Sergeant Kristof checked his flat top in the rearview mirror of his car. As always, it was perfectly level with a hint of the landing strip peeking through. Still, it didn’t hurt to check. He didn’t make it this far in his military career without being sure about everything. And yet, here was full of doubt.
He had a reputation for being one of the top recruiters in the service. One of his superiors joked that if it weren’t for him, there wouldn’t even be a Marine Corps. He had a knack for finding the boys who needed guidance, the firm hand of the United States military to give them purpose, and convincing them to enlist. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he got to shave their heads. After all, that was his favorite part. Watching an undisciplined young man with shaggy hair lose all those wild locks as he began down a path of extreme discipline on his quest to become a well-trained soldier in Uncle Sam’s military? Who could resist!?
But now he was full of doubt. He always brought in these young athletic men, straight off the football team or baseball team but now his division was facing what his superiors called a “brain drain.” All these hot hunky soldiers were good, but there was barely half a brain cell between all of them. Sergeant Kristof was tasked with finding someone who could actually think. And that’s how he found himself parked outside the aerospace engineering building of the local university trying to find the next perfect victi–errr–recruit.
There were certainly plenty of potentials. The campus was awash in scrawny, brainy types who would almost certainly bring up the average IQ of his unit but how to pick which one to target? Usually he sought out boys with rippling physiques (and long hair) but how do you know which spindly nerd to turn into a Marine? He got out of his Hummer to stretch his legs, go for a walk, and do some thinking.
Sergeant Kristof had barely taken a step when he collided with one of the student. The student, a tall, lanky creature, bounced right off of Sergeant Kristof with his tree trunk physique.
“Excuse me, sir,” the young man stammered as he struggled to find his glasses amidst the giant pile of books he had been carrying. “I’m so sorry! I was preoccupied with one of my textbooks and I wasn’t watching where I was going. I don’t mean to be so clumsy!”
The sergeant watched this pathetic excuse for a man flail helplessly on the ground and a grin spread across his face. The boy was a wimp, that much was clear. But he was clearly a devoted student, exactly the kind of brain his superiors wanted. And he was tall, too, had to be at least 6’5” though he couldn’t weight more than 160 pounds sopping wet. That was OK. That was what basic training was for. But what really got Sergeant Kristof going was the boy’s hair: an unkempt mess of ginger locks, greased and sideparted clumsily with a cowlick in the back. The hair was beautiful and messy… and boy would it look good shaved off on the floor.
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He couldn’t believe it. He had shown up to campus ready to party, his long hair blowing in the wind, his jeans ripped, and his sneakers scuffed. But something had happened during his meeting with his advisor. The man was… very persuasive about the freshman’s future academic career.
He showed up to his first class a completely changed man: a respectable man. His long flowing locks had been shorn into a strict horseshoe flattop. His casual clothing had been replaced with a closet full of starched short sleeve white shirts, black pleated slacks, ties, and white briefs. Inside each article of clothing was a tag with the day of the week so he knew what to wear each day. And everything was perfectly complemented with a pair of brightly shined penny loafers. To his classmates, he was anything but the freewheeling party dude he had arrived on campus as. They viewed him as a bit of a square, a fuddy duddy even!
The craziest part? He loves it. He loves how restricted and controlled he feels. He loves how short his hair has become. He loves never having to think about what to wear and just accepting his daily outfit. When he showed up to class, he was shocked to see his academic advisor had switched his major from music to classics but now he can’t think of anything better than studying Greek and Latin and translating the Ovid. Heck, he turns down weekend plans so he can spend more time at the library, properly dressed and studying like the hardworking man he is.
He would have told you just a few weeks ago that he was the ultimate rebel. Now? He’s the ultimate conformist and happier than he’s ever been. He will dress, groom, and act this way for the rest of his life because he knows it is proper. And he hopes you will join him.
Dress Like Your Boss. You’ll find him willing to spend more time with you. He’ll draft you into projects where you’ll find yourself working shoulder to shoulder with The Old Man for long hours of the work day. You’ll find yourself more and more eager to spend time with HIM, no matter how you fight against it.
You take his photo to the barber. You have your hair cut into the same Short Back & Sides haircut that The Boss wears. You keep your 50s-style businessman’s pompadour carefully combed & slicked w/ Brylcreme- just like his. Your struggling hipster mustache is a thing of the past. You think that you hate it, but you find yourself compulsively shaving your face 3 times with the grain every morning. Your face is always immaculately smooth. You’ll be perfectly barbered & perfectly clean shaven for the rest of your life.
Soon you find yourself copying the style, cut, & colour of The Boss’ suits. Your closet fills w/ starched white shirts, gray suits, & sober ties. The Old Man approves, and sometimes compliments your suit or your tie. That REALLY gives you a hard-on!
You steadily grow more and more eager to please Him. You find yourself thinking more and more like him. Admit it: he’s a domineering asshole, but you’ve grown to love & admire everything about him. Losing yourself in his service brings you a happiness that you’ve never thought possible.
Without ever saying it, The Old Man notices how happy you are. He can read you like a book. He knows that he’s turned you into his faithful obedient office slave. He sees how happy you are on his “collar & leash”. He steadily ramps up his personal domination over you. He knows that you’re lapping it up.
Who Knows? The day may come when he “offers” you a room off of the kitchen in his home. He tells you that you’re indispensable. He insists upon keeping you available (to tend to ALL of his needs) 24/7. He insists that you ride to & from work with him. He’ll insist that you accompany him to every business meeting. He’ll insist that you accompany him on every business trip. He almost never lets you leave his side, unless he sends you on an errand.
You’ll have no life of your own, anymore. HE will be your life, for the rest of your life. You lucky Gray Flannel slave!
Wild to think that they had a been in a queer core punk band before. Leather jackets, shredded t-shirts, Doc Martens, dyed hair, nose rings: absolute rebels in every way. Loud, brash, fiercely independent.
Of course, their neighbor was a different sort of man: older, more traditional. And he wanted the men in his neighborhood to be traditional too. He was a retired parapsychologist, a former employee of the state department who worked on one of those secret programs to brainwash people. He had kept quite a bit of his research.
And so, when he hid the radio emitter in the backyard of the punk boys’ house, they never noticed how their brain waves were being subtly reprogrammed into a much more old fashioned way of thinking. Soon, the tattered clothing and denim vests covered in patches were gone. The boys started wearing nice high waisted slacks that came up to their ribs. Every day they buttoned up a dress shirt so sheer, you could see the white a-shirt through it. And of course, this was accompanied by a well tied bow tie. At first the men were confused by this desire, but soon they gave in as their reprogramming went deeper. Now they thought nothing of spending the afternoon ironing their white briefs for the week.
Their neighbor delighted in the change. As he peered out his window, he saw the boys return from a trip to the barbershop. Gone we’re the dyed mullets, replaced by naturally colored quiffs slicked with so much pomade, you could see the reflection of the sky in them. They truly looked as old fashioned as possible.
Soon, they began acting as old fashioned as possible. Their brash rebelliousness nature melted away as they became polite, timid, and meek. They couldn’t even look their neighbor in the eye as they shuffled past him on the street, saying “excuse me sir.” They called him “sir!” Can you believe it? These former rebels now intimidated by their elders!
And while the men had once been loud and proud about their sexuality, it now retreated as they adopted a more traditional attitude towards it. They were practically in the closet, and too chaste to do anything about their desires anyway.
No longer did they attend concerts; instead they attended church. No longer did they listen to punk rock; instead they listened to polka. No longer did they shred on a guitar; now they played accordions at the VFW to entertain the veterans.
The neighbor was impressed at the transformation. He delighted in seeing his neighbors live every day like obedient nerds from the 1950s. Everything had been a success and made some excellent data. The man grinned, knowing he could increase the amplitude on his next design, and soon, every man in town would be living as traditionally as his neighbors.
Being an artist was overrated. Or at least that’s what he thought now that he had been reprogrammed. Before, he had been one of the brightest shining stars of the city’s street art scene. But that was before he got caught tagging a wall of Mr Gunderson’s shoe store.
Mr Gunderson was tired of this kind of element in the town. Messy hair, torn up jeans, cropped shirts. It was disrespectful and now here was a so-called artist disrespecting his property. He wouldn’t stand for it.
When the artist awoke in Mr Gunderson’s shoe store, he wanted to scream, but found himself gagged. In front of him, the traditional man laughed. His hair was lacquered just so, his face clean shaven. His clothes neatly pressed. A thick pair of hornrimmed glasses sat on his face.
“The problem with boys like you is that nobody raised them right,” he said to the artist. “But you’re my son now and I expect you to behave properly.”
The artist scoffed at this ludicrous statement but when Mr Gunderson stepped aside, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was shocked.
Mr Gunderson had drastically changed the artist’s appearance while he was unconscious. He had shaved the man’s prized beard, cut his hair to a well lacquered cut like his own, and put him in a starched short sleeve shirt, a well knotted tie, highwaisted slacks, white socks, and shined loafers. He looked like a goody two shoes.
“I know you don’t feel like this is your real life,” Mr Gunderson said as he reached into a drawer. “But you will.”
He pulled out a pair of hornrimmed glasses much like his own and approached the artist, slipping them on the now conformist man. At first, the artist wondered how these vintage glasses would make this feel more real, but then the artist stopped wondering.
Lights from within the glasses assailed his senses and he could feel his mind reeling. His memories of learning how to do graffiti came to forefront before being snuffed out.
He had never been an artist. No, he was Gilbert Gunderson, heir to the Gunderson Shoe Store and he had devoted his life to carrying on his father’s traditions. While other boys his age had rebelled, Gilbert has always wanted to be just like his dad: the same hair, the same conformist outfits, the same thick glasses, the same line of work.
And so Gilbert was untied and approached his position at the shoe shine station at his father’s store. He had served in this role for years, seriously shining the shoes of his father’s customers during the day and shining his father’s shoes at night. He didn’t need to be an artist, shoe shining was his art. And he was the best.
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The words rang out in your head as you sat before the man who had come to complain about your music being too loud. You hadn’t met the neighbor before then but now he was calling you son and insisting you call him Father. You protested, explaining you already had a father thank you very much and you didn’t need another one, but as the man gazed deep into your eyes, long plumes of smoke trailing from his pipe and exhaling from his mouth and drifting into your nose, your mind went blank. Yes, this was your Father and you were his son.
“Like Father like son.”
The man told you he wore a suit and tie every day. And now so would you. You wanted to protest. You wanted to explain you had spent enough money on the newest clothes from ASOS to keep your wardrobe fresh but as he repeated the phrase and you inhaled more of his smoke, you knew he was right. You would always dress like your Father. Every. Single. Day. He told you you would stop wearing your contacts and begin wearing black rimmed glasses like he did. You knew you would do it. You were powerless to resist.
“Like Father like son.”
Your mind emptied out as he filled it up with new rules to follow, manners to take on, protocols to live by. The phrase became your mantra and it would keep you behaving, dressing and grooming properly forever. Any time you thought about cursing or talking back to someone, you heard the phrase in your mind. “Like Father like son.” And instead you were polite and gracious.
Any time you felt like taking a casual day where you didn’t have your tie tied tight and a suit jacket on, or you wanted to skip shaving and just deal with being a little stubbly. “Like Father like son.” And you sprung to attention, shaved your face, applied Old Spice, and got dressed in a freshly starched shirt, tied your tie tight, and put on your sport coat. That’s how Father lived and therefore it was how you lived now too.
Any time you wanted to listen to music with curse words in it. “Like Father like son.”
Any time you wanted to watch a movie with nudity or violence. “Like Father like son.”
Any time you went to the barber shop and wanted a haircut besides the flat top Father made you get every two weeks. “Like Father like son.”
You were helpless to resist. You had to live up to Father’s standards. And the more you tried to fight it, the stronger the voice became. Until eventually, you stopped fighting it. The words were your mantra yes, but your behavior became automatic. Eventually you stopped resisting. Finally you were exactly like Father. You were his son, a perfect clone of him that any Father would be proud of.
One Sunday morning before church as you were smoking your pipe and reading the newspaper, your doorbell rang. It was your boyfriend, well ex boyfriend now. He hadn’t seen you in weeks after all. He was worried about you. You invited him in and offered him some coffee. You told him to wait and everything would make sense soon. After all, Father was coming over that morning, and you knew your ex boyfriend needed to be like Father like son as well.
A Detective pays the price after the arrest of an Executive's goon. After all, an equivalent exchange is demanded.
Involves bondage and brainwashing.
Word Count: 5990
The rain splattered upon the moon blessed roads as a man walked in the neon-lit signs. He looked up with his hands in his pocket, observing humanity’s greatest achievements. Unlike the sparse darkness around him, the night lit up with colors of a rainbow in every section an eye can stumble upon. They were the skyscrapers that pierced through the heavens, filled with each member of humanity and those who were invented by it.
“You can - get repot - reported.” A sound echoed through the eerily silent district the man was in.
He darted his eyes towards the direction of the sound, only to witness a man with a flannel shirt and jeans, surrounded by three men. Each of the three struck the man with a force like thunder with their shoes.
“Fucking android.” One of them shouted with bitterness.
“How did this stupid thing end up here.” Another spat at the body on the ground.
The man who observed sighed and walked away, for there was nothing he could do. The people here weren’t quite friendly to the likes of him, and he was here for another reason.
He made his way until he reached his destination. A crippled building stood in front of him with windows into the forgotten past world.
“The Old News.” The broken sign on the building read.
He entered and was met with stacked newspaper on tables and shelves. Each was noted from different periods, from the past to the current. He walked past them ignoring the museum that wanted to be appreciated.
A man wearing a brown suit stood by the checkout counter with a cigar popped in his mouth. He had his brown hair neatly trimmed and combed. His brown beard followed suit with no signs of raggedness.
“Detective.” The man looked up, removing the cigar from his mouth.
“I can get you arrested for that.” The Detective pointed to the cigar in his mouth.
“Sure, you could, but you won’t.” The man scoffed at the detective, challenging him, “what do you want?”
“Tsk.” The Detective stared at the man, “papers for today.”
As the man turned around to grab the latest news, the detective found his eyes glanced over at a book near the man.
“A Traditionalist Guide to Humanity.” The book title read.
The man threw the current paper towards the detective as he elegantly caught it with one of his hands and away from his focus on the book. The detective opened the newspaper and started to read the news line.
“Futurist Brightest Young Politician, Walter Kirth, Mysteriously Vanished.” One of the headlines read.
Not exactly what the detective was looking for. He continued to quickly skim to find his target.
“There we go.” The Detective smiled as his eyes focused on a section.
Crackdown on the Executives
“Newspapers are useless to you. What exactly did you want?” The man bitterly declared.
“Mhm.” The Detective simply nodded, “just making sure news is spreading about.”
The Detective did in fact want to make sure the news was spreading about. It was a message to the perpetrator: he will find them and he will bring them to justice. After all, he was the one who cracked the Executive case.
The Detective had caught a man belonging to the Executive. An elusive group of crooked businessmen, who donned their pinstripe suits. They kept themselves tidy. A physical appearance that deceits what’s truly insidious. They were the madmen of greed, power, corruption, and of all sorts. Funny thing was, no one had seen them and was only dismissed as a rumor. Until of course, the Detective caught one.
“Guys like you just get your news from the Network.” The checkout man bitterly blurted, “pay up Detective.”
The Detective smiled at the man and pulled up his phone. He hovered it over the cash register and the transaction was completed. Then he left with the piece of paper in his hands.
He returned to his home after midnight, located just on the outskirts of the city. He opened the door to his house and stepped onto his “Welcome” mat; except something was wrong.
He perked up facing his attention towards the hallway in front of him. A sound of rustling wind coming from the kitchen to his left.
The Detective had never left a window open before he left. Which could only mean someone had opened the window to his kitchen.
He made haste on his way to the kitchen, stumbling upon a stranger standing with a smile in the middle of the room.
“What th-” The Detective suddenly spoke as his eyes met the man.
The man stood there with his neatly combed black hair. A thick chevron mustache was spotted above his lips. More importantly, it was his figure and appearance that were weary. He wore a dark charcoal suit with his blue tie, finishing it off with his shiny black cap toe.
His eyes glowed with a glint of wickedness. His smile reeks of a stalking tiger. The man was the predator and the detective was the prey.
“Who the hell are you?” The Detective shouted as he grabbed his phone from his pocket.
“Hello Detective,” the man started speaking, “I believe you are the one who took a dear possession of mine.”
The Detective stared at him and noticed a stark similarity feature with the man he had captured and the man standing in front of him. They both were related somehow.
Then the epiphany struck at the Detective. The man standing in front of him belonged to the Executive.
“What was taken must be given.” The man declared.
The Detective quickly typed in the number on his phone as the man continued to grin.
“I ne-” The Detective couldn’t finish as his phone connected to backup.
“What…?” The Detective mumbled as he felt his eyes closed on themselves. His knee fell to the ground and his palms on the floor, then his body to the ground.
—------
“Detective.”
The Detective’s eyes opened and panicked at the sudden change of scenery. His eyes stared upon the stone wall that stood five feet away from him. A flickering ceiling lamp hung over him. Then he darted his attention to the man in front of him. The man with the suit who stood in his kitchen a moment ago.
“Who are you? What do you want?” The Detective spoke hastily as he tried to stand up from his position. He yanked his body out of the chair but quickly yelped at a sudden backlash.
He rapidly looked down upon himself and realized the situation he was in. The clothes he wore were still the same, moments before he was caught: a white dress shirt and his trousers. However, his shoes and his leather jacket were missing, only to be assumed it was taken by the man.
The Detective scanned the works that bound him. A long rope was wrapped around his chest and onto the chair. He tugged his hands once more to confirm that his hands were in fact bound by a rope. Then, he focused on his legs and noticed the two restraints attached to the chair legs.
“Executive. You can call me Executive” The Executive’s authoritative voice answered, “you, Detective, have taken something from me.”
“And what makes you think I’ve taken this something from you, Executive.”
“You know what you’ve taken.” The Executive approached the Detective.
The Detective glared at the Executive’s eyes and knew what the Executive wanted. The Detective has taken one of their own and the Executive wants him back.
“Hah - you think I can just free one of your crooks out? Screw your bullshit.” The Detective spat towards the Executive and landed upon his blue tie.
“Feisty one, aren’t you?” The Executive patted down the spit on his tie, then he glanced back upon the Detective, “enjoy your fight, it won’t matter soon.”
“Soon, you’ll be in the exact spot with your friend.” The Detective threatened, “you’ll release me now if you’re smart. I’ve called my superior and the moment they don’t hear from me, it’s only a matter of time that they will find you.”
The Executive laughed, amplified throughout the same compact room.
“Oh, Detective. What makes you think I need him when I’ve found a better one?”
“What?” The Detective was puzzled at the Executive’s statement, “I repeat, release me now or you’ll get a much worse sentence!”
The Detective rattled the chair that bound him in an attempt to fight for his freedom. Unable to prevail, the restraints held him in his place. The Executive stood in front of the Detective and with a grin, he eyed the Detective up and down.
“What are you looking at?” The Detective angrily questioned.
The Detective’s face flushed with horror as he witnessed the Executive reach his hands out upon the unspoken treasure.
“You fuck!?” The Detective winced as a sense of humiliation and fear ran through him. He couldn’t fathom that the Executive would resort to such methods.
“Something wrong?” The Executive smirked, “a man like you deserves so much more.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“Quality, smart, and a witty man. Of course, there are a lot of things that could be improved. Your appearance for example. But most importantly, your attitude for authority is in desperate need of renovation.” The Executive raised his black shiny cap toe and pressed upon the Detective’s bulge.
The Detective grunted through the pain as the Executive wiggled his shoe.
“You bastard.” The Detective clenched through his teeth, “what nonsense are you spewing? Are you out of your mind!? Oh wait, maybe all of you executives are crazy fucks.”
“ARGH.” The Detective winced as the Executive pressed harder upon his bulge.
“Oh Detective, where’s the fun in you?” The Executive released the hold of his shoe. Then the Executive bent on his knees in front of the Detective.
“You crooks! You think you can get away with everything, don’t you? I’ll make sure every one of you rots in jail!” The Detective continued with his threats.
The Detective felt a hand grab upon his legs and then his pants, slowly pulled up to reveal his worn black socks.
“The hell are you doing?”
The Executive shook his head, “disappointing.”
Then the Executive grabbed ahold of the sock from the front and pulled off the Detective’s sock in a quick second.
The Detective nervously laughed at the strange occurrence, “What? You think that’s going to do something to me?”
The Executive performed the same action upon the other pair of the Detective’s black socks. Then the Executive stood up with the pair of socks crumbled in his hands. With one of his hands, he grabbed ahold of the Detective’s head.
“Wait -”
“Mmrr! MMMRR!” The Detective grunted as the Executive forcefully shoved the socks into the Detective’s mouth. Before the Detective could eject the socks out of his mouth, the Executive had already prepped a long strip of duct tape and wrapped it around the Detective’s mouth.
“Much better.” The Executive shook his head upon the helpless Detective, “that’ll teach you a lesson, Detective.”
“MNR MMUK!” The Detective squirmed in his chair.
The Executive grabbed ahold of the Detective’s chin and stared with a flicker of mischief.
“MMMRR!” The Detective shouted through his sock gag.
The Executive laughed in amusement of the helpless Detective who attempted to power through the restraints. For he could already see the outcome. Soon, the Detective will be in his grasp and formed to his desired appearance. The Detective with a neat slick combed hair like theirs. A thick mustache that will encompass above the lips. But most importantly of them all, the Detective will wear the distinguished pinstripe suit and become a man in their order.
“Give me 30 minutes and you’ll be mine.” The Executive stated. The Executive stepped away and then walked behind the Detective.
“GHH GHCK MRRN!” The Detective angrily shouted through the sock gag. But the Executive didn’t respond to him, only the sounds of an opened door and then momentarily slammed shut.
The Detective struggled with his feet and hands. He shook his hands, in an attempt to break the ropes that bound him. He pulled his hands apart but the pain quickly found him. He clenched upon the wet socks in his mouth as he pushed every ounce of energy into his legs to break the restraints on the chair.
The Detective was trapped, and he could feel the dread settling in. He counted the minutes and the seconds, anxiously waiting for the moment when reinforcements would arrive.
The door opened and the sounds of his enemy’s dress shoes echoed in the room.
“MMMM!” The Detective grunted as he tried again with every inch of his force to break out of his restraints. Every ounce of his emotions directed towards his enemy. It was now a fight for his survival.
“What happened to your reinforcements?” The Executive raised his eyebrows and his wicked smile in front of the Detective.
“MMNRR!” The Detective shouted through the sock gag. He couldn’t understand why reinforcements were taking so long. But it was a fleeting thought as he realized the Executive had brought something along.
In his right hand, the Executive held upon a shiny pair of black patent loafers with a pair of socks stuffed inside.
The Executive sat them down on the ground beside the Detective. Then he held up a small piece of chip in his left hand in front of the Detective.
“Do you know what this is?” The Executive dangled the chip in front of the Detective.
“Grrgh!” The Detective huffed with his remaining energy.
“This chip will be installed right on your temple. You’ll feel an initial shock and a little bit of disorientation, but it’s only temporary.” The Executive explained with a beaming smile, “then… the chip will start to feed information to you.”
“MmmNN!” The Detective shook his head rapidly.
“Sounds beneficial for you, doesn’t it?” The Executive continued, “don’t you want to find out?”
“MMMM!” The Detective attempted to move his head as far back as he could. He didn’t know what the chip exactly was but all he knew was his gut’s alarm system was going off.
The Executive reached with his hand to firmly grab hold upon the Detective’s head and with swiftness, he attached the chip to the Detective’s left temple. He finished it off with a tap on the chip.
“MMRGH!” The Detective winced through the wet socks in his mouth as he felt a shock through his head.
“Now who’s going to be a good goon?” The Executive stepped back.
The Detective’s head slumped down as he tried to revitalize himself. The shock had impaired his thoughts, sending a migraine through his head. His vision upon the ground was hazy. A cold shuddered through his body.
The shock lasted momentarily as the Detective observed in confusion upon his restraints. The Executive unclasped the bind upon the legs and then smiled back at the Detective.
“This is it.” The Detective managed a thought in his situation. A sudden burst of faith and strength arises within him, “this is my chance.”
“Let’s get you out of those awful pants.” The Executive muttered as he reached forward to the Detective’s belt.
The Detective rapidly formulated a plan in his head: he was going to focus all his energy onto his feet. He eyed the Executive’s bulge. Two can play the game. Then he was going to –
He couldn’t move his very own legs. His freedom was right in front of his eyes and yet he couldn’t usher any strength to move his own body. He couldn’t do anything.
The Detective scrutinize in terror at what unfolded. The Executive yanked the Detective’s belt off and then pulled his trousers. Then, the Executive’s hand grabbed upon the Detective’s briefs and was yanked off, revealing the Detective’s cock.
Powerless was what the Detective felt. His whole manhood was revealed to his enemy.
The Detective merely watched in defeat as the Executive reached into the patent black loafer and pulled up a long black silk sock. He dangled it in front of the Detective with the same grin. Then he grabbed ahold of one of the Detective’s legs. Slowly, the Executive descended the Detective’s leg into the black silk socks and up past the Detective’s calves.
“Oahmmmm.” The Detective instantly let out a muffled moan through the wet sock gag.
The Detective couldn’t believe the sensation the sock had upon his calves and feet. They were silky, smooth, and dandy. But more importantly above all, he found them to be of stimulation and delightful to wear.
“What the…” The Detective winced in his head. He could feel a tingle down his crotch and he couldn’t make sense why. After all, it was a sense of the unspeakable: his very own cock was growing.
“How does it feel, Detective?” The Executive grinned as he noticed the growth of the Detective’s cock.
The Executive repeated the process with the other pair.
“ORHAMMmm!” ” Again, an uncontrollable muffled moan escaped the Detective. He couldn’t imagine how good it felt on both of his feet.
He attempted to laugh at his situation. He couldn’t believe what the Executive was doing. His enemy was putting a pair of socks onto him. And yet, he also was puzzled at his body’s reaction. The sight bewildered and amused him. What did the Executive hope to achieve with this?
Then, the Executive presented the Detective with the black patent loafer. Leisurely, the Executive slipped the Detective’s feet into the loafer.
“Oafmm…” The Detective let out a moan.
“Oh… they feel so good…” An intrusive thought surmounted inside the Detective’s head upon his attention on the black silk sock and patent loafer.
The Detective couldn’t believe how undeniably comfortable the loafer was on his feet. He also didn’t understand how perfect the fit was. His eyes glued upon the loafer and the socks and suddenly, a fondness for the combination.
“What the hell…?” The Detective thought to himself once again, his mind in shambles. He couldn’t understand the occurrence of such thoughts.
“Mmmmmm!” An uncontrollable wave of pleasure escaped from the Detective.
The Detective stared in shock at his enlarged cock wrapped by the Executive’s hand.
“The chip is working,” the Executive smiled, “they’re quite fun to wear, aren’t they?”
“What?” The Detective sat there dazed. There was no way in hell the Detective found any of it enjoyable. The silk socks were far from it, and yet what was occurring in front of his eyes denied the truth.
He could feel his head slowly warp itself around the pleasure. His cock rocked hard around the feeling of the loafer and sock on his feet. His heartbeat thumped and his breathing increased. His teeth clenched through the sock gag.
“MMMmmmfp!” The Detective let out a loud moan through the sock gag as the Executive stroked it.
“God… the socks and loafers feel so good…”The Detective caught himself thinking. He found his mind loving the newfound clothing.
“What the hell am I thinking!?” The Detective shook his head fighting the invading thoughts.
The Detective found his eyes unconsciously darted to the Executive’s shiny black cap toe. Then, a feeling of admiration for the shoe bubbled inside of him. But underneath the Executive’s trouser and inside the shoe caught the Detective’s eyes. The Executive himself was wearing his pair of black silk socks.
“No...” The Detective grunted.
The Detective had arrived at a realization. His mind thought of the criminal, an Executive he had assumed, he had captured the previous days. The captured man wore the elaborate pinstripe suit but the epiphany was, the man himself wore the same pair of black silk socks.
“No…” The Detective winced in his head. He was not like them and he knew that, yet he felt a desire for their appearances.
For such thoughts made him feel dirty. After all, the Detective was a man who solve crimes and bring justice. He made a vow to bring peace within the city. To be tempted by these Executive were the obstruction to his very own beliefs.
“Look at your dandy little thing pumping from my hand.” The Executive commented.
“MMMARRGH!” The Detective shouted with anger as he tried to grip the last of his momentary strength, rattling the chair he was in. He was not going to let himself fall for such tricks.
The Executive smiled at his attempted resurrection. However, it was for naught as the Executive rebounded the Detective’s two legs with a rope.
“We’re not going to take any risks, aren’t we, Detective?” As he wrapped the Detective’s legs.
“Rrmgh!” The Detective struggled then looked in defeat. His chance of freedom was over.
“Let’s continue with the program.” The Executive insisted, “you’ll love what comes next.”
The Executive leaned in and place his shoe back upon the Detective’s bulge. He reached his hands upon the Detective’s chest and slowly unbuttoned the Detective’s dress shirt. The Detective wince upon the invasion of the Executive’s hands.
“Mmmrrr!” The Detective cringed in pain.
Then the Executive bent down to his oxford and undid his shoelaces. He lifted his feet out and grabbed the shoe with his hands.
“No. No. No.” the Detective shook his head in distraught. The humiliation would be too much for the Detective, but he didn’t have a choice.
The Executive forcefully plunged the inside of the oxford to the Detective's face. The Detective held his nose but with no way to breathe, the Detective slowly crumbled. He had to live, and with no control, the smell leaked through his nose and traveled through his nostrils.
It was an undesired minor leak, but there was no way around it. As his brain registered the smell, the chip on his forehead flickered on and off. Suddenly, he found himself devouring the smell of the Executive’s shoe. Like an addict, one small dose made him want more. He inhaled it through his nostrils. The smell of the deep enriched leather mixed with the personal musk of his enemy.
“You’re doing well Detective.” The Executive praised him.
“OOOAH!” The Detective moaned loudly through his sock gag as he inhaled the musk of the man.
“Good. Good. That’s what we want to see.” The Executive applauded, “you love the smell of my musk.”
The Detective continued to shove his face into the shoe held in front of him. He inhaled it with his nose continuously.
He found himself devoid of his thoughts. He couldn’t grasp any of his logic. His feeling of anger was subsiding and in its place was a pleasurable and euphoric sensation. He wanted more. He wanted more of the man’s musk.
“Ooommm.” The Detective groaned through his gag. Every ascending beat of his heart matched the rhythm of his inhale.
What was it that the Detective was thinking? The Detective scoured his head in the hope to find the suddenly important forgotten piece.
“Good… good… keep inhaling…” The Executive continued to hold his shoe to the Detective’s nose. With his other hand, the Executive slowly gripped onto the Detective’s enlarged cock.
“mmmmmm!” The Detective moaned through the soaked sock gag in his unknown sparked lust.
He loved the smell. He loved the musk inside the man’s Oxford. It was a mixture of the leather and the Executive’s pheromone. He loved it so much that his enlarged cock enjoyed the grasp by the Executive’s hand. His cock was gently stroked sending him into an enrage.
“You are to replace the goon I’ve lost.” The Executive declared, “you’re going to work for me now.”
“Mmmnn…” The Detective moaned through the strokes.
“You are like us, wearing the socks and the shoes. No one will see a lousy detective but a crook.”
The Detective took in the words of the man. It was true. Here, the Detective sat with part of their uniform. If anybody saw him, a detective is the farthest thing anybody would describe him. The Detective didn’t want to be associated with the Executives but his mind couldn’t deny what was to come. He had enjoyed part of the uniform. He had enjoyed the man; his mind had begun to rewire.
“Obey me.” The Executive commanded.
A foreign voice intruded into the Detective’s head.
“I am to obey the Executive.” The voice spoke inside his head.
“No…” the Detective’s mind resisted the foreign voice. This was not the Detective’s voice.
“Get out of my head.” He said inside of his thoughts.
“I am to obey the Executive.” The voice spoke again.
“Get out of my head!” The Detective shouted out in his head.
“Mmmrrrgh!!” was the only sound leaving from the Detective as his eyes showed the last gambit of the fight.
“I am to obey the Executive.”
“I am to obey the Executive.”
“Obey me, Detective.”
“I am to obey the Executive.” The voice repeated itself inside the Detective’s head. But it was no longer a foreign voice. Instead, it was the Detective’s voice that followed.
“I am to show loyalty by wearing the silk socks.” The voice changed its statement.
“No… No…No!” The Detective resisted against himself.
“I am to wear the silk socks.”
“No! I’m not like them… I’m not them!” The Detective shook his head rapidly, slapping the shoe he was inhaling away from him.
He then turned his attention to the Executive’s eyes that stared back upon him.
“I am to obey the Executive.” The voice echoed.
“Mmmmmmm!” The Detective groaned out. He was to obey the Executive.
He felt the silk socks on his feet and a sense of warmth journeyed through his body. He felt right to have them on. After all, it was what was expected of him.
“I am to wear the silk socks.” He told himself.
“Splendid.” The Executive rejoiced, “and if you are to work under me, Detective, the uniform is expected.”
“No… stop! Get out of my head…” The Detective continued his fight, unable to accept the foreign voice, “I’m not going to work for you!”
The Executive simply stepped aside from the Detective and pointed his forefinger at the wall. The Detective couldn’t believe what he had seen. On the wall was a hanger, and on that hanger was a suit. More specifically, a pinstripe suit jacket with its matching trouser hung inside of the hanger.
“Mn. Mn. Mn!” The Detective trembled at the sight.
“Get up.” The Executive pulled the Detective up.
The Detective was so busy battling the invasion that he had failed to notice the Executive’s adjustment of the Detective’s binding. He was no longer bound to the chair and the rope on his legs was removed. His hands continued to be tied behind his back.
The Executive pulled the Detective along to the wall until the Detective faced the hung pinstripe suit. The Detective couldn’t help but admire the suit in front of him. He imagined what it would feel like on his body. He imagined how it would fit. He imagined what he would look like in the suit. Then he found himself a desire for the pinstripe suit.
“No… Resist! I’m not one of them… I’m a detective.” The Detective’s voice protested.
“What do you say, Detective? Should we get you into the suit?” The Executive asked.
“Mmnh!” The Detective grunted and wavered his head. He wanted to plead to the Executive. Anything else besides wearing the uniform of his enemy.
“I am a Detective. I’m supposed to take in these criminals! Not to be like them!”
“I am to wear the uniform.” The voice surmounted again.
“No! I’m not going to be a crook!”
“I am to wear the uniform.” The voice echoed in his head.
“Take off your loafers.” The Executive ordered him.
The Executive smiled in response as he watched the Detective slip his feet out from the loafer. The Detective was in disbelief at himself. How could he listen to the man? There, the Detective stood dazed with his opened white dress shirt, his hanging cock, and the crook’s black silk socks.
The Detective was to wear the uniform.
The first piece the Executive took out under the hanger was a pair of white underwear. The Detective simply watched as the Executive approached him with the underwear. The Detective didn’t want it. He was not going to succumb. He was not going to be them.
But his body betrayed him as it yearned for it. He stepped into the white underwear as the Executive pulled it up for him. The Detective felt a flush of humiliation as he allowed the Executive to doll him. He stood still and allowed the Executive to continue further, buttoning back the white dress shirt that he was captured in. Then, the Executive tucked the shirt into the brief.
“I am to wear the uniform.” The Detective’s voice told himself. He couldn’t help himself but feel compelled to wear the uniform.
Next, the Executive pulled off the pinstripe trouser and approached the Detective. His heartbeat quivered in the sight of the trousers. It was the real deal and it was the step to completion. The Detective allowed the Executive, and thus the Detective stepped into the pinstripe trousers. The Executive pulled them up to the Detective’s waist and buttoned the trousers.
Upon wearing the pinstripe trousers, the Detective felt a click. It was like a forgotten piece of himself was found. Enlightened was the feeling. Moreover, his enjoyment of the trouser was way more than he had thought so.
The Executive beamed with pride as he overlooked the Detective. For the Detective was now starting to become of them.
“I am to wear the uniform.” The Detective told himself.
“Go on.” The Executive nudged the Detective towards the black shiny patent loafers.
The Detective looked down upon his black silk socks and then towards the Executive’s very own black silk socks. His mind registered that he was the same as the man in front of him. No. The man in front of him was more important than him. He was the inferior one to the Executive.
Nonetheless, the Detective knew what was right and slipped upon the black patent loafer. By the time he had settled into his loafer, the Executive had already undone his blue tie. The Executive approached the Detective and wrapped the blue tie around the Detective’s neck. Then, the blue tie was slowly knotted upon the Detective, sending a signal that the Detective now belong to the Executive.
“Now that’s appropriate.” The Executive commended the Detective.
“Take a good look at yourself, Detective.” The Executive pointed across the room.
The Detective turned around and was faced with a mirror. The man in front of the mirror was not a Detective. He was a crook with a white dress shirt and the executive’s blue tie. He wore their pinstripe trousers and the black patent loafer. Underneath it was the white brief and the black silk socks. All he was missing was the pinstripe jacket.
As the Detective continued to stare in the mirror, the image started to transfigure. In the mirror, the Detective’s hair was neatly combed like the Executive's. Then above his lips was a growth of a sheer resemblance of the Executive’s mustache and the criminal he had arrested. As the Detective continued to gaze upon the mirror, the more he enjoyed the look.
“I am to comb my hair and grow a mustache like my Executive.” His voice told him.
The Detective could feel the release of the binds upon his hands. The rope fell to the ground as the Detective’s arm dropped to the side of his body. The Executive was behind him, and he held the final piece of the uniform.
The Detective raised his arms and the Executive promptly slid the jacket upon his new goon. The Detective stood in admiration of the uniform, from every piece and component: from the suit jacket, to the brief, and the socks.
“How does it feel, Detective?” The Executive’s voice whispered into the Detective’s ears.
“Mmmm…” The Detective groaned as his bulge was massaged by the Executive. The Detective had wanted this, the uniform and the Executive.
The Executive led the Detective back to the chair and leaned him against the back of the chair. The Detective could hear the sound of his Executive’s fly zipped open. Then he felt the Executive’s cock rubbing between his buttocks.
The Detective’s heartbeat jumped as his trouser waist was touched by the Executive. Seconds later, it was undone and the trousers dropped down to the ground.
“You ever got fuck by a man, Detective?” The Executive wondered.
The Detective held in his breath for he had never had any man inside of him.
The Executive reached and pulled the Detective’s white brief down slightly and fondled the Detective’s cock.
With it came a silent voice echoed in the back of the Detective’s mind.
“I’m a detective, and I vowed to bring justice to this city.” A foreign voice restated his mission.
But the word “detective” no longer exists in the Detective’s head.
“Mmm!” The Detective moaned blissfully as his cock was stroked by the man behind him.
“I am to obey the Executive.”
The Detective couldn’t hold it in anymore. His body was in love with what he wore. His cock was in love, grasped by the Executive’s hand. He could feel the Executive’s tie knotted tight upon his neck, reminding him who was in charge.
“Mmmargh!” The Detective grunted in pain as he felt the Executive’s cock push through his hole.
“Oooah.” The Executive moaned as he slowly continued his way into his goon’s hole, “now that’s the way I like it.”
“I am to show loyalty with the black silk socks.” A voice rang inside the Detective’s head.
“MMMmm!” The Detective groaned.
The Detective bit the sock gag tight for he had never another man inside his hole. Except he found himself wanted of more. It was a desire to give his manhood to the man. He had never wished such a thought but the man behind him had changed everything.
“I am to wear the uniform.”
The statement rang inside the Detective’s head over and over again until eventually, it was the truth.
“Uuugh..” The Executive continued to plow deeper.
“Obey Executive.” The Detective affirmed.
“Fuck… yeah.” The Executive gripped his goon’s cock and rocked it back and forth slowly in motion with his cock.
“Mmmnnn!’ The Detective moaned, adjusting to the new experience.
“You’re mine now, you got that?” The Executive gripped the Detective’s tie as he slowly increase his rhythm.
“MMMnnN!”
“Servitude.” A voice inside the Detective told him.
“Yes...servitude.” The Detective responded to himself as the Executive ramped the cock inside of him.
“Hahh.. Oooah… Mmm.” The Executive thrust upon his subject.
The Executive was inside of the Detective, corrupting the Detective into the goon he had lost. On the other hand, the Detective could feel every inch of the Executive’s cock within him, guiding him to bliss.
“Mmh! O. Ooah! ARGH!”
The Detective clenched hard upon the Executive’s cock, then a sudden blast of warmth ejaculated into his hole.
“OOOAH!” The Executive moaned loudly.
The Detective groaned and accepted the Executive’s seed as it shot through and deposited itself within the body.
“MMMMNNRH!” The Detective roared in bliss moments later through his gag as his white stream shot into the air.
He bit upon his sock gag and allowed the man to propel him to the moon. A serene filled his lungs and his heart. Along with a stream of voices that injected into the Detective’s mind, overriding all that was left.
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A thief undergoes a disciplinary action from his own victim, with the end goal to set the thief proper.
Word Count: 3840
I hold the brown leather wallet in front of my face, observing the intricacy of my treasure.
“I just had to do it.” I smile to myself as my hands pry open the wallet.
“Wyatt Wilborn.” The driver license reads. The man in the picture was sporting his thick brown mustache with a hint of white streaks. Then there was his brown hair that was neatly combed and parted with a line. Oddly enough, I couldn’t complain that he was unattractive with his get go. The man was all dressed up in his photo, a white dress shirt and blue-white stripe tie in the photo. I chuckle. Who in this day and age dresses up for a driver license’s photo?
But why would it matter to me anyway? I threw the card onto the ground, watching it flop to the ground. My lips form a smirk staring at the man’s photo on the ground. The man was an easy target, gambling his life away beneath a couple of floors down at the casino.
There it is. My face forms a wide grin from cheek to cheek holding my hostage’s credit card. The man even had a few 100’s bills. I quickly stash it into my jean’s pocket, then throw the wallet on top of the wooden dresser.
All that was left was to wait the night away. I slump my body backwards, bouncing against the cushion of the bed below me. Judging from his grin and laughter, I bet the man wouldn’t even realize his wallet has gone missing.
I close my eyes and stretch my arms. A relief escapes from me, adjusting to the feeling of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Tomorrow early morning… His money will just be another tool to sustain me till my next victim.
A knock on my door echoes through my room.
What now? Didn’t I leave a no disturbance sign outside the room? I got up with scowl on my face. There goes my peace and tranquility, clearly disrupted by someone who couldn’t read. My feet forcefully trot along the way towards the door.
My hands turn the knob and open the door. A man dressed in a charcoal gray pinstripe suit stands on the other side of the room. A frown on his face and his eyebrows crooked. His eyes study me as he reaches up to his red tie and adjusts it against his white dress shirt. There was something odd about his collar, one that I have never seen before. Its collar was higher and stiffer than the usual dress shirts. Underneath his tie was a small golden collar pin.
He was the odd fellow. My stomach starts to churn and my mind profusely sweats at my guest.
Wyatt Wilborn. What the hell was he doing here?
He pushes his arm across the door, forcing me to step back.
“Who - who the hell are you? Get the fuck away from my room or I’ll call secruity!” My eyes scan across the room with a streak of desperation. How the fuck did he find me? I made sure my operation was flawless. He didn’t even react when I took his wallet!
He prowls toward me, stepping forward every inch with his brown dress loafers. His glower face shows no intention of stopping.
“Stop!” My hands rush in front of me trying to protect from the man clearly double my age and body. He unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them above his elbow. My brain agape at his arm then to his body. I could see the crevices of his veins on his arms. The man was fit. I shook my head… compared to me, I was slim.
Fuck! My back presses against the back of the wall.
My heart races as he momentarily stops then looks to the ground. My vision starts to shake in disbelief. I was careless, except the man shouldn’t even be here.
He bends down to grab his driver’s license, then straightens his back to face me. His eyes slowly cycle between me, the card, and his wallet on the dresser.
“It’s not what you think!” My voice quivers. I bet he can hear the desperation in my voice. He was still, with his stern face waiting for my explanation.
“Look -” I stumble over my words. Where was my composure? My breaths exacerbate at his menacing stare and posture. I could feel myself gasping for air, trying to find the right words to play the moment right.
“Your wallet was on the ground, and I just happened to pick it up. I was going to give it to security, but I have a little bit too much to drink.” I quickly shrug with my palms upward pointing to his card on the ground.
“Bullshit.” His voice was rough and deep. His gaze continues to aim at me as his hand reaches over to his wallet on the dresser, “that was a lie, and you know it.”
He can’t be serious. How the hell did I fuck up? Did he play me?
“You’ve messed with the one person you shouldn’t have.” A sense of authority reigns in his voice.
“Good thing I like a naughty boy.” A grin washes over his face, “makes it worthwhile to see their change after a disciplinary training.”
The hell he was talking about me? Naughty boy? Disciplinary training? A ripple of steaming heat rushes over my body.
“What the hell did you say?” I raise my voice.
“I got two choices for you, boy.” He brushes my statement off, “I can use my influence and power to make your life a living hell or… a disciplinary training to set you straight.”
A nervous laughter escapes from me, “what the hell are you talking about? What are you even going to do?”
“Don’t test me, boy. Choose.” He grunts. His eyes were intent, and his face was sincere.
A cold chill traverses through my spine as I feel his gaze. This feeling… the feeling was new. Who was he? I look down to my trembling hand in his presence. I gulp, trying to find the words but none would usher out.
Choose. His voice echoes in my head. It was either a living hell or his discipline. My heart trembles at the thought of what he could accomplish. Why did I believe the words of this man? He could’ve been a fraud. What would he do to hurt me? I had nothing to lose. And yet, somehow deep inside me, he was the real deal. What man would he be to have that much power? What would he even do? Fuck.
“I…”
His stares only made it worse, as his eyes stole time. There was no room for a conscious thought, and my hesitation made a fleeting decision. The only word usher up from his pressure on my shoulder.
“Discipline.” My heart drops. Why did I say that? What had I done? To hell with discipline! Why am I letting him degrade me by addressing me as a boy?
“Good boy.” His face beams.
Infuriation rises over me watching the man gain his leveraging power. He walks over to the bed, where a while ago, I was basking in my fleeting sunshine. Now, instead of it belonging to me, I can see it in his mischief grin.
He starts to unbelt his brown leather belt from his trousers. Then, he proceeds to sit on the edge of the bed, revealing his gray socks from beneath his trousers. He fingered me to come forward.
“This is what you’re going to do then, boy.” He looks at me, “you’re going to lay on my lap.”
My body hardens at the realization of his words. I grit my teeth behind my closed mouth. Did he just say what I think he said? How dare he? How dare he demand me to lay on his lap? That smug look on his face. It was this or the alternative… I should’ve chosen the alternative, shouldn’t I?
“You’re a man of your words, aren’t you?” He pats his lap, “come here, boy.”
Was I really going to proceed with this?
“I -” I close my mouth before making my situation worse. Fuck this. Fuck him. He was playing me, degrading me with such action.
And yet, my feet took a step and another towards the side of the man. It was this or the alternative. Maybe, he could have me in prison for years, or he could have me framed for something worse… would he have me in debt to him, enslaving me? I didn’t want to take that chance… I knew the risk when I did what I had to do. At least, this option wouldn’t make my former situation worse. Right?
I guzzle my pride stepping within an arm's length away from him. My eyes peer upon his spread legs and his gently laid hand against his gray trousers. Then slowly, I bent my body forward. Without warning, his hand pushes me onto his lap. His other hand pushes my head down, staring down into his gray socks and his brown loafers.
“Argh!” I grunt out loud as a sound ripples through the air. A force was felt onto my butt covered by my jeans.
I couldn’t believe it. I, a full grown man, was getting spank by another man. What the hell was I doing? This can’t be serious. I shouldn’t even allow this to happen.
“Urgh!” Another grunt escapes from me as a quick pain jolt from my butt to the rest of my body.
“Fuck this! Argh!” His hands start to increase in strength and speed, as the force slaps upon me, jerking my body forward and then back.
“Shut your vulgar mouth, boy.” He commands me.
Another slap and another, as a boiling pot arises from within towards the man. How dare he do this to me? How dare he make me a fool? What did he take me to be?
“Aaah!” I grunt out loud trying to shoulder the pain. This can’t be happening. I was really letting the man emasculate me.
No. No. Not that. His hand rummages underneath me, pulling the belt off my jeans.
“No, please… don’t!” I plead to the man.
He didn’t listen. My belt rips off from my jeans with his hands, then my jeans push down to my knee.
“A naughty boy like you needs to be taught properly.” He states, “you need this, boy.”
I need this? I need this!? A spanking from another man?
“Why else would you let me spank you?” He said before unleashing another on me.
“Ahhh!” I wince at the force of his belt on my butt. A hot sizzling pain erupts from my butt and into my head.
I clench my teeth while taking it. I could imagine how red my buttocks would look. I couldn’t do it anymore. I can’t.
“Stop. Please.”
“Tell me what you did wrong.”
“Nothing!” I shout, “Argh!”
“Tell me. What. You. Did. Wrong.” Each word he emphasizes with clarity.
“I swear it’s the truth! Your wallet was on the ground!”
“Aaah!” The sizzling pain shot through me to my head. It hurts. I want it to stop. I need it to stop. Please, not anymore.
“This only ends when you tell the truth, boy!”
Another belting came through, causing my butt to jiggle against his motions. The warmth and numbness wash over me from my butt. There was not one ounce of masculinity left in me as he continues to tore it down to the boy he shows me to be with each stroke.
“I stole from you.” My voice broke, admitting to the man. My eyes shut wishing for the man to stop.
“Good, boy.” He praises me as I could feel his hand rubbing my stiff butt, “and that’s exactly why you are taking this spanking.”
I am taking this spanking!? No. I shake my head repeatedly. I didn’t deserve this. It was him that forced me to be in this position.
“Umpf.” I grunt. This time, it didn’t hurt but rather it came from his hand instead of the belt.
“You’re taking this spank because you want someone to discipline you properly.” He announces as he strikes again.
I’m taking his spanking because I want it. No. What was I thinking? Screw that! What was he doing to me?
“Isn’t that right, boy?” The sound of the impact ripples through the air.
“No…” I shook my head. This isn’t right. Discipline properly? Maybe I… no! That conclusion was insane.
His hand spanks me again. Doubt washes over me as I lay on his lap, allowing the man to have his way with me.
“Isn’t that right, boy?”
“Yes…” My own words shock me.
“Good, boy.” His words float to my ear. His praise was an unusual pleasure to hear.
“I bet your daddy didn’t discipline you.” He moves his hand over to my butt and caresses it gently, but all sensation is gone from his discipline. All I could feel was his hand. They were warm and… right?
“Good thing you have me now, boy.” He pauses his discipline, “you’ve done me wrong tonight. But you’re going to make it up to me.”
What was he saying? I was going to make it right? How…?
“Daddy’s here to set you properly.” He moves his hand to my mouth and sticks his thumb in between my mouth.
“Mmm…” My mouth instinctively sucks onto his thumb. His thumb was in my mouth. I couldn’t believe what I was doing… This is… isn’t right.
“Here’s what you’re going to do boy, you’re going to listen to every word your daddy tells you to do.”
“Mmmm…” I lay on his lap, sucking on his thumb. Listen to his every word… Listen to… daddy’s words?
“Make it right.” He said.
Make it right to him. I… need to make it right with him.
“Got it, boy?”
“Yes…” I whimper with his thumb in my mouth.
“Good boy.” He pats on my butt, “that’s what I want to hear.”
My body hums a tune against his hands, as he moves it to travel down along my legs. His hands grip onto my tennis shoes then pull with great force, throwing them across the room. He did the same to my low cut white socks.
He pulls his thumb out of my mouth. Then he barks his next order.
“Stand up.”
I follow his instruction and plant myself back up, standing with such vulnerability by his side. He leans his body backwards on the bed, with support from his elbow. He spread his legs, making sure I can see the outline of his erected cock underneath his trousers.
“Give daddy the view.” He waves his finger at my crotch.
My cock was never revealed to no man before. Now, for the first time it was demanded to be seen. I look at him with my trembling hands down on my side. Then I gaze upon my briefs and what was left of myself.
“What are you waiting for, boy?” Impatience sparks off from his voice.
Listen to his every word. Make it right for him… it was a deranged concept. Why did I feel such a need to follow… to give in? Listen to him.
I nod quickly to his whim and tear off my brief. There goes my cock out in the open to him.
He whistles at my cock.
“I bet you've never had your cock out for a man before, haven’t you?”
I look at him with no comments. It wasn’t a desire to put it on display. I did it because of him. His words that I so had to follow… I had to make it right for him.
He grins at me, emitting his pride over me like a piece of his artworks. I could feel his eyes dissecting me, waiting to do what he wanted with me. He had a mission in his eyes, and it had to do with what he was looking at.
“Get down, boy.”
My knees fall flat to the ground, following his words, awaiting for what he wants.
“Polish my shoes with your tongue.”
My heart sinks to his command. Follow his every word. Make it right to him. This was stupid.
My head bent down to his shoe like I was going to worship him. My tongue slowly drips out. I was really going to do this. I was really going to do what he told me to do. My tongue lands in contact with his brown loafer. Then it slid across, tasting what the leather had to offer.
“Oooah.” His mouth agape watching me, “atta boy.”
Every lick leaves a trail of a dark wet spot across his loafer.
“Hold it nice and tight… you want that, boy.”
My hands grips against his legs and my face implants in front of his shoe. Make it right. My moving tongue starts to accelerate as my grip hardens on his legs. It moves covering every ground possible on both of his loafers. I was to make it speckless. I was to polish his shoes. It can’t be dirty.
“Ooooo… that’s it.”
The numbing sensation from his spanking courses through me. The only feeling I could feel was my heart fluttering against every word he utters. It felt calming. His words were like a drug and slowly, all I could think of was him in my head. I did him wrong.
“Take my loafers off, boy.”
My hands pull his loafer off of him with no hesitation.
“I want you to smell daddy’s shoes.” He orders.
Like a starving animal, I went in and feast without thinking.
“Ohhh…” I whimper out as the gush of his musk rushes through my nose. That was daddy’s musk. His loafers continuously in my hand as I suck it all in. What was wrong with me? I… I want it.
There was something addicting in his musk. The smell of his impurity as I allow it to course through within me. It made sure to contaminate me and fill me up with his own.
“Ooooah!” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. My cock slowly erupts from its reserve. I squirm as the man places his feet, covered in his gray socks, against my cock.
“A.. ah.. oooh… don’t.” He jerks my cock up and down with his movements. My body limpers against the sensation of his soft material on my cock.
“Fuck…” I couldn’t help it. I inhale his musk from his loafer deeply again, taking my hit. His aroma mixed in with the leather. The smell just tickles the inside of me, raising my heart rate. It was feeding me, a hunger that I did not know I had. How could a man do such a thing? How could he make me feel so… wild for him.
“You’re doing wonderful.” He smiles at me.
Fuck. That smile does me wonder. Keep smiling. Make him happy. Make him feel right.
“Argh!” I let out the beast he disciplined in me. I pull his second loafer out and inhale it right away. He wiggles in his gray socks in front of me, making sure to taint me with temptations. The look on his face told me everything.
Suck on it, his face says.
My mouth shows no signs of resistance as it lunges forward and devours his feet. The soft fuzzy texture of his socks engraves into my mind. His socks were like a dry crack desert, and I was its salvation. It was to rain, to wet the land and give the desert its desired life.
“Ooooo!” His moans fill the room.
My hands clasp onto his feet and deepen it into my mouth. I suck on his toes, salivating the tips. My tongue pushes through and gives life between his toes.
“Ah - Oo - Oooah.” His eyes roll back and his mouth drools. His hands reach to the bulge of his trousers and rubs his prized manhood.
All that was left was the final act. I pull his feet out and implants my face on them. I could smell him clearly. My tongue lashes out, starting from his heel. It dances on its path to his toes.
The sound of his fly unzipping booms in the room. He grabs his cock and flung it outside. His cock was serene. Never have I ever seen such depthness and shade in my life. My mouth oozes a heavy downpour soaking his beloved socks.
His hands seizes upon his thick cock bulging in veins. Even a man like him couldn’t resist.
“Come here, boy!” He gives out his final order.
Just like his feet, my mouth shows no intention of slowing down. I pounce on his manhood and surround it with my warmth. My tongue plucks his sweet nectar off his cock, making sure to drink every last bit.
“Mmmmmh!” His voice was lavish with appreciation.
My hands embrace his cock and begin a duo with my mouth. They both ebb and flow alongside the man’s rod. My eyes and his intertwine. No longer was his gaze filled with determination. Instead, it was contentment.
“A - Ah! Daddy’s going to cum!”
I stole from him, so I have to make it right. This was it, my chance.
My mouth and hands accelerates on its tempo. His mouth wide open singing his pleasure. I affix onto his gray striped jacket, then his white dress shirt underneath. His red tie signals his commanding presence. They were complementary to the man. Stunning, the man in his finely dressed clothes. Then oddly enough, I found something in his collar. The way it sits on his neck and tugs against him. I… I shot down the thought. I can’t imagine what it meant for me.
“ARGHH!” His moan of ecstasy burst from within him.
He blasts a jet stream of his cum into my mouth. My hands hold his cock down. I can feel his seed traveling from the tip of my tongue and into my soul. I want it. I want it all. Every bit of it. His cum was warm, safe and… right.
I look upon him. His serious mood from the beginning of our interaction transformed into an unknowingly biggest grin on his face. He just sat there on the bed, his eyes containing a marvelous interest in me.
“I want you first thing in the morning, tomorrow in my room.” He demands.
I watch him in silence as he gets up from the bed and begins to leave. He puts his loafers back on, then the belt he had used on me. He tucks his manhood back into his trousers up and zips his fly. Afterward, it was just the sound of the door opening, then it shut.
What did I just do?
Wyatt Wilborn. What have you done to me?
It pains me to admit the words. I wasn’t a man anymore… I was his boy.
I clicked the file because the subject line looked like every other government notification that had polluted my inbox for months. Compliance update. Male presentation standards. Immediate enforcement. I almost laughed when the PDF opened, because I was sitting at my kitchen counter in nothing but pale blue running shorts, burgundy knee socks, glasses, and a smartwatch, my suit crumpled beside the chair like the shed skin of a more respectable man. My laptop hummed on the marble. My hair was loose from the morning, dark and thick, combed back badly with my fingers after a shower I had taken too late. I had a meeting in six minutes and a coffee going cold by my wrist. Then the screen flashed white, the webcam light snapped on, and a calm male voice came from the speakers, saying, “The new state code governing male hairstyle, dress, modesty, and public decorum is now active. Noncompliance will be corrected immediately.” I tried to close the window, but my hand stopped on the trackpad as if the air had hardened around my fingers.
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.”
I sat there in the terrifying silence afterward, dressed like a groom for a wedding I had never agreed to attend, my hands poised over the laptop, my hair lacquered into flawless submission, my collar holding my throat, my bow tie centered like a seal. My meeting notification chimed. My boss appeared on screen and did not react with surprise. He was wearing the same gray suit, the same burgundy tie, the same shining hair parted with legal precision. Behind him, four other men sat rigid in their little boxes, faces smooth, collars high, expressions calm in a way that made my stomach sink. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. My mouth opened before I could stop it, my voice steady, respectful, and horribly sincere. “Good morning, sir.”
And at first everyone treated it as another joke, another bit, another little aesthetic stunt meant to make the photos stranger and the night easier to remember. Noah and Felix had arrived early, before the room filled and before the LED strip was switched from ordinary white to that sickly party glow of blue on one side and red on the other. They stood near the open double doors in their sweater vests and short trousers, polished brown shoes planted neatly on the threshold as if they had been placed there by a photographer from another decade. Noah wore cream knit over a white shirt and a sharp blue tie; Felix wore deep green with a matching tie and the kind of side parted hair that looked too smooth to have come from a bathroom mirror. Their friends laughed when they saw them. Someone called them granddads. Someone else said they looked like prefects at a haunted boarding school. Noah only smiled, very calmly, very sweetly, and Felix took the red cups from the kitchen counter and began filling them one by one from a glass jug that had not been there when the first guests arrived.
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.
Steve Rogers stood at the podium in the packed New York University auditorium, his star-spangled uniform fitting perfectly over his super-soldier frame. The crowd of college students cheered as he spoke, but his expression remained serious. He had come here to talk about the future of America, and he was not going to sugarcoat it.
"I fought in World War Two for a country that stood for freedom and equality," Steve said, his voice carrying across the room without any need for a microphone. "But lately I have seen too many young people getting pulled into this right-wing nonsense. The MAGA movement, all this talk about going back to some imagined past. It is divisive. It is harmful. We need to promote a more liberal and accepting lifestyle. Tolerance for everyone, no matter their background, their gender, or who they love. That is the America we should aspire to."
The applause was loud, but not everyone was clapping. From the back row a burly man in a red hat stood up suddenly, his face twisted with anger. He was no major threat, just a small-time villain who called himself the Real American. His real name was Earl Jenkins, a disgruntled ex-military guy who had scraped together some experimental tech from a black-market deal. He had been waiting for a moment like this.
"You traitor!" Earl bellowed, pulling a strange-looking device from under his jacket. It looked like a bulky ray gun painted in red, white, and blue, with a small American flag sticker slapped on the side. "Captain America pushing woke garbage? Not on my watch. Time to make you great again!"
Security moved toward him, but Earl was faster. He aimed the device straight at Steve and pulled the trigger. A bright red beam shot out and struck Captain America square in the chest. The crowd gasped. Steve staggered back a step, feeling an immediate wave of heat spread through his body. At first he thought it was some kind of energy weapon, but this was different. It felt deeper, like something was rewriting him from the inside out.
"What did you do?" Steve growled, trying to stay on his feet. His shield felt heavier than usual in his hand.
Earl laughed, lowering the gun. "Just gave you a little dose of real American values, Cap. Or should I say, former Cap. Enjoy the ride, traitor."
Steve tried to step forward, but his legs felt unsteady. The heat inside him intensified, spreading from his chest down into his arms and legs, up into his head. He dropped to one knee on the stage, the shield clattering beside him. The students were shouting now, some calling for help, others staring in confusion. Steve barely noticed them. All he could focus on was the strange sensations crawling over his skin and through his muscles.
His super-soldier physique, the peak of human perfection built by the serum, began to soften. The incredible strength that had let him lift cars and punch through walls started to drain away like water running down a sink. His biceps, once rock-hard and enormous, lost their impossible definition. They stayed muscular, but now they were the kind of arms a dedicated gym-goer might have after a solid workout routine, nothing more. His chest contracted slightly, the broad plates of muscle shrinking until they looked like the chest of a fit everyday man who lifted weights a few times a week but also enjoyed a beer after work.
Steve gasped as the changes continued. His height, which had always been six foot two of pure power, seemed to compress just a little. Not enough to make him short, but enough to bring him down to a more average six foot even. His thighs thickened with practical muscle rather than explosive power, the kind that would let him chase down suspects on foot but not leap over buildings. His abs, once a perfect eight-pack, softened into a solid four-pack with just the faintest hint of softness around the middle from too many late-night shifts and not enough time worrying about looking like a god.
The uniform was changing too. The bright blue fabric with its white star and red stripes began to melt and reform. The colors darkened to navy blue, the star fading completely. Heavy tactical padding dissolved into standard police-issue material. The shield that had fallen beside him vanished entirely, replaced by a utility belt that clicked into place around his waist. A badge materialized on his chest, engraved with the name SHANE RICHARDS and the letters NYPD. His boots reshaped into sturdy black police shoes. The iconic helmet disappeared, leaving his head exposed.
His face was next. Steve felt his jawline shift, becoming a little less perfectly chiseled and more rugged, the kind of square jaw that looked good with a five-o-clock shadow. His clean-shaven skin prickled as stubble pushed through, dark and coarse. His blond hair darkened shade by shade until it was a short, practical brown cut that a cop would keep trimmed for regulations. His blue eyes stayed blue, but the expression in them hardened, losing the idealistic shine and gaining a cynical edge. His lips settled into a permanent smirk, devoid of all kindness and earnestness.
Steve clutched at his head as the mental changes began. No, he thought desperately. This is wrong. I believe in equality. I believe in acceptance. But the thoughts felt slippery now, like they were being pushed aside by something stronger.
A new voice spoke up inside his mind, deep and confident. Why bother with all that liberal crap? Women belong in their place, not pretending to be equal. And the gays? Disgusting. Real men do not act like that. Steve tried to fight it, but the new ideas felt good, natural, like they had always been there underneath.
His memories started to flicker. He remembered fighting in the war, but the details blurred. Instead, new ones pushed forward. He remembered joining the police academy right out of high school, working his way up through the ranks the old-fashioned way. He remembered voting Republican every single time because that was what a real American did. He remembered putting on a Captain America costume one year for Halloween, laughing with his buddies about how lame the real guy would be if he existed today. The memory felt so real, so solid. Of course he had dressed as Captain America for Halloween. It was a funny joke, nothing more.
The last traces of resistance faded. Steve Rogers was gone. In his place stood Shane Richards, breathing heavily but feeling stronger in a different way. Not super-soldier strong, but the kind of strong that came from knowing you had the law on your side and the right politics backing you up. He straightened up, adjusting the police belt around his waist. His body felt good, solid, the kind of build that turned heads at the gym and made perps think twice.
Earl Jenkins was still standing there in the back, grinning. The security guards had been too stunned by Steve's transformation to remove the villain from the premises. "How do you feel, officer?"
Shane looked at him and smirked. "Like I just woke up from a bad dream, partner. Thanks for the assist. Now if you will excuse me, I have some real work to do."
The crowd was still staring, but to Shane it looked like a bunch of confused kids who needed a good dose of traditional values. He stepped off the stage, ignoring the questions being shouted at him. His mind was already filling in the blanks of his new life. He was Detective Shane Richards, NYPD, thirty-two years old, married to a good woman who knew her role, and father to two boys he was raising right. Superheroes? They should answer to the government, especially when the Republicans were in charge. No more of this unchecked power nonsense. If they wanted to play dress-up and fight crime, they could damn well do it under proper supervision.
Shane walked out of the auditorium and straight into the parking lot where his squad car was waiting. It felt familiar, like he had driven it a thousand times. He climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street. The city looked the same, but now he saw it through clearer eyes. All those protests and marches for equality? Waste of time. People needed to know their place. Men like him, white men who worked hard and carried a badge, had privileges for a reason. It was time to start using them.
His first stop was a routine traffic pull-over on the way back to the precinct. A sleek sports car had been speeding. Shane hit the lights and siren, pulling the vehicle over to the side of the road. The driver was a young woman, probably in her twenties, with colorful hair and some kind of protest sticker on her bumper. Shane felt a surge of satisfaction as he approached the window.
"License and registration," he said, his voice deep and authoritative.
She handed them over, looking nervous. "Officer, I was only going five over the limit."
Shane glanced at the documents, then back at her. "You liberals are all the same. Think the rules do not apply to you. Step out of the car."
She protested, but he was already reaching for the cuffs. As he pulled her out and pressed her against the hood, he let his hands linger just a second longer than necessary. "You know, sweetheart, if you dressed a little more like a lady and spent less time shouting about rights, you might not find yourself in these situations."
The woman glared at him, but Shane just chuckled. He could already picture how this would go at the station. A few extra charges, maybe a night in holding to teach her a lesson. It felt good to flex the power that came with the badge and the right skin color. No guilt, no second thoughts. This was how things were supposed to be.
Back at the precinct later that evening, Shane sat at his desk with a cold beer he had snuck in from the vending machine. The other officers nodded at him respectfully. Everyone knew Detective Richards was old-school. He had the wall of his cubicle covered in American flags and a small framed photo of the current Republican president. When a rookie mentioned something about a pride parade happening downtown, Shane snorted loudly.
"Parade for what? Bunch of fairies parading around like it is normal. In my day we would not have stood for that crap. Keep that stuff away from my kids or there will be hell to pay."
The rookie laughed nervously and changed the subject. Shane leaned back in his chair, feeling completely at home. The old life as Captain America was nothing but a fuzzy Halloween memory now, a silly costume he wore once to a party. He was Shane Richards, through and through. A man who knew exactly where he stood on the issues. Traditional values. Law and order. America first. And if anyone tried to push that liberal nonsense on him again, well, he had the badge, the gun, and the mindset to set them straight.
He took another swig of beer and smiled to himself. Life was good. Real good. And it was only going to get better.
Master had spent all of Pride month, or as he calls it Shame month training me to accept my place. I couldn't keep arguing and finally gave in, he's had me caged and plugged ever since. Today was the 4th and Master has a big celebration planned, he is going to show my progress to all my neighbors....I can't wait for them to see how much of a fag he's turned me into.
As I walked outside bringing him a fresh cold beer, I could hear my neighbors who once found me respectful if a little too woke snicker and laugh at my pink miniskirt just long enough to cover my cage
"Here you go Sir! The party is turning out great, good thing you had me buy extra flags hehe" I say with a mindless smile
"Of course Libtard, this is what 'Pride' should really be. Pride in our country! In our power over the weak like you! All the bros around here have been telling me how happy they are you finally got tamed, apparently they have been sick of your stupid gay crap too. We thinking about doing poker nights so they can enjoy your services." He says after letting out a deep laugh, pulling me into his hairy chest letting me get a wiff of pits.
I didn't care how pathetic I looked as his musk covered me, It made me realize he was right...he was always right..
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