#aware

Later that night, Kyle was in his shower. Nothing unusual until he heard his restroom door open. He knew he was in trouble now, he lives alone. Before he could even think of calling the police, a hand reached thought the end of the shower curtain and pulled them open. Revealing himself to Kyle was Mason Mays, a face full of anger and prejudice. In his hands was a gun which he definitely would’ve used had he not seen a nude Kyle. His pupils moved to Kyle’s penis without even thinking about it, and then they never left. 

Mason’s forehead was straining with effort to look away, to complete his job. He growled, “What the hell faggot? I can’t look away!” He started to tear up. This was the second time Kyle’s dicknosis was used in anger, and in both cases the person who got dicknotized started to cry. Grayson, his first, and now Mason.

Kyle saw the tears and the gun, but also an opportunity. He saw Mason in a state he could only have dreamed of. He had total control, an absolute authority over the man who wanted to kill him just seconds ago. “Mason,” Kyle started, “put the gun down.”

Mason’s hand trembled as he lowered the weapon, his face a mask of conflict. His eyes, still locked on Kyle’s crotch, were wide with a terror that was slowly being replaced by something else—a dawning, placid acceptance.

“Fuck,” Kyle said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the pounding of his own heart. “Now, I want you to strip. Everything off.”

Mason’s fingers fumbled with his belt, his movements clumsy and needy. His clothes fell to the wet bathroom floor with a fwump. He stood there, naked and vulnerable, his body a stark contrast to Kyle’s. Where Kyle was slender and pale, Mason was solid and muscular, a product of hours spent at the gym he’d often bragged about at work.

“Now,” Kyle continued, his mind racing with possibilities, “I want you to go into my bedroom. Stand against the far wall. The one with the window. Don’t move from that spot.”

Mason tore his gaze finally and turned and walked out of the bathroom, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. As Mason walked away, Kyle could hear his complaints and questioning growing ever distant until they were emitting from Kyle’s bedroom.

Kyle had to reassure himself it was safe to take a breath to let himself relax. He plopped down into the bathtub, hurting his back slightly with a loud thump. Having his life threatened by someone he knew brought Kyle back traumatic memories with his dad. He sat there in the empty tub, naked and wet, thinking about how his dad’s hateful words had hurt him more than a gun could.

He was a coward. He had always been a coward. He ran away from his problems, from his family, from himself. But here, in this house, in this town, he had found a way to fight back. A way to turn the tables on the people who hurt him. It wasn't heroic. It wasn't noble. It was cruel, and manipulative, and it felt better than anything he had ever felt before.

He stood up, water dripping from his body, and reached for a towel. As he dried himself off, he could hear Mason in the bedroom, a low, guttural sound emanating from the other room. Kyle wasn’t as thorough as he was with his ex-boyfriend, Grayson Pike, so Mason was still himself albeit doing whatever Kyle told him in the bathroom. Back then in high school, Kyle had dicknotized the jock in the locker rooms to be so in love with Kyle that he’d break up with his girlfriend later that day and start dating Kyle. It worked for a couple months but then Kyle got caught being gay by his dad and that was a crime worse than murder according to his dad, though it could’ve also been the fact that Kyle attempted to dicknotize his dad after the homophobic storm. He’d found out that day that his dicknosis doesn’t work on his own family, a truly awkward conversation ensued. 

Kyle wrapped a towel around his waist and trepidatiously walked to his bedroom. He was greeted by the sight of Mason standing with his back to the wall by the window, clad in nothing but his underwear, a pair of tightey-whities, and regret. Kyle could tell the man wasn’t regretting his actions, he was regretful because of the paranormal situation he now ended up in. 

Mason’s face turned red as Kyle entered,. He barked, “What are you doing to me, faggot? I swear, you’re dead when I break free of whatever the fuck you’ve done to me!” Despite the anger in his voice, Mason was still just a wall ornament for Kyle’s bedroom. Kyle walked over to Mason and put a hand on the man’s muscular chest. Kyle could feel the man’s heart racing, the muscles twitching beneath his skin. It was a strange kind of power, holding a life in his hands, the power to rewrite a man's very being.

“You’re not going to break free, Mason,” Kyle said, his voice low and steady. “You’re going to stay right here. Against this wall. Forever.”

Mason’s eyes widened in horror. “Forever? You can’t be serious.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking with me,” Kyle said. “You came into my house. You threatened me with a gun. You tried to kill me. Now, you’re going to pay the price. You’re going to be my coat rack. You’ll stand here, against this wall, and you’ll hold my coats. You’ll flex your muscles and you’ll keep your dick hard. And you’ll like it. Because that’s all you are now. A coat rack. An object. A thing.”

He felt a surge of something dark and exhilarating. It was the same feeling he'd had with Grayson. The feeling of being in control, of being the one with the power. It was a feeling he knew he could get used to.

Mason yelled back, “To hell I will. I’m not part of your gay shit! Let me go!”

Kyle rebutted, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.” With a shit-eating grin, Kyle dropped his towel. He looked at Mason and said, “You’ll like being a coat rack. You’ll love it. It’s the only thing that makes you feel whole.”

Mason’s resistance disappeared. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by a placid, glassy stare. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, his muscles no longer fighting against the invisible force that held him in place. Kyle watched the transformation, a slow, creeping process that was as fascinating as it was terrifying. Mason’s personality, his memories, his sense of self—it was all being rewritten, overwritten by Kyle’s will. It was a violation, a desecration of everything Mason was, but it was also a work of art, a masterpiece of manipulation.

“Good,” Kyle said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Now, flex. Show me what you’ve got.”

Mason’s muscles tensed, his biceps bulging, his chest puffing out. He was a statue of a man, a perfect, immobile object, forever frozen in a pose of masculine strength.

“You’ll stand there,” Kyle continued, his voice low and hypnotic. “Forever. You’ll only think of yourself as a coat rack. You won’t think about your family, or your friends, or your job. You won’t think about anything except being a coat rack. And you’ll keep your dick hard. All the time. Because that’s what coat racks do.”

Mason’s dick, already semi-erect from the initial shock of the dicknosis, grew to its full length, straining against the thin fabric of his tightey-whities. It was a strange, surreal sight—a man, a living, breathing man, turning into a living inanimate object, his body a testament to Kyle’s power.

Kyle stood back and admired his work, watching as Mason’s mind crumbled. Mason was still there, somewhere deep inside, but his personality, his memories, his sense of self—they were all being erased, replaced by a single, all-consuming thought: I am a coat rack. The tears in his eyes had stopped, replaced by a vacant, placid stare. He was no longer a threat. He was no longer a person. He was a thing. Kyle’s thing. Mason’s body remained flexed, a monument to Kyle’s will. The tears that had streamed down his face had dried, leaving faint tracks on his cheeks. His eyes, once full of hate and fear, were now empty, glassy pools, reflecting the moonlight from the window.

Kyle walked over to the closet and pulled out a black leather jacket he rarely wore. He draped it over Mason’s outstretched arm, the weight of the leather settling onto Mason’s bicep. The sight of it, the sheer, audacious reality of it, sent a jolt of electricity through Kyle. He had done it. He had turned a man into an object.

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Mason to his new existence. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, his hand shaking slightly. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, a potent cocktail of fear and triumph. He looked at his reflection in the kitchen window, his face pale and ghostly in the dim light. Who was he? What was he becoming?

The questions hung in the air, unanswered. He didn’t have the answers. All he had was the power, the raw, intoxicating power to bend others to his will. And that was enough for now.

He walked back to his bedroom, his steps slow and deliberate. He looked at Mason, at the man who was now a coat rack, and felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. He had created something new, something that was uniquely his.

A couple days later, Kyle received a visit from two police officers, both investigating the unexplained disappearance of a Mason Mays in town. They wanted to look inside and investigate, and Kyle, folding immediately with any form of authority, dicknotized the officers to make sure they wouldn’t report their findings. He made them believe Kyle was forgettable and nothing to look into.