RiseFromHell

Bryant's fingers twitched as he adjusted the dials on his makeshift console. The basement of his clinic smelled like burnt coffee and solder. Wires sprawled across three folding tables, all leading to a modified dentist chair he'd bought at a county auction.

The brainwave data he'd been collecting for eighteen months was finally making sense. Every headache, every stubbed toe, every prescription for antibiotics—all of it had given him access to neural patterns. And now he could map them. More importantly, he could tweak them.

Another Tuesday in buttfuck nowhere, Nebraska, and Bryant was on the verge of rewriting cognitive function with targeted microcurrent stimulation.

Not that anyone in this town would understand. They thought he was just the weird clinic guy who talked too fast and charged too little.

The knock on his door made him jump.

"Bryant? You in there? Clinic's been closed for two weeks." The voice was gruff, familiar. "Town council's getting concerned."

Shit. Toby.

---

Toby Drummond had been sheriff for eleven years. He had the kind of body that came from too many diner breakfasts and not enough cardio—big gut, thick arms, barrel chest. His uniform stretched tight across his belly, and his badge was pinned slightly off-center. Balding on top, short reddish scruff along his jaw, permanent squint lines around his eyes.

He was the last person Bryant wanted poking around right now.

"Just a minute!" Bryant called out, voice cracking. He scrambled to throw a tarp over the equipment, but the wires wouldn't cooperate.

Toby didn't wait. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the doorway with his bulk.

"Jesus, Bryant. What the hell are you—" Toby stopped, eyes scanning the basement setup. The chair. The monitors. The tangle of electrodes. "What is all this?"

"It's... it's research," Bryant said, backing up. His shoulder blades hit the wall. "Medical research. Nothing you need to worry about."

Toby stepped closer, squinting at the monitors. The brainwave patterns were still scrolling across the screen. "This doesn't look like any medical equipment I've ever seen. You been doing something weird down here?"

"No. No, I just—" Bryant's mind raced. He could see Toby's cop brain working through it, connecting dots that shouldn't be connected. The late nights. The closed clinic. The equipment that looked more mad scientist than doctor's office.

"Bryant," Toby said slowly, "I think I need to ask you some questions down at the station."

No. No, no, no.

The wrench was on the workbench. Bryant grabbed it without thinking. Toby turned at the sound, eyes going wide, and then—

CRACK

---

Toby hit the floor hard, a gash opening above his temple.

Bryant stood over him, wrench trembling in his hand, breath coming in short gasps. "Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god."

He started pacing, stepping over wires, wrench still clutched to his chest. "What do I do? He knows. He saw. I can't just let him leave. He'll tell everyone. They'll shut me down. They'll—"

He stopped pacing.

The chair. The electrodes. The research he'd spent months perfecting.

"I can fix this," he whispered. "I can make him... not a problem anymore."

The trust center. That's what he'd been mapping last week. The neural clusters that governed interpersonal bonding. If he could stimulate those regions with enough precision...

Bryant dragged Toby's unconscious body into the modified dentist chair. It took three tries—the man weighed at least 240. By the time he got Toby strapped in and the electrodes positioned, sweat was dripping down his face.

He calibrated the machine with shaking hands. The trust center. Crank it up. Way up. Make the sheriff trust him so completely that nothing else would matter.

The dial went to eleven.

---

Toby's body jerked in the chair as the current hit. His back arched. His jaw clenched. A thin curl of smoke rose from the electrode on his right temple.

Then it was over.

Toby slumped forward, breathing heavy. Bryant watched, heart pounding, as the sheriff's eyes slowly opened.

There was no anger in those eyes. No confusion. Just... calm.

"Toby?" Bryant's voice was barely a whisper. "You okay? You hit your head pretty bad when you fell. Maybe you should just... go home. Rest up. We can talk about this later."

The lie was pathetic. But Toby just blinked at him, expression soft.

Then Toby stood up.

He didn't stand cautiously, like a man who'd just been knocked unconscious and strapped to a chair. He stood with purpose, reaching up to peel the electrodes off his head like they were nothing more than band-aids.

And then he lunged.

---

Bryant's back slammed against the wall.

Toby's mouth was on his before he could process what was happening. Hot. Wet. Insistent. The sheriff's body pressed him flat, all that weight and muscle crushing against him, and Bryant made a strangled noise of protest that got swallowed up by Toby's tongue.

What—what is happening—

Toby kissed like he was starving. His tongue pushed deep, claiming, and when Bryant tried to turn his head away, Toby just followed, one thick hand coming up to grip his jaw and hold him in place.

"I knew it," Toby growled against his mouth. "I knew you wanted this too."

*Wanted this?* Bryant's brain was short-circuiting. He'd been trying to stimulate the trust center, not—

Oh no.

Toby had moved when the current hit, and the contact point must have shifted.

Toby's hips ground forward, and Bryant felt something hard pressing against his thigh through the sheriff's uniform pants. The kiss deepened, sloppier now, Toby's mustache scratching against his upper lip.

"Been watching you for months," Toby was mumbling between kisses, mouth trailing down to Bryant's jaw, his neck. "Should've done this sooner."

Bryant's hands were still pinned against Toby's chest, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should push. Should stop this. Should explain.

But Toby's mouth was so hungry. And Bryant couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him at all, let alone like this. Let alone like they needed him.

His fingers curled into the fabric of Toby's uniform shirt.

"Toby, wait—"

"Don't wanna wait." Toby's voice was a rough growl against his throat. "Waited long enough."

---

It happened fast after that.

Clothes came off in clumsy, desperate movements. Toby's uniform shirt, buttons popping. Bryant's lab coat, flung over a monitor. Toby's belt clanking against the concrete floor.

The sheriff was built like a refrigerator—solid and thick everywhere. Hair covered his chest and belly in a dense mat, going silver in patches. His cock was uncut, already leaking, jutting out from a thatch of dark pubic hair.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Toby breathed, and the way he said it—like it was obvious, like it was the truest thing in the world—made something crack open inside Bryant's chest.

Nobody had ever called him beautiful.

Toby got him bent over the workbench, and Bryant heard himself make a sound that was almost a whimper. He'd never done this before, not with a man, not with anyone in years. But Toby's thick fingers were slick with something—hand lotion from the dispenser on the wall—and they were working him open with a patience that seemed at odds with the feverish hunger from before.

"Gonna make you feel so good, baby," Toby murmured against his shoulder blade. "Gonna take care of you."

Baby.

Bryant buried his face in his arms and let it happen.

The stretch was intense, almost too much, and then Toby was inside him and it was definitely too much, and Bryant gasped and grabbed at the edge of the workbench while Toby's bulk folded over him, belly pressing against his lower back.

"So tight," Toby groaned. "So perfect. Knew you would be."

He moved, and Bryant saw stars.

It wasn't gentle. Toby fucked like he kissed—hungry, claiming, like he was trying to crawl inside Bryant's skin. And Bryant, who had spent his entire adult life in his own head, who had never been able to turn off the constant churn of his thoughts—Bryant found himself going quiet. Found himself feeling, for the first time, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

When he came, it was against the workbench with Toby's teeth sunk into his shoulder, and the sound he made was something between a sob and a laugh.

Toby followed a few thrusts later, spilling inside him with a groan that vibrated through Bryant's entire body.

---

Afterward, they ended up on the floor, slumped against the base of the dentist chair.

Toby had his arm around Bryant's shoulders, thick fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm. Bryant's mind was starting to come back online, and with it came the horror.

I brainwashed him. I knocked him out and rewired his brain and now he thinks he's in love with me.

"So," Bryant said, voice hoarse. "What exactly do you... remember? About coming here?"

Toby shrugged. "I was worried about you. Came to check in. Then I finally worked up the nerve to kiss you." He turned his head, pressing his lips to Bryant's temple. "Best decision I ever made."

"But you saw the equipment. The—"

"The what?" Toby looked genuinely confused. His eyes flickered to the monitors, the wires, the chair. "That's just your research stuff, right? For the clinic?"

He didn't remember. His brain had filled in the gaps, smoothed over the parts that didn't fit the narrative. Love at first sight, breakthrough, confession—that was the story now.

"Yeah," Bryant whispered. "For the clinic."

Toby's hand slid down to squeeze his hip. "You're a genius, you know that? Always knew it. Nobody else in this town gets it, but I do."

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was how good it felt to hear that.

---

Bryant told himself he'd fix it.

He'd wait until Toby left, and then he'd reverse the process. Dial the trust center down, wipe the artificial attachment clean. Give the sheriff his mind back.

But the next day, Toby showed up with coffee and a bear claw from the diner, and he kissed Bryant on the forehead, and he asked about the research with genuine curiosity in his eyes, and Bryant thought—just one more day.

One more day of someone looking at him like he mattered. One more day of not being alone.

The day after that, he told himself the same thing.

And the day after that.

---

It was a week before he finally sat down at his console, fingers hovering over the dials. He'd mapped the reversal protocol. He knew how to undo it.

Toby was in the kitchen, humming something off-key, making eggs. He'd left his uniform shirt draped over the couch. His keys were on the counter next to a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST SHERIFF.

Bryant looked at the reversal protocol.

Then he looked at the door to the kitchen.

Then he looked at the dial marked "ATTACHMENT REINFORCEMENT."

His fingers moved before his brain could stop them.

To be continued?

____________________

The concrete dust hung in the air like a haze, catching the late afternoon sun that slanted through the half-finished steel framework. Marcus adjusted his Brioni tie, the silk smooth against his throat, and stepped over a coiled length of rebar with the exaggerated care of a man.

"Watch your step," a voice rumbled from somewhere to his left, low and rough as gravel. "That shit'll trip you up."

Marcus turned, already bristling. The man who'd spoken was leaning against a support beam, arms crossed over a chest that strained the seams of a gray t-shirt darkened with sweat. He was big—not gym-big, but work-big, the kind of bulk that came from hauling steel and pouring concrete twelve hours a day. A hard hat sat low on his brow, shadowing eyes that looked Marcus up and down with an assessment that felt almost physical.

"Vincent, I presume," Marcus said, his tone sharpening. "The foreman. I've been reviewing the progress reports. The east foundation is two weeks behind, the electrical rough-in looks like a blind man did it, and I just spotted rust on the secondary beams."

Vincent didn't move. Didn't even blink. "Those beams are coated. What you saw was surface discoloration from the rain last week. And the east foundation was delayed because your office sent the wrong grade of rebar. Took five days to get the right shipment."

"Excuses." Marcus stepped closer, tilting his chin up. The difference in their heights forced him to look almost vertically, and that alone stoked the irritation burning in his chest. "I don't pay for excuses. I pay for results. If you can't deliver, I'll find someone who can."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Vincent's face. It wasn't friendly. It was the kind of smile a man gave when he'd been poked one too many times and had decided he was done playing nice. "Is that right."

"I could have you replaced by tomorrow morning," Marcus said, his voice rising. "There are a dozen crews that would kill for this contract. You think you're irreplaceable? You're a fucking ditch digger with a clipboard."

The words hung in the dusty air. Somewhere behind them, a saw whined and died. The silence that followed was louder than the construction noise had been.

Vincent pushed off the beam. He moved with an unhurried, rolling gait, work boots scuffing the plywood flooring, and didn't stop until he was close enough that Marcus could smell him—sweat and sun-heated skin and something deeper, muskier, that made Marcus's nostrils flare despite himself.

"Say that again," Vincent murmured.

Marcus opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He'd meant to repeat it. He'd meant to double down, to assert the authority his custom suit and corner office had always granted him. But Vincent was right there, chest hair visible at the stretched collar of his shirt, and the sheer physical presence of him was swallowing all the oxygen from the space between them.

"I said—" Marcus started, and that was when Vincent moved.

One big hand fisted in the front of Marcus's jacket, twisting the expensive wool like it was a rag. Marcus stumbled, off-balance, and then his back hit the wall—actual plywood, still smelling of sawmill, rough against his shoulders. The impact knocked the breath out of him

"What the hell do you think you're—"

Vincent didn't let him finish. He pressed forward, a wall of heat and muscle, and Marcus found himself pinned. Not just by the hand on his chest, but by the whole body crowding him, thighs pressing against his, the solid mass of Vincent's torso trapping him against the plywood. And then Vincent's other hand came up, gripping the back of Marcus's head, and shoved his face forward.

Marcus's cheek hit damp cotton. The fabric was wet with sweat, gritty with construction dust, and it smelled—God, it smelled. It was salt and musk and something almost animal, the raw scent of a man who'd been working in the sun since dawn. Marcus gagged, tried to turn his head, but Vincent held him there, grinding his face into the meat of his chest.

"Take a deep breath, boss," Vincent's voice rumbled above him, vibrating through the chest against Marcus's cheek. "That's what real work smells like. Not your fancy cologne. Not your air-conditioned office. This is what a man smells like."

Marcus struggled. His hands came up, pushing at Vincent's sides, but it was like trying to shove a concrete wall. The cotton was rough on his lips, and every inhale filled his lungs with Vincent—that thick, heady, alien scent that was somehow making his head spin. He'd never been this close to another man. Not like this. Not skin to sweaty fabric, not with the heat of someone else's body seeping through his clothes and making his own skin prickle.

"Get off me," Marcus gasped, the words muffled against Vincent's chest. "I'll have you arrested. I'll—"

Vincent's laugh was a deep, rolling sound that Marcus felt in his ribs. "You won't do shit." And then he shifted his grip, hand moving from Marcus's chest to his hip, squeezing once before dropping lower, bending, and in one smooth motion hoisting Marcus up.

Marcus's feet left the floor. His world tilted, and suddenly his legs were wrapped around Vincent's waist, his back sliding up the plywood, the expensive wool of his trousers stretched tight across his thighs. He grabbed Vincent's shoulders to keep from falling, and found himself clutching muscle so dense it felt like gripping stone.

"Look at you," Vincent said, his face now level with Marcus's. "Up here in your fancy suit, acting like you're better than everyone. But you're shaking."

Marcus was shaking. He couldn't stop. His whole body was trembling, and he told himself it was rage—adrenaline, the body's natural response to assault—but it wasn't just rage. There was something else coiling low in his stomach, something hot and sick and confusing that made his breath come fast and shallow. Vincent's face was inches away. His eyes were dark, amused, predatory.

"The fuck are you doing," Marcus whispered.

Vincent answered with his mouth.

It wasn't a kiss. A kiss was soft. A kiss was a request. This was a claim. Vincent's lips crushed against Marcus's, hard and demanding, and his tongue didn't ask permission—it forced its way past Marcus's teeth like it owned the space. The taste was overwhelming: coffee, salt, something faintly metallic. Vincent's mouth was hot and wet and completely in control, and Marcus made a sound he'd never heard himself make before—a strangled, helpless noise that vibrated against Vincent's tongue.

Marcus's mind went blank. There was no room for thought with Vincent's stubble scraping his chin, with Vincent's big hand curling around the back of his skull to hold him steady, with the thick muscle of Vincent's tongue thrusting into his mouth in a rhythm that was unmistakably sexual. His body was reacting without his permission—his hips twitched, his fingers dug into Vincent's shoulders, and a moan leaked from his throat into the kiss.

Vincent pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Marcus's as he did. "There it is. Knew you had it in you." He ground his hips forward, and Marcus felt it—the thick, hard ridge pressing against his ass through their clothes. The sensation made his eyes roll back.

"I'm not—I don't—" Marcus panted, but even as he said it, his legs were tightening around Vincent's waist, pulling him closer.

"Yeah, you do," Vincent growled, and kissed him again.

This time Marcus didn't fight. He couldn't. The taste of Vincent was in his mouth, in his lungs, and it was like a drug—corrupting, addictive, rewriting something deep in his brain. Every slide of Vincent's tongue seemed to short-circuit another synapse. Every press of that solid body against his sent sparks skittering down his spine. His own cock was hard now, straining against his trousers, and when Vincent rocked into him again, he whimpered.

Vincent broke the kiss and reached down between them, working Marcus's belt with practiced efficiency. "We're gonna try something, boss. Something you're gonna like a lot more than you think."

---

The plywood was rough against Marcus's back, but he barely noticed. His trousers were down around one ankle, his jacket bunched up under his armpits, his shirt untucked and damp with a sweat that wasn't entirely his own. Vincent had him pinned with one forearm across his chest while the other hand worked between his legs, and Marcus couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but gasp and arch and beg with eyes that couldn't seem to focus.

"Please," he heard himself say, and didn't recognize his own voice. It was breathier, higher, stripped of all authority. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need," Vincent rumbled. He'd freed his own stick from his jeans, and it was thick and ruddy and slick with pre-come that he was smearing against Marcus's hole with terrifying casualness. "You need a real man to show you what that tight little ass is for."

Marcus should have protested. Should have fought. But Vincent's thumb was pressing in, just the tip, and it was stretching him in a way that made his vision sparkle. His was leaking onto his own stomach, untouched, and every nerve in his body seemed to have migrated to that one spot where Vincent was slowly, deliberately pushing inside.

"Fuck, you're tight," Vincent grunted. "Bet nobody's ever been in here before. Bet you didn't even know you wanted it." He pushed deeper, and Marcus cried out, his body clenching around the intrusion. "Your wife ever do this? Huh? She ever make you feel like this?"

"Look at you taking it," Vincent murmured. "Greedy little hole's just sucking my fingers right in. You were made for this, weren't you? All that time up in your fancy office, and what you really needed was a working man's hard up your ass."

"Don't stop," Marcus gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."

Vincent's grin was fierce and satisfied. "That's what I thought."

He pushed in.

Marcus's world dissolved. There was nothing but the thick, relentless invasion of Vincent's, splitting him open inch by inch, stretching him past what he thought his body could take. He clung to Vincent's shoulders, ankles locked behind the man's back, and let out a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. The feeling of being filled was overwhelming—it reached deep, deeper than anything should, and when Vincent bottomed out with a grunt, Marcus could feel him in his throat.

"Fuck," Vincent breathed, forehead dropping to Marcus's shoulder. "Fuck, you feel good. Real good. Hang on, boss."

And then he started to move.

It was brutal. Vincent fucked like he worked—with steady, unrelenting power, each thrust driving Marcus up the plywood wall, each retreat pulling sounds from his throat that he'd never imagined a man could make. The noise of it was obscene: the slap of skin, the wet slide, Vincent's grunts and Marcus's high, broken moans. The whole construction site had gone quiet, the crew likely listening from wherever they'd dispersed, and the knowledge that they could probably hear everything only made Marcus harder.

"Harder," he heard himself say, and Vincent laughed, a breathless, feral sound.

"Demanding little slut now, are we?" But he gave Marcus what he asked for, picking up the pace, angling his hips until Marcus screamed—actually screamed—because Vincent had found something inside him that made stars explode behind his eyes.

"That's it," Vincent growled. "That's your spot. That's what you needed. Not a promotion. Not a bonus. Just a wild pounding until you can't remember your own name."

Marcus couldn't remember his own name. He couldn't remember why he'd come to this site. All he knew was Vincent's body on top of him, inside him, Vincent's smell in his nose and taste on his tongue and in his guts. He was nothing but a vessel for this man's pleasure, and the realization of it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced.

"I'm gonna come," Marcus sobbed. "Oh God, I'm gonna—"

Marcus ran his tongue over his teeth as he watched the boys load product into the van. His muscles strained against his wifebeater, sweat glistening on dark skin under the warehouse lights. Nobody fucked with M-Dog's operation. His reputation was built on broken jaws, a body count whispered about but never proven.

---

The chair hummed beneath him. Leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles. Marcus thrashed against the restraints, spitting curses at the pigs who'd grabbed him off the street.

"You dead motherfuckers! When my crew finds out—"

"Your crew won't find out anything." A chubby officer with kind eyes and a soft belly adjusted the electrodes on Marcus's temples. Officer Chen. He had gentle hands. "Just relax, Marcus. This is going to feel strange at first."

The screen in front of Marcus flickered to life. Images flashed too fast to track. Faces. Badges. Uniforms. Biceps straining through blue sleeves. Jawlines. Commanding eyes. The hum grew louder. Marcus screamed.

Then he stopped screaming.

---

Three weeks later, Marcus sat cross-legged on his cell bunk, stick hard and leaking through his orange jumpsuit just from watching Officer Martinez do his rounds. That man was a goddamn hero. The way he carried himself. The way his uniform stretched across his broad shoulders. The way his nightstick swung from his belt.

Marcus licked his lips. He needed to earn their approval. These men. These brave, hard, beautiful men who protected the streets. And Marcus had been working against them like some piece of shit.

He knew what he had to do.

---

"Eighth and Pine. The whole operation runs out of the back of Chen's Laundromat. They're all there right now, counting cash from the drop."

Detective Harrison leaned back in his chair, stroking his mustache. Marcus's eyes followed the movement of those thick fingers, imagining them gripping his hair. He shifted in his seat, his jumpsuit tenting obscenely.

"Good boy, Marcus." Harrison's voice was gravel and honey. Marcus nearly came just from the praise. "We're going to suit up. You're coming with us."

"Anything. Anything you want. I'm yours."

Harrison smirked. "Yeah. You are."

---

The tactical van rumbled through the rain-slicked streets. Marcus was wedged between Officer Kowalski and Officer Reeves, both geared up in black tactical vests. He could smell their sweat. Their deodorant. The faint musk of men who worked hard and fucked harder.

Kowalski caught him staring and laughed. "This one's really gone, huh? Look at him. Drooling like a bitch in heat."

"Chen did good work," Reeves said, adjusting his vest. "Three weeks ago this animal would've ripped your throat out with his teeth. Now look."

Reeves reached over and squeezed Marcus's bicep. Marcus whimpered. Reeves's hand was so strong. So commanding.

"Please," Marcus breathed.

"Please what?"

"Please let me be useful for you."

The officers exchanged glances. Kowalski shrugged. "Alright, big man. You wanna be good? When we breach, you walk in first. You talk to your old buddies. Tell them everything's fine. And when they drop their guard—"

"I'll do it. I'll do anything."

Kowalski patted his cheek, not gently. "Yeah. You will."

---

The laundromat's fluorescent lights hummed. Familiar smells of detergent and weed smoke. Marcus walked through the front door, his heart pounding with righteous purpose.

Tyrone looked up from the counting table first. "M-Dog? Shit, man, we thought you got popped! Where the hell you been?"

Marcus approached the table. Saw the stacks of cash. The unregistered pistols. The evidence of crimes against decent society. Against the heroes who risked their lives every day.

"Police," Marcus said loudly. "You're all under arrest."

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the back door exploded inward. Flashbangs. Shouting. Tactical boots on linoleum. Marcus dropped to his knees automatically, hands behind his head, presenting himself as compliant, as obedient, as good.

Tyrone was screaming as Reeves cuffed him. "You FUCKING rat! You dead, Marcus! You hear me? You DEAD! I'll kill you myself, you disgusting traitor motherfucker—"

Marcus barely heard him. Because Officer Kowalski was walking toward him through the chaos, looking soft and sturdy and sweaty in his uniform, that little belly pressing against his shirt buttons, his face flushed from the exertion of the raid. He was the most beautiful thing Marcus had ever seen.

"Good work, Marcus," Kowalski said, slightly out of breath.

"Alright, big guy. Come here."

Kowalski grabbed a handful of Marcus's hair and pulled him up. Marcus rose obediently, letting himself be maneuvered until his back hit the wall and against his hard one. The officer's mouth found his, and Marcus melted.

The kiss was sloppy. He tasted like coffee and donuts and pure masculine authority. Marcus moaned into it, pressing his hips forward

"You taste so good," Marcus gasped between kisses. "Such a hero. Such a real man. Please. I need to taste you."

Nearby, Tyrone was still screaming obscenities as he was dragged toward the paddy wagon. "You sick fuck! You're letting a pig tongue you down while your brothers go to prison? You're DEAD, Marcus!"

Reeves shoved Tyrone's head down into the vehicle. "Shut up. You'll be sucking yourself by next Tuesday. That chair works wonders."

Therapist

I didn't want to be there.

The VA had been on my ass for months about seeing someone. Said the nightmares weren't gonna go away on their own. Said the drinking wasn't helping. Said a lot of shit, honestly.

But here I was, sitting in some fancy leather chair across from Dr. Adrian Cross, feeling like a goddamn idiot.

The guy was... not what I expected. Most shrinks I'd pictured were old dudes with glasses and bad breath. Adrian was maybe late thirties, early forties. Lean but not scrawny. Dark hair with some gray at the temples. These sharp green eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"So, Marcus," he said, flipping through my file. "Former Marine. Two tours. Honorable discharge three years ago."

"That's what it says."

He looked up and smiled. Not the kind of smile that made me feel like a patient. More like... I don't know. Like we were just two guys shooting the shit.

"You don't want to be here."

"Got that right, doc."

"Good." He closed the file and tossed it on his desk. "I don't want to waste your time with the usual bullshit. You've been through things most people can't imagine. Talking about it won't fix anything."

That got my attention. "Then what the hell am I doing here?"

"Have you heard of hypnotherapy?"

I snorted. "Like those stage shows where people cluck like chickens?"

"Nothing like that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, Marcus. Your conscious mind is on high alert all the time. That's what kept you alive over there. But now you're home, and that same survival mechanism is destroying your life. I can help you... turn down the volume."

I should've walked out right then. But something about the way he talked made sense. And honestly? I was tired. So fucking tired of jumping at every loud noise, of waking up drenched in sweat, of feeling like I was still in that desert.

"Fine. What do I gotta do?"

------------------------------------------------

Adrian's office had this leather recliner thing that was way more comfortable than it looked. He dimmed the lights and put on some soft music. Ocean sounds or some shit.

"Just relax, Marcus. Listen to my voice."

His voice was... something else. Deep and smooth. Like bourbon, if bourbon could talk.

"I want you to focus on breathing. In... and out. In... and out."

I felt stupid at first. But after a few minutes, my body started getting heavy. Like I was sinking into the chair.

"That's good. You're doing great, Marcus."

When he said my name, something warm spread through my chest. I don't know how to explain it. It just felt... good. Having someone tell me I was doing good.

"Now, I'm going to count down from ten. When I reach one, you'll be in a deep, peaceful state. You'll still hear me. You'll still be aware. But you'll feel completely safe."

He counted down. I don't remember reaching one.

The next thing I knew, he was telling me to open my eyes, and I felt... different. Lighter. Like someone had taken a forty-pound pack off my shoulders.

"How do you feel?"

"Weird," I admitted. "But... good weird?"

"That's normal. We made some progress today."

"What did I say? Under the... whatever?"

Adrian smiled. "Nothing embarrassing. Just some memories you've been holding onto too tightly. We're going to work on letting them go."

I nodded, still feeling fuzzy. "Same time next week?"

"I'll see you then, Marcus."

Walking out to my truck, I realized something. For the first time in three years, the noise is gone.

------------------------------------------------

I went back the next week. And the week after that.

Every session, Adrian would put me under, and every session, I'd come out feeling better. The nightmares started fading. I stopped checking every exit when I walked into a room. The constant tension in my shoulders finally let up.

But there was other stuff too. Stuff I didn't really think about at first.

I started hitting the gym more. Not just maintaining like I used to, but really pushing myself. I caught myself checking out my reflection in the mirror, flexing, seeing how the sweat made my skin shine.

"Looking good, Stone," I'd mutter, and it felt... right.

I bought new clothes. Tighter shirts. Jeans that actually fit instead of hanging off me like I was still expecting to lose twenty pounds in the field.

And suddenly, I was noticing people. Their bodies. The way they moved.

Guys, mostly.

I should be freak out about it. But Adrian had said during one session that I should "embrace my natural desires" and "stop letting society's expectations control me." It made sense. Who gave a shit what anyone thought? I was a grown man. A strong man. I could want whatever and whoever I wanted.

"I've been feeling more... open," I told Adrian during our fifth session.

"Open how?"

"Just. You know." I shifted in the chair, suddenly aware of how my thighs filled out my jeans. "More comfortable with myself. My body. What I want."

"That's excellent, Marcus. That's exactly the kind of progress we want to see."

When he smiled at me, I felt a flutter in my stomach. The same kind of flutter I used to get around pretty girls in high school.

------------------------------------------------

I asked Adrian if I could come in twice a week instead of once.

"My schedule's pretty packed," he said, looking at his calendar. But when he glanced up at me, his eyes did this thing where they traveled down my body and back up. "But for you, Marcus... I think we can make it work."

Tuesdays and Thursdays. I lived for those days.

The sessions got longer. More intense. When I was under, Adrian's voice would guide me through these... scenarios. I couldn't quite remember them when I woke up, but I'd feel this lingering warmth in my body. This ache. This need.

I started dreaming about him.

Nothing crazy at first. Just us in his office, but he'd touch my shoulder and it would feel electric. Then the dreams got more detailed. Him telling me I was good. Me wanting to be good for him. Waking up hard and not knowing exactly why.

By the eighth week, my PTSD symptoms were practically gone. I slept through the night. I didn't flinch at loud noises. I could watch action movies without having flashbacks.

But something else was different too. I walked different. Talked different. People at the hardware store where I worked said I seemed happier.

"What's your secret?" my manager asked.

"Best therapist in the world," I said. And meant it.

------------------------------------------------

"I want to see you more."

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "More than twice a week?"

"I was thinking... maybe every day?"

It sounded crazy when I said it out loud. But the days between sessions felt endless. Empty. Like I was only half-awake until I was back in that chair, hearing his voice.

"Marcus, that's a significant commitment. Both financially and time-wise."

"I don't care about the money." I leaned forward, probably looking desperate. "I just... I need this. You're the only one who gets me, doc."

He studied me for a long moment. Those green eyes unreadable.

"Every day at five," he finally said. "But you have to understand, this level of therapy is intensive. You'll need to be completely open. Completely vulnerable."

"I can do that."

"Can you? You'll need to trust me completely, Marcus. Will you do that? Will you trust me?"

"Absolutely."

The word came out before I even thought about it. But it felt right.

"Good boy."

Those two words hit me like a freight train. Heat flooded through my body, all the way to my fingertips. I actually had to look down to make sure I wasn't visibly blushing.

No one had ever called me that before. I was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound former Marine with a chest like a barrel and hands that could crush a man's skull.

But hearing Adrian say "good boy" made me feel something I'd never felt. Something that made my knees weak and my heart race.

"Let's begin," he said, gesturing to the chair.

I practically ran to it.

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I don't remember a lot from the daily sessions. But I remember feelings.

Warmth spreading through my whole body as Adrian's voice washed over me.

Weightlessness, like I was floating in water.

And always, always the sense that I was exactly where I belonged.

Sometimes I'd catch fragments of what he was saying. Words about how strong I was. How desirable. How my body was a gift that should be shared.

He talked a lot about how real strength meant being open to pleasure. How true masculinity wasn't about being closed off, but about being confident enough to receive.

At home, I started experimenting. Bought some nice lotion and took long baths. Shaved my body hair because it felt smoother, more sensual. I'd catch myself touching my own skin while watching TV, just feeling how soft it was.

I bought different underwear. The kind that showed off what I had. I'd stand in front of the mirror and pose, feeling this rush of confidence and arousal.

"Look at you," I'd whisper to myself. "Look at what a man you are."

The words felt like they came from somewhere deep inside me.

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It took me until week twelve to admit what was happening.

I wanted Adrian.

Not just as a therapist. Not just as someone who was helping me. I wanted him in ways I'd never wanted anyone before.

I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to see all of me—the strength and the softness, the hardness and the vulnerability.

More than anything, I wanted him to tell me I was good again.

"You seem distracted today," Adrian observed.

"I've been thinking about something."

"Share it with me."

I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding. This was braver than anything I'd done in combat.

"I think about you all the time," I admitted. "Not in a weird way. Just... when I'm doing stuff. Working out. Eating. Before I go to sleep."

"What do you think about?"

"Your voice. The way you say my name." I swallowed hard. "The way you make me feel."

"And how do I make you feel, Marcus?"

"Seen," I said, my voice cracking. "Wanted. Like I'm actually worth something."

"Those feelings are valid. You've made incredible progress. I'm proud of you."

There it was. Proud. Like "good boy" but even better.

"I want to be close to you," I blurted out. "Not just in sessions. I want..."

I couldn't finish the sentence. It was too much. Too crazy.

But Adrian just smiled that calm smile of his.

"Marcus, what you're feeling is natural. You've opened yourself up in ways most men never dare. You've become comfortable with your desires." He tilted his head slightly. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to kiss you."

The words hung in the air.

And Adrian's smile got just a little bit wider.

------------------------------------------------

"Show me," he said simply.

My legs were shaking as I stood up from the chair. Adrian stayed seated behind his desk, watching me with those green eyes.

I walked around to his side. He turned his chair to face me.

"I've never..." I started.

"I know. It's alright."

He didn't move. Didn't reach for me. This was mine to do. My choice.

I leaned down, bracing my hands on the armrests of his chair. He smelled like sandalwood and something else, something warm.

Our lips met.

And everything I'd been feeling for twelve weeks crystallized into one perfect moment.

His mouth was soft but sure. One of his hands came up to cup the back of my neck, and I honest-to-god whimpered against his lips. A grown man, a Marine, whimpering like a teenager at his first dance.

"You're doing so well," Adrian murmured against my mouth. "Such a good boy."

That was it. That was all I needed.

I sank to my knees in front of him, not even thinking about it. It just felt right. Natural. Like this was exactly where I belonged.

"How do you feel?" he asked, looking down at me.

"Fucking amazing," I breathed. "Like I've been waiting my whole life for this."

"That's because you have." He ran his fingers through my short hair. "You've been so strong for so long, Marcus. Carrying all that weight. Now you get to let someone else carry it for a while."

"Yes," I said, not even knowing what I was agreeing to. "Yes, please."

"When you come in tomorrow, we'll begin a new phase of your therapy. Are you ready for that?"

"I'm ready for anything."

"I know you are." He smiled down at me. "That's what makes you so special."

I drove home in a daze, my lips still tingling. I didn't feel confused or ashamed. I felt euphoric. Like I'd finally figured out the secret to life.

That night, I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. My broad shoulders. My thick arms. The way my chest still looked damn good for forty-two.

"I'm a fucking catch," I said to my reflection. And I believed it.

------------------------------------------------

Every day at five, I was in that office. But now the sessions were different.

Now there was kissing. Touching. Adrian teaching me things about my body I'd never known.

"Real strength is being open," he'd say, his hands exploring my chest. "Real masculinity is about knowing what you want and taking it. Or giving it. Depending on what feels right."

"This feels right," I'd gasp.

"Of course it does. You were made for this, Marcus."

And I believed him. Because it felt true. It felt like everything in my life had been leading to this point. The military, the PTSD, the divorce—all of it was just the path that brought me to Adrian.

We didn't go all the way at first. He said I wasn't ready. Said I needed to be fully prepared, fully open.

"I want to be ready," I'd beg. "Please, Adrian. Tell me what to do."

"Patience," he'd say, kissing my forehead. "Good things come to those who wait."

The waiting was agony. But also exquisite. Every day I felt myself changing more. I started wearing even tighter clothes to our sessions. I'd catch myself sitting with my legs spread, my body angled toward him like a flower toward the sun.

At work, my coworkers noticed something was different.

"You're like a new man," my manager said. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"Oh, I intend to," I said.

------------------------------------------------

"I think you're ready."

Those four words sent a shiver through my entire body.

"Ready for what?" I asked, even though I knew. God, I knew.

"Ready to receive the full experience. Ready to be everything you were meant to be."

Adrian led me to a different room in his office. One I'd never seen before. It had a bigger couch, softer lighting, and a bed in the corner.

"Today, we're going to complete your transformation."

"Will it hurt?"

He laughed softly. "Not in the way you're thinking. But it might be intense. Are you prepared for intense, Marcus?"

I thought about my tours. The things I'd seen. The things I'd done.

"I've never been more prepared for anything."

He undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. My shoulders. My chest. Down my stomach.

"Look at you," he murmured. "This incredible body. You've been hiding it away, ashamed of it. But not anymore. Now you know what you have. What you can give."

"I want to give it to you," I said. "All of it."

"I know you do."

What happened next was... I don't have words for most of it. It was pleasure and pain and revelation. It was feeling full in ways I'd never imagined. It was Adrian's voice in my ear, telling me I was taking it so well, that I was a natural, that this was what I was born for.

When it was over, I was crying. Sobbing, actually. Great heaving sobs of relief and joy.

"Shh," Adrian said, holding me. "It's alright. You did perfectly. You're perfect."

"Am I yours?" I asked.

"You've been mine since the day you walked through that door, Marcus. You just didn't know it yet."

------------------------------------------------

It's been six months since that first session.

I don't have PTSD anymore. I don't have nightmares. I don't even think hard.

I'm a completely different person.

I moved into Adrian's place last month. I cook for him, clean for him, keep myself looking good for him. When he comes home from work, I greet him at the door. Sometimes on my knees.

Sometimes I think about the man I used to be. The closed-off Marine who couldn't sleep through the night. Who drank too much and loved too little.

He seems like a stranger now. A ghost.

I asked Adrian once if he'd changed me.

"Of course I did," he said, kissing my shoulder. "That was the point."

He pulled me closer. "Are you upset about that?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it.

"No," I said finally. "Because I'm happy now. Does it matter how I got here?"

"That's my boy."

I smiled and buried my face in his chest.

Everything about me is different now. My walk, my talk, my clothes, my desires.

The therapy sessions never really ended. They just changed. Now they happen in our bedroom. Adrian still uses that voice sometimes—the one that makes me feel weightless and warm. He says it helps reinforce my progress.

I don't question it. I just close my eyes and let his words wash over me.

Good boy.

And the last thought I have before I drift off is always the same:

Got a fever.

There's no caption.

The quarterly budget review was already running twenty minutes over when “he”showed up.

Daniel had his camera off, mic muted, pretending to listen to Henry from accounting drone on about Q3 projections. He was scrolling TikTok on his phone, half paying attention, when the Teams notification pinged.

BigDaddyBalls69 has joined the meeting.

Nobody acknowledged it at first. These things happened.

“Uh,” said Marcus from regional sales, “I think we’ve got a stray. Henry, you wanna boot him?”

Henry’s voice crackled, confused. “I’m—how do I—hold on, I’m looking for the—”

That’s when the screen changed.

One second Daniel was looking at a grid of mostly-blank avatars and a pie chart. The next second his entire monitor filled with a video feed of two men. Shirtless. Glistening. The short one was on his knees, eyes locked forward with a dazed, eager expression, while the tall one stood over him, massive, impossibly hard, one hand tangled in the short one’s hair.

The video wasn’t grainy amateur stuff. It was crisp. Color-saturated. Hypnotic spiral patterns pulsed faintly at the edges of the frame, almost subliminal, colors shifting in slow rhythmic waves.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” someone wheezed. Greg from IT.

“Kick him! Boot him!” barked someone else.

Daniel’s own finger hovered over the “leave meeting” button. He should click. He should absolutely click. But the video… the spiral patterns at the corner of the screen were drawing his gaze. A warm, heavy heat spread from his chest downward, loosening something in his stomach. He blinked slowly. The short man on screen opened his mouth, and a soft, wet, rhythmic sound filled Daniel’s headphones.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“Can someone—I can’t find the—fuck, my mouse isn’t—” Henry’s voice had gone tight, breathy.

“Don’t look at the screen. Do not look at the screen.” That was Marcus, but his voice had dropped half an octave. It sounded like he was already looking.

On screen, the spiral intensified. The colors bled into Daniel’s vision. The men were beautiful. Of course they were beautiful. Why had he never let himself just look at men being beautiful? The kneeling one’s jaw was so slack, so blissful. The tall one’s stomach muscles flexed every time he pushed deeper.

Daniel’s hand fell from his mouse. It landed on his thigh.

“We should—” Henry started, then stopped. A small, shocked gasp escaped his mic before he went silent. Then his camera flicked on.

Henry was in his home office, dress shirt unbuttoned two extra buttons, face flushed, eyes glued to something off-screen. His lips were parted. He wasn’t trying to kick anyone anymore. He was rubbing his thighs together.

One by one, cameras started popping on across the grid.

Greg the IT guy had his head tilted back, eyes glassy, one hand working furiously below the frame. The rhythmic thump thump thump of his elbow hitting his desk was barely picked up by his mic.

Marcus had his entire setup on display. He wasn’t hiding. His tie was loosened, his dress shirt untucked, and his cock was out, thick and dark, both hands wrapped around it. He was staring at the screen with a slack, stupid smile that Daniel had never seen on his face before. Not in six years of Tuesday morning stand-ups.

“Good boy,” murmured the tall man in the video, and it felt like he was speaking directly to Daniel. Directly into Daniel’s skull. “Such a good boy. Stop thinking. Just feel.”

Daniel’s brain stuttered. A distant, sober part of him screamed “this is so fucked up what is happening”, but the scream got quieter and quieter with every pulse of the spiral. When his hands moved, it wasn’t to close the laptop. It was to unzip his slacks.Something in the video needed him to touch. So he touched.

“Fuuck,” breathed a voice in the meeting. It might have been Henry. It might have been Marcus. It might have been his own voice, leaking out of his unmuted mic without permission. He couldn’t tell anymore.

The men on screen kept going. The tall one pulled out, and the kneeling one whimpered—actually whimpered like a desperate little animal—and then the tall one was slapping that huge wet cock against his face, against his lips, against his tongue that lolled out automatically to catch it.

Daniel’s hand was moving now. Stroking. Squeezing. He had his own cock out, pointing at the ceiling, already dripping. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard. Maybe never.

someone laughed. It was a breathless, horny, unhinged laugh. A new voice. Brian from supply chain. Brian’s camera showed him kneeling on his office floor, pants around his ankles, rocking his hips desperately into his own fist. “We all want it. We want to be good gooners.”

The word gooner hit Daniel’s brain like a shot of warm honey. It felt so right. He was a gooner. They were all gooners. Braindead. Blissed out. No thoughts, no shame, no quarterly projections. Just stroke. Just pleasure. Just gooner.

On screen, the kneeling man finally took the tall man’s cock back into his mouth, and the tall man began to thrust like he was fucking a hole, not a face. A soundtrack started playing underneath it all—a low, thrumming bass beat, a voice repeating the same phrase over and over, barely audible except as a pulse in Daniel’s veins.

Stroke.

Obey.

Cum.

The grid of cameras had become a gallery of desperate, lost people. Some were watching themselves in their own previews, getting off on their own degradation. Some had their faces pressed close to their screens, eyes huge, reflecting spirals. Two of them had apparently figured out how to screen-share their own webcams, and now the meeting bounced between the original porn and a split-screen of Greg stroking his small, angry-red cock while he whimpered thank you thank you thank you

Daniel’s orgasm was building—not like a normal orgasm, not like a decision he was making. It was being pulled out of him. Extracted. The video wanted it. The spiral demanded it. His hips were bucking up into his fist, his mouth hanging open stupidly, drool pooling on his chin.

“Me too,” someone was chanting. “Me too, me too, me too.”

It took Daniel a full ten seconds to realize it was him.

BigDaddyBalls69 never spoke. He didn’t need to. His video was doing all the work, and the video was gospel now, the video was God, and Daniel was just a vessel, a fleshlight with a heartbeat, and he was going to cum when the tall man on screen came, because that was the program, that was the only thing his melted brain could still understand—

On screen, the tall man’s rhythm stuttered. His head fell back. A thick, pearly stream shot across the kneeling man’s waiting tongue.

Daniel shattered.

He came so hard he saw stars, actual white bursts behind his eyelids, his whole body locking up as he painted his keyboard, his desk, maybe his webcam—he didn’t care, nobody cared, the meeting was just a chorus of groans and moans and wet slapping sounds.

In the aftermath, breathing ragged, cum cooling on his shirt, Daniel should have felt horror. Humiliation. Instead he just stared at the screen—which had gone back to a gentle, pulsing spiral, the video looping silently now—and felt… peace. Perfect, empty peace.

His camera was still on. His slack, satisfied face was in the grid. Greg was licking his own fingers clean. Marcus was lounging back, soft cock still out, waving lazily at his webcam like he was at a beach bar. Henry had his head resting on his desk, a small pool of drool spreading under his cheek, one hand still down his pants.

“Same time next week?” Brian’s voice croaked through the speakers.

BigDaddyBalls69 left the meeting.

Nobody else did. They just sat there, breathing, waiting, hoping he’d come back and tell them what to do next.

Can't pass the content limit. So there's no video. Just pics

Edited: Gooner pics got banned by Tumblr….. https://imgur.com/a/R23hss1

Most of my work is based on zimage base +grok

Tbh grok is not the best choice. I saw lots of insane seedance 2 videos. It seems wonderful for character actions. Sadly it's really expensive.

I have also tried ltx2.3. It has better audio but its character action is really ridiculous. But it's a free open source, so I won't be too harsh on it.

Jack survived the transformation test. The company's tech with the Votex from the hole was still new and messy, so Jack didn't turn into their loyal pup. He hid his rage, waited long, and finally got near that hole. When he touched it, a hot, thick force burst out. The lab men dropped to their knees, eyes hazy, bodies burning with need and muscle growth. Jack turned every researcher into his needy buddies. That's how the Bear Claw Gang was born—the biggest thorn in the company's side.

I’ve always seen myself as a hero. A savior.

The man in front of me now used to be a top litigator at the biggest firm in the city. Cold eyes, razor-sharp mind, zero heart. The kind of guy who’d gut you in a deposition and bill you for the pleasure. Not his fault. They made him that way. Society, ambition, expectation. Layer after layer of tight skin over his true self.

I peeled all that away.

Now he’s here on the worn leather couch, barefoot, belly full of cheap beer. Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. He’s got a three-day beard and a lazy grin that doesn’t calculate anything. His hand rests on the thigh of another man. They pass a bottle back and forth. When they laugh, it’s deep and real and stupid. Pure.

He doesn’t remember mergers. He doesn’t remember billable hours. All he knows now is the taste of smoke, the burn of whiskey, the heavy warmth of another man’s body against his. The simple things. The best things.

I crouch down next to him. He looks at me with those once-sharp eyes now soft and foggy like morning after rain.

“You happy?” I ask.

He blinks slow. Then he grins and grabs my face with both hands and kisses me hard. Beer breath, tobacco tongue, stubble scraping my chin. When he pulls back he says, “Never been happier in my fucking life, boss.”