became leather. Loose trousers became high waists and pleated shorts. Bare ankles disappeared under knee socks. Wrists were disciplined by cuffs. Necks were claimed by ties. Hair was not styled so much as conquered. The room filled with the smell of starch, wool, leather polish, talcum powder, and heavy pomade, thick enough to coat the tongue.

Noah and Felix did not change at first. They stood exactly where they had stood at the beginning, smiling with the slight embarrassment of hosts watching guests finally understand the dress code. Behind them, the open doors framed the room like a display window. Outside the doors there was only darkness, though everyone knew the hallway lights had been on when they arrived. Noah lifted his cup and sipped without blinking. Felix reached out and straightened the tie of the boy nearest him, a tall young man named Darius whose navy hoodie had become a dark cable knit vest over a white shirt. Darius was trying to speak, trying to curse, but his mouth kept reshaping the words into something softer. His jaw clenched as the short back and sides formed on him, the dense curls at the sides of his head compressed and vanished into a clean, severe outline around his ears. The top remained fuller for a moment, fighting upward in its natural texture, then the shine spread through it. His hair was pulled back and sideways with such force that his eyes watered. A part appeared, sharp as a drawn line, and the rest of the hair lay down obediently, lacquered into a smooth 1950s shell. He raised both hands to ruin it, but his fingers stopped just before touching the surface. Not because he chose to stop. Because the new posture had reached his arms. His elbows lowered. His shoulders squared. His chin tucked. The body that had slouched all evening began to stand as if watched by a teacher no one could see. It was at this moment that Noah and Felix realised that they had themselves been changed as well.

The drinks had not merely changed their clothes. That became clear when the music turned again and the old record under the beat grew louder. The young men tried to run, but their new shoes held them in place for half a second too long, enough to make every step formal and useless. They tried to shout each other’s names, but the room answered with polite laughter, strained and wrong, because their voices kept smoothing out at the edges. Slang fell away. Profanity caught behind their teeth and emerged as clipped protests. “Stop this,” one of them said, his face wet with tears, but the words came out controlled, almost courteous. “Please stop this at once.” The horror of it widened his eyes more than the clothing had. His own mouth had betrayed him. His tie tightened in response, not enough to choke, just enough to remind him where his throat now belonged. His hands went to the knot again and found it perfect, firm, dimpled, impossible to loosen. The more he pulled, the more his shirt collar stiffened, clean white points pressing into the skin under his jaw until he had to lift his chin.

Malik backed into the wall under the blue LED light, breathing hard through his nose, his red cup still somehow in his hand though he had tried twice to throw it away. His burgundy vest fit him too neatly, the armholes clean around his white sleeves, the knit warm against his ribs. He could feel the old hoodie beneath it in memory only, the lost softness of it, the loose hood behind his neck, the casual weight around his shoulders. Now there was only order. His tweed shorts scratched faintly against his thighs, a constant dry reminder that his legs were exposed and disciplined at the same time. The knee socks gripped him with elastic pressure, hot and formal. His brown shoes creaked whenever he shifted, and every creak sounded adult, conservative, respectable, like someone else walking through his life. When he reached for his hair, his fingertips slid over a hard glossy wave. The sensation made his stomach turn. He knew his own hair by touch, knew its volume and texture, knew the way it resisted water and product. This was not his hair’s behavior. This was a polished surface imposed on him, a sealed sign that whatever had happened was not costume anymore.

Felix stepped into the center of the group and clapped once. The sound was not loud, but every transformed head turned toward him. That was the next violation. Their bodies responded before their minds agreed. The young men stood with hands at their sides or tucked politely into pockets, shoulders back, feet placed neatly, ties centered. The girls, now in short dresses with ponytails and fringes, gathered closer to the middle with frightened smiles trembling on their faces, as if the new expressions had been painted over their terror. The party still looked like a party if seen from the doorway. Red cups, colored lights, polished shoes, laughter, a crowd of bright young faces. But inside the room everyone could feel the wrongness tightening like another layer of clothing. Noah walked slowly from one guest to the next, inspecting collars, sweater vests, hair parts, sock height, the shine on shoes. When he found imperfection, the room corrected it for him. A loose tie knot cinched itself. A shirt cuff lengthened. A curl flattened. A pair of shorts sharpened its crease. A boy who had been shaking too badly to stand straight suddenly froze, spine aligned, chin level, cheeks pale with the effort of silently resisting muscles that no longer took instructions from him.

“You wanted a theme,” Noah said at last, and his voice carried over the old music with dreadful calm. “We simply made sure everyone participated.”

That was when they understood that the photograph was the point. Felix raised the phone that Aaron had dropped. The screen lit up by itself. The camera opened. The group shifted without consent into the arrangement the two boys wanted, bodies sliding inches at a time, shoulders overlapping, red cups lifted, smiles dragged onto faces that were still wet with fear. The front row formed first. Noah and Felix stood proudly at either side, almost unchanged because they had already chosen their parts. The girl in the blue dress was pulled into the center, laughing soundlessly while tears clung to her lashes, her ponytail bouncing as if delighted. Behind them the young men filled the room, each one transformed into a polished conservative echo of the two hosts, sweater vests in burgundy, green, navy, cream, and tan, ties neatly knotted, short trousers pressed, knee socks high, hair slicked into identical obedience while their eyes remained fully awake inside the nightmare. The flash did not go off. It did not need to. The LED lights flared blue and red, and the image fixed itself somewhere deeper than a phone gallery.

By morning, nobody outside the room remembered the party differently. Their parents saw the picture and laughed at the commitment. Their friends who had left early commented on the outfits and asked where everyone had found the clothes. The transformed young men said little. They came to breakfast with their hair still slicked, though some had washed it six times and scraped their scalps raw trying to break the shine. They tried to wear normal clothes at first, but the fabric sat badly on them, loose and offensive, until by evening each had found himself reaching for a white shirt, a tie, a sweater vest, tailored shorts, long socks, polished shoes. Not because they wanted to. Because anything else made their skin crawl. Their old voices never returned and politeness always rose first when speaking. Please. Thank you. At once. Of course. Yes, sir. And whenever music played too loud or a red cup appeared in someone’s hand, they would all go still, feeling again the invisible comb at the scalp, the tightening collar at the throat, the warm grip of wool at the ribs, and the terrible knowledge that the party would never really end.

Chadwick "The Chain" Miller lived for the snap of elastic. He was six-foot-two of pure, unadulterated jock ego, and his favorite target was Arthur, a kid who carried a briefcase and actually understood how the Wi-Fi worked.

"Hey, Artie!" Chad barked, cornering him near the chemistry lab. "I think your drawers need a relocation service."

Chad reached out, grabbed the waistband of Arthur’s plaid boxers, and gave a violent, upward yank. But instead of a cry of pain, a strange, low hum vibrated through the air.

The First Snap: The Complexion

As Chad pulled, a searing heat traveled from Arthur’s waistband into Chad’s own skin. Suddenly, Chad’s forehead began to itch uncontrollably. In the reflection of a nearby trophy case, dozens of angry, red pimples began to erupt across his chin and forehead like a rapidly growing constellation. His skin went from "golden tan" to "oil-slicked disaster" in three seconds flat.

"What did you do to me?" Chad hissed, his voice cracking an octave higher.

"I didn't do anything," Arthur said calmly, adjusting his glasses. "But physics—and maybe a little ancient geometry—has a way of balancing the scales."

The Second Snap: The Coiffure

Infuriated, Chad went for a second yank, lifting Arthur nearly off the floor. Twang! The air smelled like ozone and old library books. Chad’s thick, gelled pompadour began to recede and reshape itself with a mind of its own. His hair flattened at the top, buzzed short on the sides, and settled into a stiff, perfectly level micro flattop. It was the kind of haircut that screamed "I calculate the trajectory of model rockets for fun."

Chad reached up, feeling the prickly, flat landing pad on his head. "My hair! My beautiful flow!"

The Final Transformation

Desperate to regain his dominance, Chad lunged for one final, soul-crushing wedgie. He pulled with everything he had.

A flash of violet light filled the hallway. Chad’s letterman jacket shrivelled and morphed into a short-sleeved button-down with a plastic pocket protector. His contact lenses blurred, and a pair of heavy, horn-rimmed glasses with a taped bridge materialized on his face, magnifying his eyes to the size of dinner plates.

Even his muscle mass seemed to migrate from his biceps directly into a bulging backpack full of oversized calculus textbooks.

The bully formerly known as Chad stood there, blinking behind his thick lenses. He tried to let out a menacing growl, but all that came out was a high-pitched snort. He reached for his waistband, which was now pulled up high—well above his belly button.

"Everything alright?" Arthur asked, picking up his briefcase.

The boy checked his new ID card, which had magically appeared in his shirt pocket. The name 'Chadwick' had vanished, replaced by a name that felt much more appropriate for someone who spent his Friday nights organizing stamp collections.

I cornered Arthur outside the chemistry lab, still certain the hallway belonged to me.

My first yank froze in my hands as oil spread across my face and red pimples broke through my skin.

The second pull hit back hard, and my hair locked into a perfectly level micro flattop.

My final yank tore the jock out of me: my jacket vanished, my trousers climbed past my navel, and Milton Pringle stared out through taped horn rimmed glasses.

Master Benedict Harrow found Felix by the window at nine in the morning, and for one sharp instant the room seemed to stop around the sight of him. The old upstairs studio had been left half prepared for the day, with a wooden chair turned toward the pale light, dust floating in the beams, and a shirt hanging uselessly over Felix’s shoulder as though it were an ornament rather than part of his required dress. He sat bare chested, relaxed into the chair, one hand gripping the cloth near his collarbone, the other resting with studied ease along the chair back. His trousers were pale and informal, the line at his waist careless, his feet not properly dressed, and his hair, worst of all, fell in a damp loose sweep over his forehead instead of lying in the strict lacquered side parting that had been ordered the night before. He looked beautiful, but Benedict’s face hardened because beauty was not the assignment. The assignment had been obedience to code.

Felix saw him in the doorway and immediately knew. The expression on his face changed before he managed to control it, the faint pride in the pose collapsing into something tighter and more defensive. He had expected perhaps a later correction, perhaps a remark after breakfast, perhaps the old familiar negotiation in which he could make his carelessness sound like experimentation. Benedict allowed none of that space to open. He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and looked Felix over from hair to bare feet with the cold precision of a man inspecting a uniform violation on parade. There was no shouting. That would have given Felix something dramatic to resist. Instead there was only the quiet fact of the master’s presence and the sudden certainty that the morning had changed.

“Stand up,” Benedict said, and the words landed with such controlled force that Felix rose before he had fully decided to obey. The shirt slid lower on his shoulder, and he caught it awkwardly against his chest, no longer elegant, no longer composed, simply a young man caught halfway between defiance and embarrassment. The air in the room touched his bare skin now that he was upright, and what had felt casually confident while seated became exposed under Benedict’s gaze. He could feel the unstarched softness of his appearance as a failure against his own body, the loose hair cooling at his temple, the casual trousers brushing low across his hips, the absence of collar, cuff, blazer, bow tie, socks, shoes, and polish suddenly louder than any spoken accusation.

“You were given the code last night,” Benedict said, moving toward the cabinet where the household dressing supplies were kept for exactly this sort of breach. “You repeated it back to me. Navy double breasted blazer, eight gold buttons visible, high collar white shirt, French cuffs, bow tie, khaki trousers, blue sheer socks, tassel loafers, hair short back and sides with a strict glossy side parting. You understood every part of it.” Felix opened his mouth, but Benedict did not look at him while taking the collar box from the shelf, which somehow made the silence more severe. “Do not explain. Explanation belongs to confusion. This is not confusion.”

Felix lowered his eyes and felt the heat rise in his face. He had not forgotten the code. That was the humiliating truth. He had simply disliked the force of it that morning, disliked the idea of surrendering his loose hair to pomade, disliked the white high collar pressing under his jaw, disliked how completely the navy blazer would reshape him into Benedict’s idea of a proper young gentleman. He had wanted a few more minutes of ease. A few more minutes looking like himself before the household claimed him. Yet now Benedict had seen exactly that private resistance made visible, and the consequences arrived without delay. Within seconds the room was no longer a refuge by the window. It had become a dressing room, a correction chamber, a place where the code would be restored with no sentimental pause.

Benedict rang the small brass bell beside the cabinet, and Barton entered almost immediately with the efficient calm of a man who had been waiting for the sound. He carried a dark garment bag over one arm and a polished leather dressing case in the other. Behind him came Mr. Cross, the tailor, already wearing his measuring tape around his neck and already looking at Felix not as a person in distress but as a badly arranged form requiring immediate repair. No one commented on Felix’s bare chest. No one asked why he was underdressed. Their lack of surprise was worse than scolding. It told him this had already been anticipated as a possibility, and that Benedict had prepared for his failure before Felix had even committed it.

“Five minutes,” Benedict said. “Full correction.”

Cross nodded once and opened the case on the table with a hard little snap. Inside lay the tools of restoration in exact order: cufflinks, collar studs, a stiff high collar wrapped in white tissue, a folded bow tie, a clothes brush, a shoehorn, a tortoiseshell comb, a hard bristle hairbrush, pomade, and a small bottle of lacquer spray. Barton unzipped the garment bag, and the navy blazer appeared in the cold light by the window, structured, formal, and uncompromising. Felix saw the gold buttons first, because Benedict’s rule on that point had been repeated so often that his eye went there automatically. Eight buttons, four vertical pairs, two clean columns. Not six. Not decorative suggestion. Eight visible signs of order.

“Arms,” Cross said, and Felix obeyed with a tight throat. The shirt went on first, crisp white cotton sliding over skin that still carried the chill of the room. It was not gentle. Not rough, but exacting. The fabric moved over his shoulders and chest with a dry pressed whisper, covering the careless exposure and replacing it with clean tension. Cross pulled the seams into place, aligned the placket, smoothed the front, and fastened the buttons quickly from waist to throat. Felix felt himself disappear beneath the first layer of code. The shirt changed his posture before the collar even arrived, because once the cotton sat correctly across him there was already less room to slump.

The high collar was taken from its tissue, and Felix had to force himself not to flinch. Benedict saw the effort and said nothing, which was worse than correction because it made Felix feel his own resistance in full. Cross set the collar at his neck, fixed the back stud, then the front, and the stiff white band rose beneath Felix’s jaw with clean, formal pressure. It held him immediately. His chin lifted because the collar required it. The soft, bare, half dressed young man by the window was being erased in pieces, and Felix could feel every piece of that erasure against his skin. The French cuffs came next, turned back with neat precision at his wrists, the cufflinks pushed through and fastened with a small metallic click. That sound struck him harder than it should have. It was the sound of choice closing.

“Bow tie,” Benedict said from behind Cross, and Felix looked briefly toward him in the mirror above the cabinet. Benedict’s expression had not softened, but there was nothing theatrical in it. He did not enjoy disorder. He corrected it. That was all. Cross fitted the bow tie around the high collar and tied it by hand, tightening the shape until it sat perfectly centered beneath Felix’s throat. The knot was compact, symmetrical, and severe. Felix swallowed against the collar and felt the bow move slightly against him. He wanted to say that it was too tight, but it was not. It was simply correct, and that made complaint useless.

The trousers followed with the same merciless speed. Barton placed the khaki pair behind the screen, and Felix changed under the pressure of three men waiting in silence. The fabric sat higher and cleaner than what he had chosen, controlled through the waist and smooth along the thighs, tailored to make lounging difficult and proper sitting almost inevitable. When he stepped out again, Cross inspected the fall of the cloth, adjusted the waistband, and brushed a speck from the left thigh. Blue sheer socks were pulled on next, cool and close against his skin, a fine disciplined layer where bare ease had been. Then came the tassel loafers, dark polished leather, firm at the heel, their weight changing the way his feet met the floor. In less than three minutes he no longer felt unfinished. He felt captured by detail.

Benedict lifted the blazer himself. That alone made Felix still. Cross could have done it, Barton could have done it, but Benedict chose to take the navy wool from the hanger and step behind him. Felix felt the lining open at his back, then the weight of the jacket settling over his shoulders. It was not heavy in any crude sense, but it had authority. The structured shoulders squared him. The tailored waist drew him inward. The lapels framed the high white collar and bow tie with a strict elegance that made the earlier half dressed pose seem almost obscene in its laziness. Benedict pulled the fronts into place, and Cross fastened the correct inner closure so the double breasted line sat clean.

Then Benedict counted the buttons aloud, not loudly, but clearly enough that every number became a lesson. “One pair. Two pairs. Three pairs. Four pairs.” His eyes moved over the two clean columns of gold. “Eight visible buttons. That is what was ordered. That is what will be worn.” Felix looked down despite himself, and the sight affected him more than he wanted it to. The blazer had transformed him completely. The navy against the khaki trousers, the gold buttons, the bow tie, the hard white collar, the French cuffs flashing at the wrists, the blue socks and polished loafers below, all of it assembled him into a young gentleman he had tried to delay becoming that morning. He hated the speed of it because the speed proved how little mystery there had been in his resistance.

“Hair,” Benedict said, and Felix’s stomach tightened because the final violation had been the most deliberate one. The damp, loose fall over his forehead had not been accidental. He had left it that way because it softened him, modernized him, gave him back the vanity Benedict kept cutting away. Cross placed the chair in the center of the room, and Felix sat with the blazer buttoned around him, suddenly aware of the high collar preventing him from dropping his head too far. Benedict stood behind him this time and took the comb himself. The first pass drew the damp hair backward from Felix’s forehead, exposing his face more fully than he liked. The second pass divided it into a sharp side parting. The third began to impose direction.

Pomade came next, worked between Benedict’s fingers until it gleamed. Felix felt it press into his hair, cool and dense, then the comb returned with firmer authority. The loose strands were drawn flat, aligned, disciplined into shape. Short back and sides, controlled top, strict side parting, glossy surface. The brush followed, harder than the comb, smoothing the hair into a shell of order. Felix watched his reflection change with each pass. The softness around his forehead vanished. The line of his face became cleaner and more severe. The high collar suddenly made sense beneath the corrected hair, and that irritated him because the whole code was beginning to work as a single structure. The clothes required the posture. The posture required the hair. The hair required the face to stop hiding.

Benedict finished with a light application of lacquer spray, then used the comb once more at the parting until the line was exact. The gloss caught the pale window light. The hair no longer moved when Felix shifted. It belonged to the code now, as much as the blazer, the bow tie, the French cuffs, and the shoes. Cross removed the towel from his shoulders and stepped back. Barton picked up the discarded shirt and the casual trousers without ceremony, folding the evidence of the breach out of sight. The whole correction had taken less than eight minutes, yet Felix felt as if the morning had been split into before and after.

Benedict turned him toward the full length mirror. Felix resisted for half a breath, then looked. The young man staring back at him was still himself, but sharpened, contained, forced into legibility. The navy double breasted blazer sat clean and formal with all eight gold buttons visible in two columns. The high collar lifted his jaw. The bow tie centered him. The French cuffs showed at the sleeves with cufflinks catching light. Khaki trousers fell properly. Blue sheer socks and tassel loafers completed the line to the floor. The glossy side parting removed the last trace of careless vanity. He looked older, stricter, more expensive, and less available to his own whims.

“You thought you could have a few minutes outside the code,” Benedict said, standing just behind his shoulder in the mirror. His voice was calm, but the calm made the words sink deeper. “That is always how relapse begins. Not with rebellion announced openly, but with a small indulgence you tell yourself does not count. A loose shirt. Bare skin. Undressed feet. Hair left to fall where it likes. Five minutes of self permission. Then ten. Then a morning. Then a habit.” Felix’s eyes stayed on the mirror. The collar held his neck straight, so he had to face himself while he listened. “I will not wait for habit,” Benedict continued. “I will correct the first minute.”

Felix’s hands curled once at his sides, then released. The blazer sleeves shifted over his wrists, and the French cuffs pressed neatly against his skin. He could still feel the memory of the earlier state, the air on his torso, the easy chair, the loose shirt, the reckless pleasure of almost being admired for disorder. But the memory had no practical force now. He had been seen, stopped, dressed, shaped, and returned to code before his disobedience could settle into confidence. That was Benedict’s method. Immediate action. Swift correction. No audience, no debate, no time for vanity to defend itself.

“Do you understand why I stepped in?” Benedict asked, but the question was not an invitation to negotiate. It was the final locking of the lesson. Felix looked at himself in the mirror, at the hard clean line of his hair, at the high collar, at the eight gold buttons shining down the front of the navy blazer, and he understood that Benedict had not corrected an outfit. He had corrected a direction. Left alone, the morning would have become an excuse. Interrupted, it had become a boundary.

“Yes, Master,” Felix said, quietly but clearly. “Because I disregarded the code again.”

Benedict adjusted one lapel by a fraction, then stepped back. “And what happens when you disregard it again?”

Felix held his own reflection. The collar gave him no room to bow his head. “You step in immediately.”

“Within minutes,” Benedict said.

Felix swallowed, feeling the bow tie, the collar, the blazer, the entire structure of obedience settled on him. “Within minutes,” he repeated.

The first thing it took from me was movement. My spine straightened with a sharp, invisible pull, dragging my shoulders back until my chest lifted and my stomach tightened. The stool suddenly felt too low, too casual, too intimate, and my bare skin prickled as if a cold examiner had stepped behind me. My feet, still planted in those ridiculous burgundy socks, slid into a neat parallel line beneath the counter. My knees parted no more than the exact amount required for posture, and my hands settled flat on either side of the laptop, fingers long, quiet, disciplined. I could breathe, but not slouch. I could blink, but not look away. On the screen, a diagram of a man in formal dress rotated slowly, gray suit, white shirt, waistcoat, burgundy bow tie, polished black shoes set beside his chair. Under it, a line of text appeared. Every adult male shall maintain a respectable silhouette, a controlled haircut, a clean face, and attire suitable for civic dignity at all hours of productive labor.

My scalp began to crawl. It was not pain at first, only pressure, a thousand tiny threads tightening at the roots of my hair. I watched my reflection in the dark band at the top of the laptop screen as my messy front lifted by itself, strand after strand separating, glistening, obeying. Something warm and slick spread from my crown to my temples. My part carved itself into place with surgical precision, a hard, shining line above my left brow. The longer hair at my sides flattened, then drew tight to my skull, darkening as if varnished. I heard the faintest whisper, like scissors moving through silk. Hair vanished from my neck, from around my ears, from every careless place where it had grown wild and human. The sides shortened to a severe, close finish, the back cleaned into a crisp taper that made my skull feel exposed and elegant. The top rolled back into a controlled sweep, glossy and deliberate, not a single strand free. I tried to shake it loose. My neck refused. My reflection stared back with a face I recognized and did not recognize, older, colder, arranged.

Then my face changed. The stubble I had ignored that morning prickled and disappeared, each dark grain withdrawing into smooth skin until my jaw looked freshly shaved, almost polished. My cheekbones seemed sharper because my expression had been corrected. My mouth relaxed from annoyance into a composed line. Even my eyes behind the glasses lost their lazy impatience. The lenses cleared. The frames adjusted higher on my nose. I looked like a man caught halfway between a portrait and a verdict. My smartwatch vibrated once and died, its black screen reflecting the new part in my hair. The laptop displayed the next article of law. Shirts shall be worn. Collars shall be fastened. Decorative neckwear shall signify obedience to civil order. I felt the air gather around my bare torso.

The white shirt rose from the floor without unfolding like cloth. It opened in front of me as if held by invisible hands, crisp, bright, and terrifyingly clean. My arms lifted from the counter against my will. The sleeves swallowed my wrists first, cool cotton sliding over my forearms, then climbing over my shoulders and around my back. The fabric kissed every inch of skin it covered, not soft like pajamas, but smooth with command, starched enough to remind me that comfort had been demoted. The front panels met over my chest. Buttons slipped through holes one by one, closing me in with tiny, final clicks. The collar came last. It rose against my throat, stiff and white, pressing under my jaw until I had to hold my head higher. Cuffs tightened around my wrists, clean and formal, trapping the memory of my bare morning beneath ceremony.

The waistcoat followed. Gray wool pulled itself around me, snug at my ribs, firm over my stomach, shaping me into a narrower, more obedient outline. The buttons fastened from bottom to top, each one tugging me deeper into the new version of myself. My breathing became smaller, neater. The bow tie appeared as a strip of burgundy silk on the marble, then lifted like a living thing. It circled my collar, tightened at my throat, and tied itself into a perfect symmetrical knot beneath my chin. The color matched my socks so precisely that my skin went cold. It had noticed everything. The law had seen the ridiculousness of me and decided to make it formal.

The jacket came down over my shoulders with the weight of judgment. Gray, tailored, immaculate. The sleeves ended at exactly the right place, allowing the white cuffs to show like evidence. The lapels flattened against my chest. The shoulders squared me into a shape that looked expensive and obedient, the kind of man people trusted before they knew him and feared after they did. I wanted to rip it off. My fingers only returned to the keyboard. Below the counter, my shorts tightened. The thin blue fabric shivered, thickened, darkened, and reshaped itself into tailored gray dress shorts, high at the waist, pressed with sharp creases that ran down my thighs. The waistband cinched me upright. The hem settled far above the knee, modest in its own strange, old fashioned way, displaying my legs not casually now, but as part of an enforced uniform. The burgundy socks pulled higher, smoothing themselves over my calves until they sat perfectly below my knees, dark and glossy, no wrinkle permitted.

A pair of black loafers slid into view beside my feet, polished so brightly they looked wet. My toes curled in protest inside the socks. My heels lifted. One foot entered, then the other, leather closing around me with a tight, elegant grip. The shoes aligned themselves on the wooden floor, toes forward, heels still, my body now completed from slick hair to shining black leather. My discarded clothes were no longer a mess. They had arranged themselves beside the stool in a neat, condemned pile, as though my former life had been catalogued and rejected. The laptop camera clicked. A green check appeared under my image. “Remote worker corrected,” the voice said. “Civic presentation acceptable. Continued monitoring active.”

A family beach vacation isn't your typical experience. Especially for your nerdy little brother who always locks himself in his room playing Minecraft for hours. Of course, he's bored now.

“Your haircut says a lot about who you are; we make it say the right things” Read the sign for the new barber shop that opened up by some company called Big Pop’s. Liam was in desperate need for a haircut so he was eager to see if they were any good. His fiancé had been getting on him recently for not being as prepared as she was for the wedding. Because if this, he figured he could find a new barber and a after a friend recommended Big Pop’s he figured it would be a good place to start.

As he walked in, a large man greeted him from behind the desk. “Welcome to Big Pop’s, this your first time?” he said with a deep, bellowing voice. “What’s your name son?” Liam felt slightly intimidated by the guy, his booming voice matching his beefy, hairy body. Guys like him normally worked construction, not as barbers. “Yeah this is my first time, the name’s Liam,” Liam replied in a softer voice than usual. “Are you Big Pop?” he asked. “That’s me, the one and the only!” Big Pop responded with a chuckle. He stood up from the desk and Liam was able to fully see just how big he was. At least 6’8 and 420 pounds, Big Pop dwarfed Liam’s 5’11 and 175 pound frame. His gut looked as if he’d inflated a beach ball inside of it and it was barely contained in his shirt.

“Well Liam,” Big Pop spoke again as he started to walk towards the back. “I’ll be sure to give you a haircut I know you’ll love. Now do you want to come get comfortable back here and tell me about yourself?” he continued. Liam walked behind him into a room that looked standard for a barber shop. He was still in awe at the size of his barber who’s massive body jiggled with each step, almost placing Liam into a trance. Normally he found people, especially guys, of this size disgusting but something about Big Pop was almost enticing to him in a strange way. “Now come sit down here and I can get started,” Big Pop said, his loud voice shaking Liam out of his trance before he walked over and sat down.

“I usually decide how to cut my customers hair, is that alright?. Barbers can know ya better than ya self most of the time,” Big Pop said with a chuckle. Liam’s hair had begun to stand up on its ends as he stared into the mirror with the large man behind him, completely surrounding Liam’s silhouette. “Yeah that works for me,” Liam squeaked out in response. Soon the barber began to work his magic, sliding around Liam with grace he never would’ve expected from such a big man. Throughout the cut, his gut would rub against Liam sending shivers down his spine and into his dick. With each press of Big Pop’s belly into Liam’s back, his dick grew harder and harder. So distracted by the physical contact, Liam barely noticed his body slowly growing.

Soon the changes were being to stretch his clothes but Liam hadn’t noticed. Big Pop had gotten more and more sensual with his contact throughout the haircut, now being sure to give Liam massages if he had a free hand and occasionally placing his gut in his clients lap to reach over his front. It was clear Liam was enjoying all of it, completely enthralled with Big Pop’s body as his dick grew hard from the tension. By now his own gut had begun to stretch across his lap and his arms had gotten flabby. Big, chubby tits had replaced his once hard pecs and his face had gotten rounder. Most impressively, his thighs had grown incredibly fat and juicy and were beginning to threaten to split the fabric of his shorts. He had to have gained at least 100 pounds, At this point Big Pop was nearly finished with the haircut, opting to give the fatty in his barber chair a buzz cut for the summer heat.

As the last part of his hair was buzzed down, Liam’s body went through a rapid growth to end his transformation. “All done big man,” Big Pop said with a smile. “I’m sure you’ll like it, that’s the Big Pop guarantee!” Piling on another 75 pounds with the final stroke, the man burst out of his clothing in a spectacular fashion. A belly that was approaching the size of Big Pop’s had ruptured his t-shirt in multiple places causing the fabric to almost explode off his ballooning torso. His giant tits hung over his stomach like over filled water balloons that completed his equally enlarged arms which had once been toned and muscular. His thighs had now tripled in size and as thick as columns, barely being contained by his underwear. It was incredible how large they had become, all the muscle that he had worked hard to build had melted away into twice as much fat that jiggled as he stood up from the chair.

Unsure of how this transformation had happened, Liam could only stare into the mirror at his big, squishy new body. No longer did Big Pop’s silhouette engulf his, now the two were much closer in size. He could not even remember being muscular and fit anymore, just a huge, lazy ex jock who replaced working out with eating after college. He started to wonder what his fiancé would think about the change until he saw motion behind him in the mirror. Turning around he saw Big Pop’s pants belt undone and zipper down with a thick, veiny, rock hard cock staring back at him. “Now big guy, I’m gonna need somethin’ in exchange for your new look,” Big Pop said then started to stroke his huge penis. “I can’t take cash at the moment but I’m sure ya figure somethin’ out.” Liam barely thought about what he was doing and got on his knees, put his mouth around Big Pop’s dick, and began to suck. With his new body, he doubted his fiancé would want to continue on with the wedding and he wasn’t too upset, turns out dick is much more up his alley.

Andrew dropped his practice pads on the floor next to the door, his football helmet rolling around while he sauntered to the kitchen looking for something to refuel. This summer had been a grueling few months of preparation for his first college football season but he was now in the best shape of his life. His sweaty undershirt stuck to his abs and pecs, showing off his newly defined and muscular torso. Pulling out the ingredients for a protein shake, he heard the television on in the living room. “Sounds like my lazy brother has been watching television all day again,” he thought to himself. Andrew and his twin brother Thomas had always both been athletic guys throughout high school, Andrew on the football team and Thomas a wrestler. Until graduation, the two would workout with each other all the time but after Thomas decided to not do wrestling in college he had begun to become more sedentary. At first it was just him missing an occasional workout but after Andrew had gotten busy with football it seemed like Thomas spent all his time on the couch. Andrew finished making his shake and sat down opposite of his brother who was sitting in a recliner shirtless watching some TV show. Andrew couldn’t help but notice how pudgy his brother had gotten: definitively not chubby but his stomach was no longer flat and had begun to have some softness. His chest and arms looked squishier than they did a month ago around the last time he went to the gym, but the still retained a beefy look from the muscle he still had.

“Yo, how was practice bro?” Thomas asked. “Sure you don’t wanna shower before hopping on the couch? I can smell you from here!” Thomas said with a chuckle. His belly had a slight jiggle to it as he laughed. “Fuck off, dude. At least I am sweating. Your lazy ass hasn’t gotten out of that recliner in a month!” Andrew retorted, standing up from the couch after downing his shake. “You’re getting a little big there, tubs.” As he walked past his twin, he gave him a nice slap on the belly and was surprised by the slight jiggle and recoil it had. His brother retaliated with a playful punch to the arm and said, “Hey, I’m just relaxing this summer I’ll get back into the swing of things in college, you’ll see.” They were both heading off to college in just two weeks, Andrew staying in state and Thomas leaving for a private school. As Andrew walked over to the stairs, he turned around and saw Thomas poking his soft gut. Suddenly he felt a little flustered for some reason. He had only felt this way when he occasionally caught glances of the big lineman on his team changing in the locker room but Thomas was his brother.

After he showered and got dressed, Andrew came back downstairs to find his brother standing in the kitchen with a tub of ice cream in hand. Thomas looked as if he had been digging into the quart for a while given the amount gone from the case and the messy dribbles of melted dairy on his chest. “I guess ice cream is the only thing that’ll get you off you ass, tubs!” Andrew teased as he walked towards his twin to grab a glass of water. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying yourself, huh?” Thomas’ attention shot up to his brother and looked ashamed of himself. He hurriedly put the ice cream away and retorted, “Dude, I just got a little hungry don’t judge.” As Andrew passed by his gave Thomas’s side a little squeeze. “Hey bro, eat whatever you want,” Andrew said. “Just don’t blame me when you start to get truly fat. Those love handles are already coming in!” Andrew laughed while his brother looked at his side and checked out the new softness he was starting to get on his torso. It was interesting watching his brother notice the impact his new habits were having on his body. While he definitely wouldn’t admit it, Thomas looked like he was having fun poking and prodding his soft stomach. Andrew felt himself blush at the sight of it and even noticed his dick grow a little hard. He couldn’t help but feeling aroused from watching his twin grow.

The next two weeks before the brothers left for college went along about the same as that day: Andrew leaving for practice with Thomas on the couch. Each day, the football player would come home to his brother pigging out on something in the kitchen only to shamefully put it away. Andrew had to guess Thomas was headed to the grocery store daily with all of the brownies, cookies, cakes, and ice cream he seemed to be putting away. Every time he saw his brother stuffing his face his dick got harder than the last until eventually he found himself needing to rush upstairs to pound one off in the shower. It wasn’t helping Thomas rarely wore a shirt, his exposed torso constantly revealing the damage he’d done to himself over the summer. Andrew would see him play with his newly pudgy stomach and sides, experimenting with how much chub he could grab. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take of seeing his twin blow up, Thomas disappearing to college would definitely help him get over these feelings. Too often while jacking off to some porn his mind would wander, fantasizing about what his twin would look like with even more weight on him.

The night before Thomas was to move out, Andrew had a late craving for some food staying up later than he had due to a break before school started the next day. Walking slowly downstairs as to not wake anybody up he crept to the kitchen in just his underwear. Looking around the corner from the dark he stopped in shock and awe of the sight before him. In the kitchen stood Thomas standing in front of a pile of snacks and desserts, eating the last of his stockpile before he left for college. He was enjoying a plate of brownies at the moment, pushing them into his mouth while he chewed. It was clear he was enjoying himself and without the shame or embarrassment that he wore on his face when Andrew had previously spot him mid-binge. Part of Andrew wondered if Thomas had always pigged out like this and exercising so much helped keep the calories off or if this indulgence was something he had given in to recently. The more he watched the harder he grew and while his twin finished the brownies and started on some ice cream Andrew found himself playing with his now solid cock. The low light below the microwave was providing the perfect illumination of Thomas’s body, exaggerating every new curve on his figure. The more he ate the more distended his stomach became. Andrew could only imagine it wouldn’t be long until he looked like that normally, his puffy pecs resting on a well-stuffed gut.

His dick was more sensitive than ever, feeling every stroke as he continued to watch Thomas stuff his face. When his brother started to drain the melted quart into his mouth, Andrew gave into his urges and pulled the waistband of his underwear down to reveal his dick. Watching his twins throat gulp, he tried to keep the same rhythm on his shaft with long strokes. It felt so wrong to be lusting after his brother, especially in this way, but it was clear to Andrew that these urges wouldn’t be going away for a while. As a little bit of chocolate fudge ice cream dripped off Thomas’s chin so too did precum leak from Andrew’s cock, a foretelling of what might come next. Once Thomas switched to his last treat, a tray of cupcakes, Andrew was close to bursting one out in the hallway. As his twin continued to eat, he slunk back up the stairs and hurried to his bedroom to finish the job. All he could think about was Thomas standing in the kitchen stuffing his face but about one hundred pounds heavier. His mind wandered to sucking on those large tits and playing with his round gut, watching it bounce and jiggle from his hands. It didn’t take long for him to shoot across his chest and stomach, firing off one of the largest loads in his life. All he could do after was lay back and breathe heavily. He felt a little guilty for what he had just done and very relieved that Thomas was about to leave because of the shame he felt but at the same time he couldn’t help but feel the next time he’d see his brother he’d be much bigger.

Da ich nicht so mit dem angeblichen Tierleid moralisch zu kriegen bin, erzählte mir meine Mutter, meine tierfressenden Freunde seien ja meist fett oder zumindestens pummelig. Wenn ich schlank, attraktiv und in Form bleiben möchte, solle ich mich weiter vegetarisch ernähren. Ich habe ihr gesagt, dass man genauso gut und schnell fett werden kann als Vegetarier, wenn man sich nur ungesund genug ernährt, und habe gemeint, ich könne problemlos binnen drei Monaten zwanzig Kilo zunehmen. Wenn ich das schaffe, wird sie nichts mehr sagen, wenn ich tote Tiere esse und sogar mir Fleisch kaufen. Ich kann nur sagen Süßigkeiten, Pasta, Hülsenfrüchte, Weißmehlgebäck und Käse und schon habe ich in zwei Monaten 14 Kilo mehr.

"Ever since I discovered my fascination with hypnosis, mind control, and possession of men, I’ve been imagining all sorts of stories. I started out by drawing inspiration from scenes in movies and other stories, but soon I found myself creating my own worlds, blending those interests with fantasy and adventure. Aliens, microchips, demons, computer viruses, you name it. it’s sparked an idea in my mind, and now I’m excited to finally share them with you."

When I realized there were other people out there who were into the same kind of stories, it felt like the perfect opportunity to not only share what’s been in my head but also challenge myself to put it all into writing. Over the last few days, I’ve dropped a few hints about what’s coming, and now it’s time to lay it all out for you.

As you may have guessed, I’ll be starting to write and share new stories!

These will be some of the main themes in my stories.

Every first weekend of the month, there’ll be a new story, and the first chapter of each will be free for everyone to enjoy. But if you don’t want to miss a single chapter, I’m introducing two subscription options.

The Base subscription gives you access to all the chapters of every story I write, so you’ll never miss out on anything.

Then there will be the Premium subscription, where you can get more involved, help decide how some stories continue, and even download exclusive images from the stories.

But that’s not all...

If you’ve ever had a spark of an idea, maybe a place or a person inspires you, but you don’t have the time or aren’t sure how to turn it into a story, I’ve got you covered. I’ll be opening commissions, where I’ll bring your ideas to life in custom stories written just for you.

And it doesn’t stop there! I’ll also be selling small collections of AI-generated images.

All of this will allow me to invest in better tools, meaning even higher-quality images and stories for you—like the ones I’ve teased in this post.

I can’t wait to share this new beginning with you and hear your own ideas. I’ll be posting the full details on commissions, subscriptions, and everything else very soon. Stay tuned because all of this will be on my DeviantArt profile. below the link!!

and let me know what do you think!!!