Slave

The best way to describe James would be one single word, average. Standing at 5’8” and 140lbs with shaggy brown hair, there just was nothing truly remarkable about this 20-year-old British lad. He did not have any large muscles or lots of body fat and after years of playing footie, he was simply lithe and wiry.

In fact every week he and a bunch of Uni friends would get together on the local city field to scrimmage and keep their skills sharp. While they were just games between friends, elbows did fly occasionally and everyone always tried their best.  One night after a friendly scrimmage that his team got trounced particularly badly, James decided the best thing to do was drown his sorrows in a cold pint down at the local pub.

After tossing his sweaty kit into an athletic bag and quickly tossing on a pair of trackie bottoms and a white hoodie, the youth headed for the pub. He walked up to the bar and flagged down the bartender to order his drink. A new bartender that James didn’t recognize walked over and flashed a smile while he asked: “what will it be?”. At easily 6” 2’ with messy black hair, a scruffy beard and penetrating brown eyes, the man was a striking sight. He was dressed in a tight, form-fitting white t-shirt that showed of every bulge and crevasse of his incredible musculature. The man was not too massive, but perfectly proportioned. The black jeans he wore made his round but pop. He must have done hours and hours of squats cause you could bounce a quarter off his ass. To complete the image, tattoos peaked up from the collar of his t-shirt and stretched down his arms onto the back of his hands.

While James was aggressively average, this man was simply stunning. He would never blend in and always be the center of attention. Such was the price of perfection…

After ordering his beer, James slunk back to a corner table, the cold condensation on his palm from the pint glass cooling his shame slightly. As he was slugging back his beer James realized the hot bartender was staring at him intently, and when he noticed, the man started to walk over to his booth. With muscled bubble but planted firmly on the leather bench. Those brown eyes followed James’s every move.  “What’s getting you down mate?” he softly whispered.

Seemingly not in control of his vocal cords, James spilled the beans. He talked about how his squad had sucked this past scrimmage, how he is jealous of the footballers he sees on TV. How strong and athletic they are, how talented they are, how they seem to know exactly what to do on the field, how they are rich and famous. Once the dam breaks, James simply let all his wants out in a torrent of words. The bartender smiled as he sat back and listened.

“I can help you if you want?” he stated matter-of-factly “as you can see I’m in real good shape”

After letting that statement hang in the air for a second, he explained that he is a personal trainer and footy coach and has developed a specialized workout/nutritional/lifestyle regime to help talented young guys to become famous football stars. Bartending was simply a side gig for him.

Intrigued the youth ponders his options and asks the bartender some rapid-fire questions. “Can I do it while at Uni?, How much does it cost?, Will you really be able to help me join a football club?” and many more. “Whoa whoa whoa,” the bartender said holding up his tattooed arms in mock surrender. In explanation he said that trainees only paid if satisfied with the results and in response to the Uni question, he cryptically reply’s “there will still be “Classes””. Mostly he simply stressed that so far he has had a 100% success rate at helping get his players signed.

With a flick of the wrist, the bartender threw a business card down on the table and stood up. “Call me when you decide” he states and walked away to help another customer.

Inspecting the card, James found no name or address; it was blank except a phone number in bold black ink. Over the next few days, the youth pondered the bartender’s proposal. Really he couldn’t see any downsides and quite a few upsides. After countless hours of worrying and pondering, the bright white business card became stained brown from sweat. Late one night, well past midnight, he pulled out his phone he dialed the number that he memorized.

Before James could even get a word out, the familiar voice on the end gruffly rattled off an address and told the youth “be there in exactly one hour or do not come”.

Rushed, the youth looked up the street number and discovered it was a gym in a seedier part of town

As he stood on the bus traveling in the right direction, he hoped that he wouldn’t get mugged and that everything would work out for the best. 59 minutes  59 seconds later, he stood on the doorstep and raised his fist and as he was about to knock the door swung open and the massive bartender stood in front of him in black Nike gym tights and white compression top which left nothing to the imagination. The bartenders long flaccid cock created a highly noticeable bulge.

He looked like he had just been working out despite the late hour. With an imperious stare and not a single word, he beckoned James into the closed gym. “If I could get even a fraction of gains and dominant personality you have, anything will be worth it” the lad moaned. He was unable to see the bartender’s malevolent smile as they walked down the corridor, if he had, perhaps the youth would have left then and there, but as it was, James followed the man farther into the darkened corridor.

Calling back over his shoulder, the muscular man stated “From now on you are to call me coach”.

They entered the locker room and the youth saw a strange-looking outfit neatly laid out on the nearest bench. They were what looked like a Dainese motorcycle outfit, a tight padded leather suit. It was black with red and gray accents, the knee pads looked like they would restrict movement severely. The same thought ran through James’s mind as he looked at the stiff boots that were reinforced with hard shiny plastic. Next, the lad noticed, a pair of matching Moto racing gloves perched on top of the folded one-piece bodysuit, in almost a dainty fashion. 

A sudden noise shocked the youth out of his befuddled state. Coach had silently walked up behind him and was holding out one final piece of the outfit. The black and gray helmet with a reflective black visor. “Here you go” Coach grunted “take it” as I reached for the proffered piece of gear. With a questioning look, I asked “why all this motorcycle racing gear, I’m going to be running and lifting weights, right? Won’t it just get in the way?”

“Exactly” he replied as he pushed me towards the folded gear. It seemed to beckon to the youth as if each piece of leather was slightly alive. “The restrictiveness of the gear will be like resistance training. The simple act of holding your muscles back and forcing them to work harder will assist in your development as an athlete and your general overall fitness”

Nodding in agreement to that seemingly logical argument James slowly, tentatively, picked up a single leather glove. The supple leather contrasted neatly with the padded areas of the garment. Intrigued he began to slide the glove onto his hand. However, before he could get his fingers into the glove he was stopped by the Coach ordering him to wait. “Take off your clothes first!” he grunted.

In silent acquiescence, the youth slowly pulled off the fresh new kicks that he had recently picked up. They had hardly a scratch or speck of dirt on them. Next to come off were his loose-fitting sweat pants and sweatshirt revealing a thin gray quicksilver shirt hanging off his thin frame, completely obscuring what little muscles he managed to build. Standing there in his standard black boxer briefs and gray t-shirt the lad reached for the leather gear only to be stopped by Coach once again. “No boy, everything.” With a look of defiance, James crossed his arms and was about to refuse, when Coach shot forward with lightning speed and grabbed his crotch with a big meaty hand and squeezed.

Unable to react in time, the lad screamed out in pain as his hands flew down to try and pull coach off of him. The pain radiated upwards from his sack and causing his gut to spasm uncontrollably. Unable to pry the incredibly strong fingers of his balls, James doubled over and cried for the pain to stop as tears streamed down his face.

With one final squeeze, Coach released the sniveling pile of flesh before him and repeated “everything off”

Pulling himself together, James slowly stood up on shaky legs. Without wiping the tears of his flushed cheeks, he pulled his t-shirt off. Reaching for his underwear he flinched at the residual pain radiating from his balls. Tenderly the lad lowered the boxer briefs down his legs revealing his red inflamed ball sack. To his unrelenting shame, his respectable 7” cock started to plump up as blood steadily flowed southward.

Shocked at his bodies’ response to the pain and humiliation inflicted by Coach, James hung his head in shame, now completely naked and exposed to the world with a rock-solid pecker saluting at full attention. Smirking, Coach tossed a small yellowed scrap of fabric at him, commanding “Put it on”.  The threadbare stained jock hit his chest as the youth tried to catch it. Holding it in his hand, he could feel the damp fabric, and the pungent smell of piss and cum wafted towards his nose which caused his cock to start leaking a thin line of pre-cum. Once the soiled garment was pulled up his legs and the jock held his stiff cock and sore balls, he stood at attention and looked towards coach for further instructions.

“Now the suit” Coach gruffly whispered lust filled his voice.  Resigned the lad reached for the full-body suit neatly folded next to him. Holding up the stiff fabric, his fingers traced the neat stitching and large red logo on the chest. Trembling fingers pulled down the rear zipper. Each foot made its way down the legs of the suit as the youth stepped into the suit. After his calves fit snuggly into the suits and his arms the sleeves, Coach approached behind the youth and zipped him up. Suddenly a sharp click snapped the youth out of his dazed state. Panic flared in his eyes as his arms flailed in an attempt to reach the zipper.

As he was about to reach the heavy padlock sealing him into the Moto suit, coach enveloped him in his thick arms. The embrace was not rough or violent, in fact, the loving gentle nature of the hold helped lull the youth back into despondency.

“Don’t worry little buddy, you’re safe with me. Together we will make your dream come true.” Coach softly mumbled into the youth’s ear adding “Now you need to put on the boots”.

With that he let the youth go and lovingly handed him the two matching boots. After he slid them on, James felt his bare skin start to sweat and stick to the leather in his clothes. This thought in his mind, he distractedly slid his fingers into the proffered gloves. Now complete, he stood in front of Coach. “Hold out your arms” Coach ordered, and he did. Grabbing each hand in order, Coach wrapped a thick black tape around the youth’s wrists sealing the small gaps between the pieces of clothing. Next, he reached down and snapped a smaller padlock on each boot.  After straightening up, Coach looked the lad lasciviously up and down.

Fully dressed, Coach allowed him to explore his new outfit. The thick leather felt foreign, erotic, and mysterious. However, when the youth reached down to fondle his junk, he discovered the suit included a built-in cup! He was in essence locked in chastity. Unable to reach his penis to relieve himself, James began to panic. Clawing at the crotch of his suit he soon realized that the gloves he wore prevented him from getting any real grip.

James spun around to face Coach, and opened his mouth to complain. Cutting him off, Coach explained patiently, “we wouldn’t want you getting distracted when you train”. With that, he reached out and grabbed the lad’s gloved hand. “Speaking of training, we may as well start now. There is no time like the present”.

In shock James let Coach pull him from the locker room into the main room full of racks of free weights. “I almost forgot; before we start you need to put on your helmet.” Coach chuckled “It will help with your concentration,” he said before James could protest. Coach slid the bulky motorcycle helmet over the lad’s head.

Everything went dark and silent as the helmet blocked all sounds and light.  Suddenly, a video of Coach standing in the gym appeared on the visor and guided James towards the closest rack of free weights. Mindlessly the lad picked up a set of 25lbs weights and started following the instructions from the video of Coach.

Hours later, and only when the video of Coach finished the workout, James’s exhausted body fell to the ground and he could feel the sweat pooled in his suit. The real Coach pulled off the helmet from the lad’s head and helped the youth up onto his feet. “You need food, all growing boys do.” He stated in a matter of fact manner. With a helping hand, Coach guided his charge towards a small kitchen next to the main exercise room. “Here you’ll be able to make your meals 3 times a day” he explained. “All the necessary ingredients are here. You will learn quickly how to fuel your transformation into a super athlete.” With that, Coach set about cooking a large dish of rice, chicken breasts, and broccoli for James.

Later, the leather-clad youth inquired about the bathroom and how that would work with the suit. With a chuckle, Coach said, “Just piss in the suit, it will help the leather stay supple, and the boots have holes in the treads so the rest will drain out. If you need to shit, tell me and I will open the special flap in the ass of the suit”.

In shock and disbelief, James simply couldn’t hold his piss any longer, it had been at least 6 hours since he had last used the bathroom and during his meal break Coach had forced him to ding 3 liters of water. Slowly his overfilled bladder released its contents. A warm comfortable feeling spread down his legs as the urine-filled the suit’s legs. Then, as Coach had promised, the suit began to drain through the custom holes in the bottom of the boots leaving a cold emptiness in the suit and a large puddle on the floor. Shame and disgust overwhelmed James and he looked towards Coach as a flush crept up his cheeks.

“Don’t worry sport! That’s why there are drains in the floor. Just grab the hose over there and wash down the floor” Coach replied to the lad’s pleading look. Relieved, James carried out the instructions and then retrieved his helmet as Coach held it out to him. Slipping it back over his head he slowly ambled over to the weights and readied himself for another multi-hour workout session. Once his day has finally completed the video of Coach in his helmet guided James towards a small bedroom, simply a mattress on the floor of a janitor’s closet where he gratefully laid down and fell quickly to sleep, his muscles screaming in pain.

His days repeated monotonously. Wake up, work out for hours, eat a protein-rich mean, piss in his suit, workout for hours, eat a protein-rich meal, shit, workout for hours, and then sleep.

Day after Day.

Always the same.

No change in schedule.

Months past in mind-numbing fashion. Lift weights; eat food, shit, piss, and sleep, repeat. James’s mind was slowly slipping; he latched onto the only thing available his body, his workouts. Slowly he could see the gains. His arms started to expand; his thighs stretched the leather of his suit in a strangely soothing way. That day, Coach told him a secret. There was only one way out of the suit. He literally had to outgrow it. Shred-it with his muscles. Only then would he be free.

That same day Coach led James to his motorcycle and told him to go to the nearest sportswear store and buy the several complete sets of colorful compression gear in the largest size available. That was how the lad found himself sitting on the ground in a gray hoodie, next to a motorcycle waiting for Coach to show him how to ride the machine.

Once that the errand was completed, Coach hung the massive pieces of compression fabric on the gym wall for James to see. He assumed that they would be his once he completed his training. His training, he redoubled his efforts to grow and become stronger. He stacked extra weights on the bars during his exercises, he shoveled more protein-rich foods down his throat, and he slept less so there would be more work-out time. James dedicated himself 100% to his gainz, which really started to accumulate quickly now.

It was 7months, 2 weeks, 5 days, 15 hours, and 29 minutes into his training when he tore the first stitch in his suit. James thought he had imagined the sound. But when he squatted down with over 575lbs of solid steel on the bar, a faint ripping noise reached his ear. Repeating the squat, he heard it again, and again… The inner thighs of the suit were giving way. It had started! He was almost ready! His heart leaped for joy, and then suddenly sunk when James realized he would be leaving Coach and his private gym soon.

Things started moving quickly now, it felt like each day a new seam in the tired suit would stretch and then tear leaving the young man with slightly less leather covering his body, until the day when the last piece fell off revealing the now nasty brown tattered remains of his jockstrap.

That day, Coach came and took the compression gear down from the wall and helped the changed man into his new outfit. Gone was James the skinny footie lad of 140lbs. In his place stood the massive US football player James of 275lbs of solid muscle. The first thing Coach had him do was take a shower. As the steaming water beat on the behemoths back, he wrapped his new, meaty, paw around his sensitive fuck stick and started stroking. It didn’t take long, it had been over half a year since his last orgasm. With an ear-splitting roar, the muscle beast bucked and sent volley after volley against the stall wall. 

After the coach toweled down his creation, each piece of compression fabric was pulled on. He was so large the garments were stretched to the breaking point as they fought valiantly to cover his massive frame.

“Come with me James, I have interviews set up for you with several US football teams”

James new he would never be a football lad again, but by this point, he really didn’t care.

Ben had always played it safe. He was twenty, lean and bookish, with sharp cheekbones, a clean style, and an academic scholarship that kept his parents off his back. He was the type to keep his calendar color coded, to eat clean, to work out just enough to stay fit without bulking. Everything in his life was about balance. He wasn’t out looking for anyone to take control of him. In fact, Ben liked to believe he was the one in charge. But some part of him, (the part he barely acknowledged) craved something heavier. He just didn’t know what yet.

He downloaded a hookup app one night, not for anything serious, just to blow off steam. That’s where he matched with Jay. Jay was twenty-six and local, a shaved-headed gym lad with thick arms, heavy ink, and a profile full of grainy mirror selfies in Nike techs. No description, no bio, just a location and a smirk. It wasn’t Ben’s usual type. Still, something about the guy stuck. Maybe it was the confidence. Maybe it was the way he looked like he didn’t have to try.

They agreed to meet up. Ben dressed casual clean jeans, sneakers, a neutral tee. Nothing fancy. Jay opened the door shirtless, in grey tech fleece joggers and white TNs. A thick gold chain lay across his collarbone, and even from the doorway, Ben caught the smell of him sweat, weed, something musky and raw that hit like a slap. It wasn’t gross. It was magnetic. It made Ben’s thoughts go slow.

Jay didn’t greet him with a smile or a hug. Just jerked his head toward the living room. Ben followed, already feeling like something had shifted. They hooked up, but it was calm, not aggressive. Jay was quiet but in control, hands firm, grip confident. He kept his sneakers on the whole time white TNs, spotless, heavy. They brushed against Ben’s legs while they kissed, while they moved, and something about the weight and scent of them made Ben ache deeper than he expected.

When he left later that night, his own shirt still faintly smelled of Jay. He breathed it in on the train ride home, heart pounding for no clear reason.

They met again two days later. Jay hadn’t asked him to come he just texted his address and a time. Ben didn’t even think about saying no.

Jay had a pair of old Adidas trackies laid out on the bed, creased and worn. “Put these on,” he said, not even looking up from his phone. Ben blinked. “What, like now?” Jay glanced at him. “Yeah. You’re not wearin’ your posh little jeans ‘ere.” Ben swallowed, then nodded. The fabric was rough, slightly damp. The waistband sagged low on his hips. Jay just grinned. “Looks better on you already.”

They didn’t talk much that time. They didn’t have to. Jay pressed Ben’s face into his armpit at one point, laughing when he moaned. The smell was stronger now thick, heavy, and intoxicating. Ben left in the trackies.

The third meetup changed everything.

Ben arrived in a hoodie and jeans, but Jay took one look and shook his head. “Nah. Strip. Wear this.” This time it was a full outfit, trackies, hoodie, cap, even socks and a knockoff gold chain. “Go on,” Jay said, voice low and calm. “Just for fun.” Ben didn’t argue. He changed. Jay made him sit down in front of the TV. A video loop started. Loud grime music, flashing words: Obey. Submit. Scally. Chav. Dumb. At first, Ben chuckled, thinking it was some joke. Jay sat behind him, pressed his sneakers into Ben’s lap, and leaned in close.

“Relax, mate. Just breathe it in.”

The scent hit Ben hard. Weed, sweat, old cologne, and something deeper. Masculine. Animal. It crawled into his brain, melted his thoughts. Jay kept whispering things. “You like wearin’ that gear now, don’t ya?” Ben nodded, not even thinking. His heart was racing. His cock was hard. His thoughts were gone.

From that night on, the changes stuck.

Ben stopped changing back into his usual clothes. The trackies felt better. His reflection looked more natural. The sharp cheekbones softened. His skin tanned slightly. He stopped trimming his brows. A faint patch of facial hair began to form, scruffy, unkempt, chavvy. Jay noticed. “Gettin’ rough round the edges, yeah?” he grinned. “Good. Gotta look the part.”

Jay gave him a cap and told him to wear it everywhere. “Helps the mindset.” And it did. Every time Ben put it on, he felt himself slouch more, talk slower. His voice began to shift, the poshness replaced by a lazy, thicker accent. His workouts stopped being about leanness. Jay had him do bodyweight stuff, bulk up his arms. “Scally lads don’t skip chest day, bruv.” Ben's body responded fast. Shoulders broadened. Abs thickened. His ass filled out the trackies. His face grew plainer, but in a way that felt right. More real. More local. Jay’s scent still triggered him every time. A whiff of it made his dick twitch and his head fog over. It was a shortcut. The key that unlocked whatever Jay had started in his mind.

Soon, he stopped being Ben.

Jay started calling him Kyle. “Ben’s dead, mate. You’re Kyle now. Me dumb chav pup.” Kyle nodded, grinning. He’d started wearing Air Max 95s everywhere—Jay’s old pair, still warm from his feet. They stank. Kyle loved it. He sniffed them when he was alone. Sometimes he wore them to bed.

He stopped going to uni. Said it was “long” and “waste of time.” He told his tutor to piss off. He didn’t even remember why he cared about grades. He started showing up to Jay’s flat early, sometimes just to sit in his gear and smoke. Jay let him. Sometimes he made Kyle worship his socks while they played FIFA. Kyle would nuzzle up against his master’s foot, eyes half-lidded, stoned and hard.

Jay started making him repeat things. “Say it. Out loud.”

“I’m a dumb scallyboy.”

“I live for me Master’s sneakers.”

“I don’t need brains, just gear and your scent.”

The more he said it, the truer it became.

By summer, there was no sign of Ben. Kyle was unshaven, thick-accented, unemployed, dumb and happy. He wore the same trackies for days. His room smelled like weed, sweat, and his master’s trainers. He didn’t read books anymore. He didn’t need to. Jay had filled his head with something better. Simplicity. Pleasure. Obedience.

One evening, Jay came home to find Kyle shirtless on the couch, playing FIFA with one hand and sniffing his Air Max with the other, a mindless grin on his face.

Jay smirked and sat beside him. “You happy like this, bruv?”

Kyle didn’t even look up. Just nodded, eyes glazed.

“Yeah, bruv. Don’t wanna be no one else. Love bein’ your dumb chav pup.”

Jay put a hand on his thigh, leaned in close.

“ArmyLad, it’s so nice to finally meet you face to face. I’m quite a fan of your work. Well, not really. You’ve been getting in my way quite a bit, young man.”

The commanding, as-of-yet faceless voice boomed through the old gymnasium walls. “I don’t suppose you’ve been quite as familiarized with me though, HAVE YOU SOLDIER?” The last three words were stressed, almost like a shout. My body automatically stiffened, my posture perpendicular to the floor, and my hand rose in a salute.

“NO, SIR!” I called in reply, eyes widening in a short moment of fear before I forced my body out of its rigid form.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to be so easy, ArmyLad. You don’t seem old enough to have gone through the years of training it usually takes to be so swayed by a commanding voice like that. Heh, but it doesn’t really matter, does it soldier?” He stressed the question again, and my body once again betrayed me instinctively.

“SIR.”

As I readjusted myself again, I heard a shuffling from behind me, followed by some very rhythmic footsteps. This was definitely a man who had been trained in the military, no one else could call me soldier like that, or walk in perfect time with such purpose. As I heard the footsteps now almost directly behind me stop,

I felt a hand give my ass a swat, bringing to mind the countless times my football coach had done exactly the same during my senior year at college.

Five years later and I still got a warm feeling of pride in myself from the gesture, even though the context was very different now.

“Quite the ass on you, huh boy? Lots of time spent on it, both during your service years and after, I bet. And if I’m not mistaken, your old uniform jock is holding you in place under all that lycra, isn’t it? Once a jock, always a jock, and a jock that goes into the army is a jock that never leaves the army. But I have already made that clear,” he took a pause for effect, and I heard him snicker as my body tensed in response. “Haven’t I?”

“You’ve made your point, yes, but what do you want?”

His footsteps started again and I watched out of the corner of my eye as a wide-framed man dressed in a shiny, black latex military suit stepped into view.

“They call me Sir Latex, AS WILL YOU SOLDIER.”

“YES, SIR, SIR LATEX, SIR!”

“I must say, other than not being latex, your suit is very nice. Of course I’ve always been a sucker for the traditional superhero ensemble, as well as for camo-print leggings. Don’t your arms ever get cold though? Sleeveless is a good look when you have the guns to pull it off, I suppose. The black briefs and army boots really make it for me, of course. They’ll translate very well.” For the first time I could see his mouth as it smiled and it sent a small chill through my spine.

“T-translate?” I mentally kicked myself in the ass for the stutter.

“Yes, ArmyLad. Soon you will be covered in my very special latex, happily serving under me, like a good soldier. ATTENTION!” He called.

My body assumed the position immediately. This time I found it difficult to shake, as it had actually been a direct command to take position.

“And once I have a superhero like you in my forces, I will be much better equipped to turn the whole world into my latex drone sluts! Imagine it, ArmyLad, a world where every man is covered head-to-toe in my latex, mindlessly obedient and always horny for me. And you and all your friends swapping your boring, matte spandex for shiny, slick latex. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

My immediate thought was that it did. The word “yes” just screamed inside my head without a second’s hesitation, and I felt sick. Why had I thought that?

“Now, while it would be easy to transform you, mind and body, right here and now, I’m not in any rush. And besides that, I have a fun idea for my next command. You have the ability, if I’m not mistaken, to send a signal to any hero that you need assistance with something, DON’T YOU SOLDIER?”

“SIR, YES SIR LATEX, SIR.” I noticed as I replied that under his suit, his cock gave a small twitch, making me feel uneasy. The shiny latex did make him look really hot thou—

“And you can set it to send that signal to a specific hero, CAN’T YOU SOLDIER?” He interrupted my thought. I confirmed this for him. “SET IT, SOLDIER.”

“TO WHOM, SIR?”

“TO HEROBOY, SOLDIER.”

“SIR, YES SIR LATEX, SIR.” And with that, my body once again betrayed me, though not for any lack of resistance. I took my finger, shaking in both fear and struggle, and pressed it to the communicator in my ear tapping in the combination to both connect to HeroBoy’s, and to direct him to where I was.

When it was done I felt my body become mine again and lunged at the villain in front of me.

“Now now,” he intoned. “There’s really no sense in trying to hit me. You’re just distracting yourself from staring at my suit, we both know that.”

Shit, he was getting in my head so easily. Did he see me catch that glance at his crotch just before? Wasn’t his suit too way too tight on his huge frame? He seemed to be comfortable in it, though. Maybe it was really nice…

“Hey, ArmyLad, you alright?” HeroBoy had gotten there just in time to knock some sense back into me. Had his suit always looked so dull? He was walking towards me and the light was being almost completely absorbed by the lycra.

“Oh, uh, y-yeah, I think so. Thanks for getting here so fast!”

“Anything for a friend, bud. Hey, did you sit on something in here?” He reached behind me and with his finger, gently wiped something from my ass. My eyes widened in dread as he brought it to my face. It was shiny, black goo.

“Hah! Stupid heroes, you don’t think before you do anything, do you? Confused by your teammates reaction, HeroBoy? I think he can help. EXPLAIN SOLDIER.”

“THE GOO IS FROM WHEN YOU TOUCHED MY ASS EARLIER SIR. IT IS WHAT YOU WERE REFFERING TO WHEN YOU SAID I WOULD BE COVERED IN YOUR LATEX SIR.”

HeroBoy stepped away from me, shocked. “Why, why are you taking orders from him, ArmyLad? I don’t understand…”

“He… he’s using my army training against me, HeroBoy. I can’t seem to get a hold of myself for long.” I noticed the goo on his finger had started to cover more of his hand. It looked nice in the shiny material… “H-hey, it’s growing…”

“Oh my god, your suit! It’s all shiny from the belt down… but… but it looks so much better now?” he was staring at my ass now, eyes almost glazed. HeroBoy’s mouth was curling into a hungry grin.

“And now boys, before it spreads any further, I want to hear you both tell me you want to wear my latex forever. I won’t use any tricks, I want this to be genuine. Heh, go ahead, heroes.”

“N-no! I won’t say it,” I cried. “I won’t tell you that I want it… want to be covered… want to be shinyn- no!” I felt my cock twitch when I said shiny, reminding me of how nice Sir Latex’s cock looked when it twitched. A smile creeped onto my face, and my eyes lost focus for a moment, broken by the sound of my comrade beside me moaning. His mind was broken by the latex coating his hand, which he was now using to palm his lycra bulge.

“I… I do! I want it, Sir Latex! P-Pleeeease coat me in your latex, it feels so nice. I want to be shiny, I want to be shiny!” He begged until he felt the good spread from his hand, both up his arm, and over his crotch. He groaned in ecstasy as it coated him, and I watched in envy…

“I… I want… n-no! But it… it looks so good on him… yeahhhh…,” my hand reached down to touch the latex already covering my bulge. It felt warm, tingly, and smooth. It was the most erotic thing I had ever felt, and I let my eyes roll into the back of my head as I moaned like my fellow officer. “Yeah, I really want it… I can’t help it anymore, do it to me too, Sir Latex, please! Wrap me in your shiny latex goo and make me a slut for you, I can’t take it anymore! Aaaa~” I cried out in heat. I could feel it moving over my body, coating me, transforming me into a latex drone slut, just like he told me I would be.

“ATTENTION!” I heard. My cock throbbed, and I knew my fellow drone’s cock did too. I could feel it, I even felt as we both stood at perfect attention, saluting our Master, our Commanding Officer.

“CUUUUUUM, NOW.”

The date ended with a handshake. Not a kiss, not even a hug. Just a polite, firm handshake at her door.

"You're a great guy, Sebastian," she said, her smile pitying. "You're... safe."

Safe. The word felt like a castration.

Back in his bathroom, Sebastian stared at himself in the mirror. He was thirty-two, a newly appointed assistant Professor, and perfectly healthy. But the reflection showed a man who was functionally invisible. His chest was flat. His arms were thin wires. He had zero presence. He wasn't ugly; he was just... blank.

He didn't need to be a muscle monster. He just needed to stop being "safe."

———————————————————————————————

The gym was called Metrics. It was located in the basement of a modern office building.

Sebastian walked in, feeling out of place in his brand-new, loose-fitting workout clothes.

"Help you?"

The voice was deep, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning.

Sebastian turned. A man was wiping down a bench press.

Marcus. He looked to be in his forties, but he was in peak condition. He wasn't one of those bloated steroid users on magazine covers. He was thick. His neck was wide, his shoulders broad and heavy. He wore a simple black t-shirt that hugged his chest and arms tightly, showing off dense, mature muscle. He had a short beard, black with specks of gray, and he smelled of clean sweat and expensive cedar soap.

"I'm looking for a trainer," Sebastian said, straightening his back, trying to look taller. "I assume that's you."

Marcus walked over slowly. He didn't smile. He just looked at Sebastian with dark, calm eyes. It felt like being scanned.

"I'm Marcus."

"Sebastian," he replied. "Look, I'll be blunt. I'm an academic. I don't have time to waste. I want to build muscle. I want to look... better." He gestured vaguely at his own thin frame, a hint of arrogance creeping into his voice to mask his insecurity. "But I don't want to turn into one of those mindless meatheads. I just need the aesthetics."

He expected Marcus to be offended. Instead, Marcus just stared at him, his gaze dropping to Sebastian's narrow shoulders, then back to his eyes. There was a flicker of amusement in that look. Like a wolf looking at a very noisy rabbit.

"Aesthetics," Marcus repeated. His voice was flat, unreadable. "We can do that."

He stepped closer, invading Sebastian's personal space. The smell of him—musk and authority—was sudden and overwhelming.

"You want the look without the lifestyle. But the iron doesn't care about your PhD. It only cares if you can handle the weight." Marcus paused, looking at Sebastian's soft hands. "It’s going to hurt. A lot. Still want to proceed?"

Sebastian didn't understand the depth of the warning. He just wanted to fix the reflection in the mirror.

"Just tell me what to lift."

Marcus smirked.

"Fine. Let's see what you're made of." ————————————————————————————————

The first session was brutal.

Sebastian had read about "progressive overload," but reading about it and feeling gravity try to crush your chest were two very different things.

He was on the bench press. Marcus hadn't loaded it with anything crazy—just a 25lb plate on each side—but for Sebastian's untrained arms, it felt like a building.

"Elbows in," Marcus said from above.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, lowering the bar. His arms started to shake on the way up. He stalled halfway. The bar hovered, refusing to move. Panic started to creep in. He was going to drop it. He was going to die under 95 pounds in front of a stranger.

Then, Marcus leaned over to spot him. He didn't grab the bar immediately. He just hovered, his chest inches from Sebastian's face.

"Push," Marcus said.

The proximity was sudden. Sebastian was hit by a wave of heat radiating from the older man. It wasn't a bad smell—just intense. It smelled of hard work, sweat, and a distinct, deep musk that was unmistakably male.

It didn't make him gag. It flooded his senses. For a second, Sebastian's brain stopped worrying about the angle of his wrists. The fear, the heat, and that overwhelming scent mixed into a sudden spike of adrenaline.

He didn't know where the strength came from, but he shoved the bar up. It clanged into the rack.

Sebastian lay there, chest heaving, staring up at Marcus.

Marcus looked down, unblinking. "See? You had it. You just needed to stop thinking."

He pulled out his phone. "Download this. Gymini. It’s an app we use here."

Sebastian sat up, wiping his forehead, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief. "Is it a tracker?"

"Sort of," Marcus said, putting the phone away. "It uses an algorithm to adjust your routine based on how you feel. It takes the guesswork out. Just do what it says."

Sebastian nodded, still lightheaded, and scanned the code.

By the time Sebastian got home, he was wrecked. His arms felt like jelly. He collapsed onto his sofa, too tired to even turn on the TV.

He opened the app. The interface was simple, dark mode by default.

USER: SEBASTIAN

GOAL: AESTHETICS / TONED

He typed a question: What should I eat for dinner?

The reply popped up instantly: Grilled chicken breast, one cup of rice, large glass of water.

Simple. Sensible. He liked that.

He ate, showered, and lay in bed, but his mind was still racing. The soreness was already starting. He picked up his phone again.

Is there any way to speed up the results?

The three dots danced for a moment. Then a notification appeared.

TIP OF THE DAY:

PHEROMONE RECOVERY HACK.

DO NOT WASH YOUR GYM CLOTHES TONIGHT.

SLEEPING NEAR THE SCENT OF EXERTION CAN TRICK YOUR BODY INTO MAINTAINING TESTOSTERONE LEVELS DURING REM CYCLES.

Sebastian stared at the screen. It sounded like bro-science. Ridiculous.

He looked over at the laundry basket in the corner. His gym shirt was sitting right on top.

"Pseudoscientific nonsense," he muttered.

But he was tired. And honestly, after today... he felt different.

He got up, walked to the basket, and picked up the shirt. It was damp. He brought it closer to his face. It smelled of his own sweat, the metallic tang of the gym, and... yes, a faint, lingering trace of Marcus. That same warm, musky scent from the bench press.

It wasn't gross. It was just... real.

Sebastian hesitated, then tossed the shirt onto the empty pillow next to him.

"Just to test the algorithm," he whispered to himself.

He turned off the lamp. In the dark, the scent was stronger. He breathed it in, deeply. Surprisingly, it didn't keep him awake. It made him feel heavy. Safe.

He was asleep in minutes.

————————————————————————————————

Three weeks later, the apartment felt different.

The stacks of literary journals on the coffee table were still there, but they were now used as coasters for protein shakers. The air, once smelling of old paper and espresso, now carried the faint, sweet chemical scent of vanilla whey.

Sebastian stood in his bedroom, staring at his phone. Gymini was open.

It had become a reflex. He didn't agonize over choices anymore. He just checked the feed.

Outfit for Tuesday. Graduate Seminar.

The app loaded instantly.

NAVY POLO. SIZE M. TIGHTER FIT IMPROVES MUSCLE MIND-CONNECTION. LET THE BODY BREATHE.

Sebastian frowned. The Medium polo? He hadn't worn that size since he was an undergrad. It would be snug.

"Muscle mind-connection," he muttered. It sounded like bro-science, but he didn't hate the logic.

He put it on.

The fabric didn't just sit on him; it clung. The sleeves gripped his biceps—which were currently pumped from yesterday’s arm session. The buttons across his chest pulled slightly. It felt... aggressive.

But when he looked in the mirror, he didn't see a stressed academic worrying about tenure. He saw a man who had shape.

"Fine," he said, grabbing his bag. "Medium it is."

The lecture hall was warm. Sebastian was thirty minutes into a graduate seminar on Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author.

"Barthes argues that the text is a multidimensional space," Sebastian said, turning to write on the blackboard.

As he reached up, he felt the polo shirt ride up his back. The seam dug into his armpit. The friction against his nipples was constant, distracting, and... grounding.

He caught the eye of a student in the front row—a girl who usually took diligent notes. She wasn't writing. She was staring at his arms.

Sebastian paused. The old Sebastian—the one desperate to be taken seriously as a scholar—would have been mortified.

The new Sebastian felt a sudden, hot spike of gratification. She sees it.

"Professor?" another student asked. "You said the author is a 'scriptor'?"

Sebastian blinked. The academic definition floated just out of reach. His brain felt foggy, like it was wrapped in cotton. But his body felt incredibly sharp.

"Right," Sebastian said, checking his watch. "The scriptor. Look, the theory is dense. Just... don't overthink it. The text exists. That's what matters."

Don't overthink it.

He realized, with a jolt, that he was quoting Marcus.

He dismissed the class ten minutes early. He needed to hit the gym.

The transition was seamless.

Sebastian stripped down in the locker room and pulled on the new gear Gymini had suggested: a compression top.

It was black, synthetic, and merciless. It squeezed his torso, forcing him to stand straighter. He looked at himself. He looked like a tool. He looked great.

When he walked onto the gym floor, Marcus was waiting by the cable machine.

The older man didn't say hello. He just nodded at Sebastian's chest, his eyes tracing the lines of the compression shirt.

"Good," Marcus grunted. "Finally showing it off."

Sebastian adjusted his glasses, feeling a flush of pride. "Gymini suggested it."

"Smart app," Marcus said. He pointed to the machine. "Back day. We need width."

Sebastian sat at the machine. He reached up, gripping the bar.

"Pull."

Sebastian pulled. The weight was heavier than last week, but he didn't question it.

"No," Marcus corrected, his voice right behind Sebastian's ear. "You're pulling with your arms. Use the lats."

Marcus moved in. He placed his large hands on the sides of Sebastian's back, his thumbs digging into the muscle just under the armpits.

"Here," Marcus whispered. "Squeeze my hands."

The sensation was overwhelming. The heat of Marcus's body radiating behind him, the smell of old spice and musk enveloping him.

Sebastian’s brain—the one that held a PhD and was fighting for tenure—went quiet.

There was no theory. There was only the weight, the sweat, and the man controlling him.

He pulled. He felt his back muscles engage, hard and distinct against Marcus’s fingers.

"Good boy," Marcus murmured.

The praise hit Sebastian harder than any faculty approval ever could. His dick twitched in his compression shorts. He didn't even feel ashamed.

He just wanted to do another rep.

Later, in the locker room, Sebastian peeled off the soaked compression shirt. His skin was red from the friction, his muscles swollen. He felt stupid, tired, and happy.

Sebastian sat on the wooden bench, a towel draped over his lap. He was exhausted. His lats felt wide, swollen with blood, pulsing with a dull, pleasurable ache. But his mind was in chaos.

He replayed the moment at the cable machine. Marcus’s chest pressed against his back. The heat. The thumbs digging into his muscle. And those two words.

"Good boy."

It had triggered a reaction so visceral, so immediate, that Sebastian was still trying to rationalize it. His erection had pushed against the compression shorts with humiliating force. It was still semi-hard now, throbbing against the damp towel.

"Adrenaline," he whispered, staring at the floor tiles. "Just a cortisol-dopamine spike. Misattribution of arousal."

He picked up his phone. Gymini was already open.

He typed rapidly, his thumbs hitting the glass with defensive urgency.

Experienced sexual arousal during training. Is this a side effect of the pre-workout?

The screen flashed once. No processing animation. Just raw text.

ANALYSIS: NEGATIVE.

CAUSE: ATTRACTION TO SUPERIOR GENETICS.

STATUS: SEXUAL IMPRINTING DETECTED.

Sebastian frowned. Sexual imprinting?

He typed again: I am doing this to attract women. This reaction is counter-productive.

The text on the screen didn't scroll; it just changed. The previous words vanished and were instantly replaced by new, blocky capitals. It felt aggressive.

ERROR: OBJECTIVE INVALID.

BIOLOGICAL DATA CONTRADICTS USER INPUT.

WOMEN ARE IRRELEVANT.

"Irrelevant?" Sebastian scoffed, his voice rising slightly in the empty room. "That's the whole point."

He tried to type Correction: My goal is... but the keyboard didn't appear. The input field was gone. The app had locked him out of writing. It was only broadcasting now.

NEW DIRECTIVE: FIXATION.

TARGET: MARCUS.

RANK: APEX.

Sebastian stared. The screen flashed red, then settled back to black.

INSTRUCTION:

TO ACQUIRE THE PHYSIQUE, YOU MUST INTERNALIZE THE SOURCE.

YOU DO NOT JUST WANT HIS MUSCLE.

YOU WANT HIM.

"I respect him," Sebastian muttered, his thumb hovering over the close button. "That's all."

FALSE.

HEART RATE ELEVATED.

BLOOD FLOW DIRECTED TO GENITALS.

YOU ARE AROUSED BY HIS AUTHORITY.

Sebastian’s breath hitched. The app was reading his biometrics against his denial. It was using his own body as evidence against him.

LOGIC REWRITE IN PROGRESS...

ADMIRATION IS A WEAK WORD FOR HUNGER.

YOU WANT TO BE LIKE HIM.

YOU WANT TO BE WITH HIM.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

"No," Sebastian whispered. "I'm straight. I have a history of..."

DATA CORRUPTED.

HISTORY DELETED.

ONLY THE CURRENT STATE MATTERS.

CURRENT STATE: ERECT.

CURRENT STATE: OBEDIENT.

Sebastian froze. The logic was cold, circular, and terrifyingly accurate. He was erect. He had been obedient.

He looked down at his crotch. The towel shifted.

"This is... brainwashing," he said. But he didn't close the app. He couldn't. It was like watching a car crash.

ACCEPTANCE REQUIRED.

VISUALIZE THE TARGET.

SMELL THE TARGET.

DO NOT RESIST THE IMPULSE.

The screen went black, leaving only his reflection staring back—flushed, sweaty, and wide-eyed.

Sebastian sat there for a long time. The smell of the locker room—sweat, steam, and men—suddenly felt overwhelming. It filled his lungs.

He slowly dressed, his movements automatic. He tried to think about the blonde girl. He tried to picture her face.

Glitch.

Her face wouldn't hold. Every time he focused, the image distorted. Her soft skin hardened into rough stubble. Her perfume turned into the thick, musky scent of Old Spice and iron. Her eyes turned dark, heavy, and demanding.

Marcus.

Sebastian shook his head violently. "Stop it."

He walked home in a daze. When he crawled into bed, he felt feverish.

He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep. But Gymini wasn't done. The text he had seen burned behind his eyelids.

IT IS THE SAME DESIRE.

In the dark, his hand drifted down. He didn't want to touch himself, but his body had its own instructions now. He thought about the weight of the lat pulldown bar. He thought about the heavy hands on his back.

"Marcus," he breathed out, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

He jerked his hand away, shocked. "No."

He turned over, burying his face in the pillow. But the pillow smelled like the shirt he had slept with weeks ago. It smelled like him.

As Sebastian finally drifted into a restless sleep, his conscious mind shut down, but the new code kept running in the background.

Status: Rewriting mind set...

————————————————————————————————

Sebastian blinked.

The world rushed back in a blur of noise and gray concrete. The clank of iron. The heavy thud of dumbbells hitting the rubber floor.

He was sitting on the edge of a bench. His hands were gripping the vinyl padding so hard his knuckles were white. He was sweating—profusely. His chest heaved, gasping for air.

Where... when is this?

He remembered waking up. He remembered coffee. But the commute? The changing room? It was gone. A blank space in his memory. One moment he was tying his shoes, and now, he was here. Mid-set.

"You're drifting, Sebastian."

The voice came from above. Deep. Resonant.

Sebastian looked up. Marcus was standing over him.

The trainer looked colossal from this angle. He was wearing a gray tank top that was soaked through dark with sweat, clinging to his pectorals like a second skin. His arms were crossed, veins snaking down his forearms like roadmap lines.

"I..." Sebastian stammered. He tried to summon his academic voice, the one that commanded lecture halls. It wasn't there. "I don't remember getting here."

Marcus didn't look surprised. He stepped closer. He stepped between Sebastian's spread knees.

"The body knows where it belongs," Marcus said softly. "The mind is just luggage. Sometimes it gets left behind."

He was close now. Too close. Sebastian’s knees were touching Marcus’s thighs. The heat radiating from the older man was intense, a physical weight pressing against Sebastian’s face.

"Are you okay?" Marcus asked. It was a question, but his tone wasn't concerned. It was testing.

Sebastian looked at Marcus’s face. The salt-and-pepper beard. The dark, unyielding eyes.

Three weeks ago, Sebastian would have felt threatened. He would have stood up and backed away.

But now?

His heart hammered against his ribs—not with fear, but with a sick, heavy excitement. The Gymini programming initiated the night before was running hot in his blood.

Target: Marcus. Obsession: Verified.

"I feel..." Sebastian swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I feel lightheaded."

"Good," Marcus murmured. He reached out and placed a heavy hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck. His fingers were rough, calloused. They squeezed the sensitive skin at the base of the skull. "That means you've finally stopped overthinking. That means the resistance is gone."

Marcus applied pressure, forcing Sebastian to look up at him.

"You've been doing well, Sebastian. The app shows me your metrics. You're growing." Marcus’s thumb stroked the line of Sebastian’s jaw. "You're becoming obedient. Does that feel good?"

Sebastian wanted to say No. He wanted to say I am a scholar, I am an intellectual.

"Yes," Sebastian whispered. The truth slipped out before he could catch it.

Marcus smiled. It was a predatory, satisfied smile.

"I knew it. You were never meant to think, were you? You were meant to lift. To sweat. To follow."

Marcus moved his hand from Sebastian’s neck to his chest, then lower, resting flat on Sebastian’s heaving stomach. Then, he took a half-step forward.

His crotch was now inches from Sebastian’s face.

The smell hit Sebastian like a physical blow.

It wasn't leather or cologne. It was the heavy, biological scent of a dominant male in his prime. It was thick, pungent, and intoxicating. It smelled of testosterone, aggressive sweat, and the sharp, salty tang of skin that had been working hard.

It was the smell Sebastian had slept with last night. It was the smell of authority.

Sebastian’s brain short-circuited. The "Professor" part of his mind screamed This is inappropriate! This is sexual harassment!

But the instinctive part—the part Gymini had cultivated—inhaled greedily.

Smell the target. Internalize the source.

"Breathe it in," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Don't hold your breath. This is what a real man smells like. This is what you want to be. Isn't it?"

Sebastian’s eyes fluttered shut. He leaned forward, drawn in by a magnetic force he couldn't fight. His nose brushed against the damp gray fabric of Marcus’s shorts.

"I..." Sebastian moaned, a shameful, needy sound. "I want..."

"What do you want?" Marcus asked. He didn't pull away. He pressed his hips forward, just slightly, rubbing the bulge of his crotch against Sebastian’s cheek. "Tell me. Use your words."

"I want... to be yours," Sebastian gasped. "I want to be a good boy."

"You are a good boy," Marcus growled. "But good boys need to be fed."

The sound of a zipper was the loudest thing in the gym.

Marcus reached down and pulled the waistband of his shorts down. He wasn't wearing underwear.

The release of the scent was overwhelming. It was raw. It was undeniable. It obliterated the last shred of Sebastian’s logic.

There was no hesitation. There was no "Am I gay?" There was no "What about my tenure?"

There was only the Man in front of him. And the need to serve.

Sebastian’s hands came up, trembling, to grip Marcus’s massive thighs. He looked up, eyes wide with a mix of terror and adoration.

"Open," Marcus ordered.

Sebastian opened his mouth.

Marcus guided himself in. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't violent. It was necessary.

As Sebastian took him in, tasting the salt and the skin, a final notification seemed to ping in his mind, clear as day.

PHASE COMPLETE.

COGNITIVE RESISTANCE: NULL.

CONTROL TRANSFER: TRAINER MARCUS.

————————————————————————————————

Three months blurred into a haze of iron, protein shakes, and Marcus.

Sebastian was still technically a professor, but the man walking into the lecture hall looked like he had eaten the previous one.

He was wearing a graphic t-shirt that was two sizes too small. The sleeves were rolled up, cutting into his biceps, turning his arms into veiny, swollen slabs of meat. His shorts were inappropriate for a gym, let alone a university—gray sweat material, tight enough to outline every muscle in his thighs and the heavy bulge between them.

He didn't carry a briefcase anymore. He carried a gallon jug of water mixed with Marcus’s "special blend."

Sebastian stood at the podium. He stared at the text on the projector: Derrida’s Structure, Sign, and Play.

The words looked like alien hieroglyphs. Signifier. Signified. Discourse.

"Ugh," Sebastian grunted, the sound amplifying over the microphone.

He tried to read the first sentence. "The... center is not the center..."

His brain stalled. It felt like trying to run through mud. The complex neural pathways that used to process philosophy were gone, paved over by Gymini’s new code: Lift. Eat. Sleep. Obey.

"Professor?"

It was the blonde student again. She looked at him, not with admiration, but with confusion. Maybe even pity. "You’ve been staring at that slide for five minutes. Are we going to discuss the reading?"

Sebastian looked at her. He felt a flash of irritation. Why was she talking so much? Why were there so many words?

"It's boring," Sebastian said flatly. His voice was deeper now, a permanent rasp.

"Excuse me?"

"The book," Sebastian gestured vaguely with a massive arm. "It's just words. Who cares? It doesn't... do anything."

A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room.

Sebastian didn't hear it. His mind had already drifted. He was thinking about Marcus. He was thinking about the text he got ten minutes ago: Leg day tonight. Wear the jockstrap.

The thought hit him like a drug. He visualized Marcus waiting for him. The smell of the gym. The heavy weight on his back.

Under the podium, his dick surged. It grew hard and heavy, straining against the tight gray fabric of his shorts. He didn't try to hide it. He almost wanted them to see.

Real men don't read, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded like Gymini, but it felt like his own thought. Real men grow.

"Class dismissed," Sebastian muttered.

"But we still have forty minutes!"

"I said go," Sebastian growled, grabbing his water jug. "I have somewhere to be."

He walked out of the hall, leaving his tenure, his reputation, and his career behind. He didn't look back. He was already unzipping his phone to check the route to Home.

————————————————————————————————

One month later.

The apartment was warm. It smelled of cedarwood, musk, and sex.

Sebastian—no, the man formerly known as Sebastian—lay sprawled on the leather sofa. His head was resting on Marcus’s thick thighs.

He had been fired two weeks ago. "Gross incompetence," the letter said. "Behavior unbecoming of faculty."

He hadn't even finished reading it before Marcus threw it in the trash. Paper is for wiping, Marcus had said. You don't need it.

And Marcus was right.

The man looked up at his owner. Marcus was scrolling through a tablet, his other hand idly stroking the man’s hair, scratching behind the ears like he was petting a prize-winning retriever.

"The numbers are good," Marcus said, his voice rumbling in his chest. "Your preview video already has five hundred subscribers. They like the size. They like how... empty you look."

The man on the sofa smiled. It was a wide, vacuous grin. His eyes were clear, free of the anxiety that used to plague the Professor.

"Empty is good," he murmured. "Thinking hurts."

"Exactly," Marcus said. He put the tablet down and looked at the man. "We need to rebrand, though. 'Sebastian' is too long. Too syllables. It sounds like a librarian."

Marcus squeezed the back of the man’s neck.

"You look like a Stan."

The man blinked. He rolled the name around in his head. Stan. One syllable. Hard. Simple. It sounded like a command. It sounded like a tool.

"Stan," he repeated.

It felt right. Sebastian was the guy who worried about tenure and syntax. Stan was the guy who lived on this sofa, lifted heavy weights, and did whatever Daddy said.

"I like Stan," he said.

"Good," Marcus smirked. "Because Stan has work to do."

Marcus shifted his legs, spreading them slightly. The implication was obvious.

"We need to record the welcome video for the VIP tier," Marcus said. "Show them what a good boy you are."

Stan didn't need to ask what the script was. Gymini had deleted the need for scripts.

He sat up, his massive shoulders eclipsing the window light. He crawled between Marcus’s legs, his movements fluid and practiced.

"Lights on?" Stan asked, his voice thick with anticipation.

"Lights on," Marcus confirmed. "Action."

Stan grinned, a look of pure, mindless bliss on his face. He leaned down, burying his face in the source of his new reality, ready to serve.

Zac was a typical college sophomore at Westview University, a lanky 19-year-old with a mop of brown hair, a quick wit, and a penchant for late-night gaming sessions. He was majoring in computer science, always tinkering with code or debating sci-fi lore with his friends. His roommate, Ethan, was a psychology major—quiet, intense, and a little too interested in subliminal messaging and behavioral conditioning for Zac’s comfort. Ethan had a knack for getting under people’s skin, but Zac brushed it off. They shared a cramped dorm room, and Zac figured he could handle a weird roommate for a year.

Unbeknownst to Zac, Ethan had been experimenting with audio hypnosis. He’d spent months crafting a series of tracks laced with subliminal commands, designed to rewire someone’s mind without them ever noticing. Ethan wasn’t just curious—he was obsessed with control. And Zac, with his predictable routine and noise-canceling headphones, was the perfect test subject.

It started subtly. One night, while Zac was studying with his headphones on, Ethan swapped his usual lo-fi playlist for one of his custom tracks. The music sounded normal—chill beats, soft bass—but beneath the surface, layered whispers repeated: “You love the gym. Lifting feels good. You need to get stronger.” Zac didn’t notice anything odd. He just felt a strange urge to hit the campus gym the next morning, something he’d never done before. He laughed it off, blaming it on a random burst of motivation.

The gym was crowded, filled with jocks and athletes, but Zac felt oddly at home. He fumbled through a basic workout, his scrawny arms straining under the lightest dumbbells. When he got back to the dorm, sweaty and sore, Ethan was there, smirking. “Looking good, bro. You should keep it up.” Zac shrugged, but something in Ethan’s tone made his skin prickle.

The audio tracks continued. Every night, Zac unknowingly absorbed more commands: “Lifting is your purpose. You want to be big. You want to be hot.” Within a week, he was at the gym daily, skipping classes to squeeze in extra sessions. His appetite surged, and he started chugging protein shakes Ethan conveniently left around. Zac’s wardrobe began to shift too. His graphic tees and jeans felt wrong, constricting. One day, he found himself buying a pair of black Nike basketball shorts online. They felt right. Soon, his closet was nothing but those shorts, tank tops, and snapbacks.

Zac’s mind was changing too, though he didn’t realize it. His once-sharp focus on coding dulled. He struggled to follow lectures, his thoughts drifting to his next workout. His friends noticed him zoning out during conversations, muttering stuff like, “Gotta hit the gym, bro.” They teased him at first, but by the second month, they barely recognized him. Zac’s lanky frame was gone, replaced by lean muscle that bulged with every flex. His hair was cropped short, his posture cocky. He’d started calling everyone “bro” and flashing a smug grin that wasn’t there before.

Ethan’s tracks grew bolder. “You’re a jock. You’re dumb. You love to obey. Obedience is pleasure.” Zac’s grades tanked, but he didn’t care. School was boring. The gym was his world now—lifting, sweating, chasing the pump. He spent hours admiring his reflection, flexing in the mirror, obsessed with how hot he looked. His personality flattened. The witty, nerdy Zac was buried under a new persona: a vain, arrogant meathead who lived for gains and hookups. He’d become a fuckboy, flirting with anyone who caught his eye, but his real loyalty was to Ethan.

By the third month, Zac was unrecognizable. His body was jacked, veins popping under tanned skin. His vocabulary had shrunk to gym slang and crude jokes. He wore his black Nike shorts everywhere, paired with tight tanks that showed off his pecs. Ethan had stopped hiding his control. One night, he played a track openly, and Zac just stared blankly, nodding along. “You obey me. I’m your master. You exist to please me.” Zac’s eyes glazed over, a dopey smile spreading across his face. “Yes, bro,” he mumbled. Obedience felt like a warm rush, better than any lift.

Now, Zac’s days followed a simple loop: wake up, chug a shake, hit the gym, flex for selfies, and do whatever Ethan told him. Clean the dorm? Done. Run errands? No problem. Ethan’s word was law, and Zac craved the high of compliance. He didn’t question it. He didn’t think much at all. He was a mindless jock, a muscle-bound puppet who lived to be hot, dumb, and obedient.

Ƭɾʋƈƙҽɾʂ Ɓσყ

Poor Steven when he was informed about the new Federal Law passed requiring all males between the ages of 18-25 to report to a collections office to get their penis measured and anyone under 6 inches would become government owned slaves,he thought he’d be safe, but sure enough when he got to his measuring he stopped just short at 5.8 inches.

“Come on doc it’s only 0.2 inches you can cut me a break” Steven said hoping the doctor might look the other way. Suddenly the doctor slapped Steven across the face so hard Steven fell to the ground then said.

“Sorry fag boy rules are rules, you’re a slave now so I gotta teach you early to follow them. Guard come take this one in for processing.” Steven was shocked and angry but before he could do anything a 6’3 muscular man walked in and easily put Steven’s 5’8 scrawny in handcuffs and lead him away by his wavy curly brown hair , but before he left the office the doctor said “you are a cute little fag tho I hope you get put up for auction so I can bid on you.”

The rest of the day was processing he got the government branded “Slave” tattoo on the back of his neck along with a identification barcode on his butt and was told he was not aloud cover them under any means before assignment and he was to obey any order given to him by any man. Then he was let go for 48 hours to give up all his belongings and settle affairs before reporting back for assignment. To help him start they took everything he brought with him including his wallet, phone, car keys and, all his clothes leaving him to walk 20 minutes home bare naked.

After got to his apartment he realized they took his house keys and the only other pair were the ones his pervy old landlord has. To avoid anymore embarrassment from just standing naked in the hall he quickly rushed down the stairs and knocked on the landlord’s office door.

“Come in” said the landlord. “Oh look who we have here Steven.” The landlord was a fat 50 year old Italian man who always made Steven feel uncomfortable, always looking at him like he was a piece of meat. “Guess you were smaller than I thought” he said mockingly while circling Steven. Well I suppose you need me to unlock your door so you can pack up, had a couple other slaves come in Buck naked asking the same.”

“Yea” Steven said sheepishly embarrassed about his current predicament.

“That’s Yes Sir to you faggot” said the landlord before giving Steven a good slap to the ass.

“Yes Sir” replied Steven.

“Good Fag now unzip my pants and suck my cock” the landlord demanded.

“No fucking way” Steven said in disgust before getting slapped to the ground for a second time.

“Are you fucking stupid faggot I’m a Man and I gave you an order and to my understanding you have to follow it now unless you want to call the local Slave Center to collect you early you’ll suck my cock” the landlord said while unzipping his pants and sticking his semi hard dick In Stevens face.

“Yes Sir” Steven said in defeat while slowly putting his lips around his perverted landlords sweaty cock.

Immediately after Steven had taken the landlords cock in his mouth his grabbed the back of his head and started face fucking him. “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman and saving your Cherry incase the government wants to auction you” said the landlord while Steven was trying and failing to escape the brutal face fucking him with his now fully erect 7 inch penis. After 5 minutes Steven stop struggling and his landlord started coming down his throat, “Good faggot can’t believe I’ve waited years hoping you’d be a couple months late on rent so I could to do that to you, oh well let’s get you into that apartment so you can get back to the center.”

Later all Steven could think was “I gotta find a way out of this, I can’t do that for the rest of my life.” So he scoured the internet on ways to escape luckily he found a group of new slaves in a town just a 1 hour drive away away that planned to sneak over the border the next night but since he couldn’t leave county limits on public transport and his car was repossessed he’d have to start walking that night so he through on a loose hoodie and sweats and started walking while holding his finger out hoping anyone would let him hitch the rest of the ride.

Sometime mid morning he was walking on the side of the highway and a delivery truck pulled up next to him.

The driver rolled down the passenger window and said “hi I’m Dave hop on in.“

“Thanks Dave I’m just going to the next town over” said Steven while getting in the truck.

“Well that’s great I’m heading that way right now “ Dave said starting the truck and merging back onto the highway. For the next 40 minutes of driving they talk and joked around like regular dudes. Steven was happy to finally be treated like a real human being again like the last 24 hours never happened.

The truck came to a stopped ,“welp you’re here” said Dave. The passenger door immediately swung open and Steven was grab by huge man. Panicking Steven looked around and suddenly realized he hood was down the whole time, Dave must have seen the tattoo on the back of his neck and taken him to a Slave Center. While the big man took Steven inside kicking and cursing at Dave, Dave just got out of his truck and walked up to the trainer in front of the building.

“Thank you for bringing in this misguided slave be rest assured he’ll be punished accordingly for trying to escape. After that he was originally assigned to be auctioned but as gratitude for bringing him in we’ll let you decide his fate.” Said the trainer.

“Well I could use a new slave to tie to the front of my truck and use a truck stops and what not” said Dave.

“Any specific modifications ?” Asked the trainer.

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