Rafael 🔹 For Real

The two jocks had no idea why coach wanted them to recruit that nerdy little kid, but coach said so, so they acquired him.

They waited for him after debate club and caught him in an empty corridor. Grabbing him was easy, no muscle, no strength, no resistance.

Brock just had to put the phone in front of the little kid, and quickly he was caught up in the spiral. They just stood there and waited for a few minutes it took for the programming to really kick in. When the boy finally closed his eyes they knew he was subdued and ready for coach.

It was late, past midnight, and the room was dark except for the glow of the phone screen reflecting off Marcus’s broad chest. He was lying back against a pile of pillows, one thick arm behind his head, thumb lazily scrolling through nothing in particular. Just a big dude winding down, loose sweatpants riding low on his hips, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The notification came through with a soft buzz. A banner slid down from the top of the screen: **Unknown** — image attachment.

Marcus squinted. No preview. He almost swiped it away, but his thumb tapped it open instead. The screen filled with a simple spiral, black and white, spinning slow, and right at the center in bold pink letters it said: **MILK TIME**.

His eyes locked onto it. His jaw went slack. The phone stayed gripped in his hand, but his pupils dilated wide, breath slowing into something deep and automatic. The spiral kept turning. Somewhere in the back of his head, a switch flipped.

He blinked once, slowly, then sat up. No expression. He propped the phone against the lamp on the nightstand, camera facing the bed, and hit record. The red light blinked on.

Marcus stood in front of the camera, huge frame filling the shot. His hands came up to his chest, thick fingers spreading over the slabs of muscle. He squeezed. His pecs bulged between his knuckles, the dark nipples stiffening under his thumbs as he started to roll them in slow, hard circles.

His voice came out low and flat, but the words were slick and dirty. “Yes master. The black bull is milking himself.”

He pinched his nipples, pulling them out, letting the flesh snap back. The camera caught every detail—the way his chest heaved, the way his sweatpants started to tent, the wet shine his thumbs left behind as he kept rubbing. He flexed, released, squeezed again, working his own tits like he was trying to pull something out. All of it on video. The recording went on for three full minutes before he stopped it with a blank stare and sent the file back to the Unknown chat. He didn’t watch it. He didn’t remember it.

---

A few months back, Marcus had been horny and half-drunk on a Tuesday night, clicking through link after link on some shady tube site. Free premium videos, no credit card, just verify you’re over eighteen. He’d clicked yes. The page loaded with a flicker, spirals embedded in the banner ads, a strobe he thought was just a glitch in the video player. A voice at the edge of his ear—he thought it was a shitty voiceover—layering commands under the sound of fake moans. He’d rubbed one out and fallen asleep with his phone on his chest. The next morning he didn’t remember closing his browser, didn’t remember the spiral, didn’t remember the whisper that told him he’d become a bull for the farm. The fishing site had done its work. The trigger words were planted deep.

---

Now, the phone screen went dark after the video sent. Marcus blinked again, shook his head a little, and flopped back onto the mattress. He picked up his phone like nothing happened. Opened a different app. Scrolled through some feeds, chuckled at a meme, sent a text to his boy about the gym tomorrow. His body felt warm, a pleasant buzz under his skin, but he figured that was just the late hour and the earlier joint still humming in his veins.

He adjusted himself in his sweats. His cock was half hard, thick against his thigh, but he didn’t question it. He just gave it a lazy squeeze through the fabric, thumb pressing into the damp spot at the tip. Felt good. A little voice in the back of his head—his own voice—thought maybe he should start filming his workouts. Put some content out there. Show off the gains. He smirked at the idea, unaware that the seed wasn’t his.

He rolled over, phone still in hand, and fell asleep with his thumb resting on a new ad for a premium cam site he definitely didn’t search for. His chest was still slick, nipples puffy and tender against the sheets. Tomorrow he’d wake up, hit the gym, and not remember a goddamn thing.

You probably should have known better than to wish to be smarter from an evil genie. Sure, your IQ jumped up by thirty points at least, but your newfound high intellect also made you a nerd. And with your newfound nerdhood came—you guessed it—wedgies.

Each and every one of the wifebeaters and graphic tees which used to make up your wardrobe was inexplicably turned into T-shirts which openly proclaimed that you were offering FREE WEDGIES. Your blue jeans and basketball shorts were transformed into slacks and suspenders. Your eyesight rapidly deteriorated until you could no longer see without a pair of thick lenses on your face at all times. And, of course, every pair of boxers, boxerbriefs, and trunks in your underwear drawer was magically turned into a pair of tight, white briefs.

At first you tried to revert to your previous way of life. You went to the store (trying your best to conceal the embarrassing text on your shirt) and spent that week’s income on the clothes you used to wear. You went home and threw every article of stereotypically nerdy clothing into a few big garbage bags, filling your room with normal attire.

But it was foolish to think that you could outsmart a genie. Even as you reentered your apartment after having disposed of the ridiculous clothes, you happened to catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror. To your horror, you were once again wearing the suspenders, slacks, and—of course—the FREE WEDGIES shirt which you thought you had gotten rid of. Panicking, you went back to your room, pulled open the closet, and saw two dozen identical such shirts hanging next to each other, with just as many pairs of slacks. And although you knew deep down what you would find, you checked your underwear drawer as well. Your worst fears were confirmed: pair after pair of neatly-folded tighty whities, filling the drawer to bursting.

All this did not account for even half of the changes the genie had wrought unto your life. All of a sudden, your friends, coworkers, classmates, and even total strangers seemed to change in their attitude towards you.

When, for example, your boss informed you that your new outfit did not conform with the company dress code (on account of the text on your T-shirt), you tried to explain that you didn’t have a choice and that you would wear something—anything—else if you could. To your surprise, however, he casually handwaved this objection away, saying that you were welcome to continue wearing it, so long as you provided the service advertised by your shirt. It took you a few seconds to realize what he meant, but from that day forward, you were receiving wedgie after wedgie throughout the workday. And not just from your boss, but from your coworkers themselves, regardless of their position relative to you in the company hierarchy.

At the gym, too, change was immediately noticeable. It was the same gym you’d been going to for years, and not once before making your fateful wish had there ever been a confrontation or incident of any kind between yourself and any other member. Stepping into the changing room now, though, immediately prompted every head to turn in your direction, the room suddenly silent except for a few snickers. You were asked why nerds like you even bother coming to the gym in the first place. Was it because you were trying to get fit, or was it really because you secretly wanted to be given wedgies by a bunch of musclebound meatheads? They were approaching you like hungry wolves, and before you could back out the door to escape, you felt a hand expertly grab your waistband and deliver a savage yank. You were then informed you that your workout (and theirs, too) would be happening right there in the changing room.

You were told that this would continue for as long as it took for them to rip that nerdy underwear right off you, but your briefs utterly refused to show the slightest sign of ripping or damage. They seemed to stretch without limit, yet reverting to a brand-new level of tightness as soon as each wedgie was released. True to their word, your bullies did not relent until, hours later, it was closing time.

Arriving home at your apartment, you expected at least partial relief, only to find a Friday-night party in progress, hosted by your roommate. Why did you even bother trying to sneak through the crowd to get to your room, unnoticed? Managing to reach your bedroom door, your hand had barely touched its doorknob when you once again felt your briefs rapidly tighten around your crotch and up your ass. You felt your feet lift rise up off the floor, your waistband stretched past your head. Turning your head, you saw the face of your roommate, a drunken grin plastered across his face. In one hand, he held a half-empty beer bottle; in the other, he held your waistband, by which he paraded you through the throng of partygoers to the centre of the festivities.

‘If I could have everybody’s attention,’ he shouted. The music was paused, and all eyes turned to you, still suspended mid-air by your tighty whities. ‘I’m happy to announce that my roommate here has brought tonight’s main entertainment!’ He downed the last of his beer in a quick swig, set the bottle on a nearby table, and proceeded to point to the text on your shirt. A cheer of approval burst forth from the crowd. Several of the partygoers snapped photos with their phone cameras, while others opted to record the speech on video. Your roommate waited politely for silence, then continued.

‘Deep down, I think I always knew this guy was a big ol’ nerd at heart, and I’m glad he’s finally embraced that about himself. I mean, the suspenders? The glasses? The tighty-fucking-whities?’ On each of these last three words he bounced you, seemingly without effort, causing your briefs to stretch a little more each time. The jocks in the audience eyed you fixedly, a sadistic anticipation in their eyes. ‘This guy is not just any nerd. It really takes the nerdiest of nerds not only to show up to a party in an outfit like this, but to literally wear a shirt that says FREE WEDGIES right on the front. So why don’t we take him up on the offer?’

This Server Drone is getting interested in new things, like preppy boys. Let me know if you consider this preppy or not.

A private investigator, hired to investigate a missing person case, arrives in a remote mountain town in Germany.

There, he discovers a mysterious new cult whose members are all bald men dressed in black, tight-fitting latex suits, worshipping an unnamed ancient god. He's convinced the missing man he's looking for must have been kidnapped.

He's only half right; the missing man is indeed there, but not kidnapped. The missing man voluntarily joined the group to serve the ancient god.

One of my favourite outfits. Being preppy feels very natural to me now, I don't like to wear things untucked anymore, I much prefer the neat clean outfit. It's so good to be blissful, compliant and swell.

And maybe sometimes a bowtie if I'm not going out!

The Bookstore 2

The Bookstore can appear anywhere in the world. Each storefront might look slightly different, they lead to the same place, an infinite maze of corridors with all the books in the world. Some say there could even be books from other worlds hidden in its shelves.

The Bookstore has a way of guiding people to exactly what they are looking for. It's shelves and hallways seem to shift when you're not looking, and when you stumble out into the sunlight blinking, you will hold in your hands books you didn't even know you needed. Often people report feeling like they spent a short time inside, but hours have passed outside. Sometimes it's quite the opposite; an hour or two spent browsing turns out to have only been five or ten minutes according to your watch.

As you've surmised, the Bookstore has a certain sort of intelligence to it. It can understand people needs, desires, and intentions. Some say it has intentions of its own, but they are mostly unknown. There is little rhyme or reason to when it appears and disappears. Few know about it and fewer understand it. Of course, there are those who seek it out. Some seek knowledge, others simply want to experience a supernaturally perfect book recommendation, some just want to experience something that is beyond their understanding.

There is one other type of person who visits the Bookstore. Some people want to test its limits, to try to utilize its magic for some other purpose, to control it. Some people just want to cause trouble.