the Nibelung's Cave

That first story leads to another and soon enough it’s 4am and I’m listening to my first Good Boy audio recording. Nervous, feeling ridiculous yet unbelievably excited and turned on. I follow the deep, sexy voice. “Take a deep breath in, hold it, one, two, three and breathe out.” I’m not sure what this has to do with being a Good Boy but in, one, two, three and out. And again. It’s easy to follow along and as I breathe out I find myself relaxing just a little bit. “In, one, two, three, and out. Breathing in relaxation, and breathing out all that tension.” I feel my shoulders slump back. Breathing, listening, relaxing. “More and more relaxed, just listening, following. Breathing in, one, two, three and out.” Slow, deep breaths as I listen and follow. It’s so easy now, to just keep on breathing, relaxing, following, sinking. “Good Boys sink. Good Boys follow and relax. Good Boys sink deep. Deeper and deeper. More and more relaxed. Breath in, one, two, three and out.”

There’s a heaviness that spreads. I feel it first in my feet. They just feel so heavy. That curious leaden sensation spreads quickly as I listen. As I follow. As I sink. My ankles, my calves, my knees. Upward, onward. “Waist, chest, shoulders. So relaxed and heavy.” My arms, my hands. So heavy I can’t even move them. I try but my hands just lay there, limp on the arms of my chair. Soon enough it just seems right to stop trying. That heaviness keeps rising. Now it’s reached the top of my head and then at last my face. My jaw loosens, my mouth opens and suddenly it’s impossible to keep my eyes open. My eyelids are so heavy, “it’s so hard to keep them open so why not just relax and let them close?” And they do. I feel so relaxed and safe. “It just feels right to keep on relaxing, keep on following, keep on sinking.” My head slowly drifts forward and down until my chin is on my chest. 

“Sinking down, deeper and deeper”. There’s just the voice now. Deep, melliferous, sexy, commanding. “Still breathing. In, one, two, three, and out. But sinking deeper now”. Doubling my trance, going deeper, deeper and deeper. It’s so easy to follow the voice, so easy to listen and obey. “Good Boy. Feeling so relaxed, so safe. It’s so easy to just listen, to relax and follow the words like a Good Boy should. Good Boys listen, Good Boys listen and obey.”

I’m at the top of a marble staircase that spirals downward. I descend, each step taking me deeper. “Sinking down, deeper and deeper with every step.” Each leading me further into relaxation. Into obedience. My thoughts have drifted away, my mind is quiet, foggy, blank. “Five, even deeper, so deep…” The last step. The deepest I’ve ever been. There’s only the voice, the voice is burying itself in my very core, roots sinking into my subconscious. 

Obedience. Worship. Admiration. It feels so good to be a Good Boy. A Sleepy Boy. These are my triggers. Hearing or seeing Good Boy written in a DM from Master will bring arousal and excitement, obedience and conformity. “Good Boys know pleasure is obedience, and obedience is pleasure.” Sleepy Boy will return me to this deep state of trance. “Deeply hypnotised. Open for further conditioning, training, change.” 

It’s 5am on Christmas Day. I’ve been listening to the file on repeat. Each time dropping down faster, sinking deeper into trance. Into mindless obedience. The excitement of that first moment, of disbelief, as I sank into trance for the first time! The first time I wasn’t sure if it was my tiredness or if I was just playing along, desperately willing it to be real. The fourth time the first Good Boy had my cock instantly hard while Sleepy Boy sent my senses reeling as I slipped back into trance.

Flushed and nervous I DM the account where I found the recording and sit desperately waiting for a reply. It is Christmas morning, I must be patient. In the meantime there are other files. Oh there’s a Christmas special edition!

I listen, melting instantly into Master’s voice, smiling and giggling, giddy with excitement when I hear my Good Boy trigger. Falling instantly, deeply into trance when He says Sleepy Boy. “Take a breath in, hold it, one, two, three and let it out.” Each breath in relaxes me more and more, each breath out releases all my worries, tension, thoughts. “Sinking so deep now. Good Boy, Sleepy Boy.”

In that empty, blank state, Master gives me my Christmas present. Figure hugging, skin tight training gear. A vest, shorts, tight Lycra to show off my muscles, for the new body I will build for His pleasure. I see the gear clearly in my mind. I will buy it when I wake up. I’ll wear it to the gym as I perfect my body. This is my present, His is a new perfect himbo. A perfect, preppy himbo. Body and mind sculpted to His liking. An obedient Good Boy who will send Master progress photos at the end of each workout while I am still sweaty and exhausted from training.

Even as I shake off the trance, my fingers are already buying my new training gear. It’s Christmas morning. It’ll take a few days for delivery. I’m lost in a reverie thinking about my New Year’s resolutions. I need to get in shape, rebuild the body that I’ve let go in my lonely exile. I stroke my cock, getting hard as I think of the new me I’m going to build. I need a haircut and a shave. And a new wardrobe. The training gear is great but I need some new button down shirts, chinos and smart shoes. I stop myself from instantly hitting the sales online. No, I should go into the city, make a day of it. Treat myself to a proper makeover and try everything on before buying. I want to look my best, I need to be the best version of me. It just feels right. It’s what I need to do. 

Yet as these thoughts crowd in on me I start to feel anxious. These aren’t my thoughts. I look at the DM I sent. “I am Master’s Good Boy”. Why did I send it? I don’t know anything about this guy. Sure his voice is so fucking hot, so easy to listen to. To follow and obey. I’m frightened now, I know I trust and respect Master but logic screams that such thoughts are mad. How can I trust a voice, a recording? Why am I obeying this unknown Master? Letting him rewrite my reality? Admittedly it’s a pretty shit reality but still I need to be careful.

And then a DM appears. “Good Boy”. The reaction to reading these two little words is instant. A crackle of pleasure runs through me. I’m excited, happy, and eager. But the nervousness remains. I reply, the words writing themselves, “it makes me feel so excited to read those words. I listened to your file and had to message you.” And it’s 100% true. I am excited. And I was compelled to DM the guy. But recognising that truth only heightens my anxiety. I tap out a further message, “it feels so exciting but strange. I read your words and hear your voice in my head and feel happy, foggy, weird.”

I sit back, a mix of emotions. My cheeks are red and my heart beats fast and loud in my ears.

The response is almost instant, “strange how?”

I’m in a conversation with Him. It’s thrilling, terrifying, “I’m not used to feeling so open, to being so relaxed about following along to someone’s words, someone I don’t know but somehow trust and want to please. It’s strange.” I’m rock hard now, breathing fast, desperate for a reply.

“Sleepy Boy.” The trigger. My trigger to go deep, to fall back into trance, “Deep in trance. But you can still see my words and answer me. Do you understand?”

The trigger did its work. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good Boy. You’ve been deeply hypnotised haven’t you Sleepy Boy?”

“Yes.” My trigger had instantly cast aside my resistance. I’m blank, empty, open.

“Good Boy. You trust Master, don’t you, boy?” Those words. A wave of excitement washes through me. More intense now I am deeply hypnotised. Now that He is talking directly to my subconscious.

“Yes.”

“Yes Master. You will always call me Master from now on. You want to be Master’s Good Boy don’t you? “

“Yes Master.”

You need to be Master’s Good Boy. You listen to Master. You trust Master. You admire Master. You worship Master. Following Master’s words just feels right. There is nothing strange in this, nothing to fear. Forget all those silly worries. Let them go.” 

“Remember to breathe, breathe in. Hold it, one, two, three and breathe out. Keep breathing. Nice and slow. And with each breath you let out all those silly worries, all those thoughts. All you need to do is follow and obey. It just feels so good to follow and obey. Isn’t that right Good Boy?”

“Yes Master.”

“Good Boy. No worries. No thoughts. Good Boys are empty and blank. And you are a Good Boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes Master. I am a Good Boy. I am empty and blank,” and I am, I have slipped into a relaxed state of blissful emptiness. All those silly worries forgotten. Replaced by a cosy, safe nothingness.

“Good Boy. It’s nearly time to wake up. But before you do I have one more instruction for you and a new trigger. If you ever start to feel anxious or strange, you will DM Master to say ‘Good Boy needs to remember to forget’. Do you understand boy?”

“Yes Master, I understand. If I ever feel anxious or strange, I will message you and say ‘Good Boy needs to remember to forget’.”

“Good Boy. And the moment you hit send on your message, indeed whenever you send me a message, you will hear my voice in the deepest parts of your subconscious. You will hear Master say, ‘Sleepy Boy,’ and you will instantly obey. You will sink. You will return to this deep state of trance. You will be deeply hypnotised. And all those silly worries will vanish from your mind. Replaced by emptiness, blankness. You will feel completely relaxed. Completely open. And you will wait for further instructions’. Do you understand Sleepy Boy?”

“Yes Master, I understand. Whenever I send you a message, I will hear you say ‘Sleepy Boy’ and I will be deeply hypnotised. Empty, blank, completely relaxed, completely open. I will be a Good Boy and wait for further instructions.” The words come as naturally as breathing. My own subconscious formulation, subtly different to Master’s direction, elaborated, evolved by my own eagerness to please. 

“Good Boy. Now it’s time to wake up. One, two, three, four, five and wide awake. How do you feel, my Good Boy?”

“Master, I feel so happy and excited. It feels so good to read your words. Being a Good Boy for Master makes me so blank and empty.”

“Good Boy, Merry Christmas my Good Boy.”

“Merry Christmas Master! I will be the best present I can be for Master.” All my worries were gone. Instead my thoughts were all of how I would perfect my body and mind to be Master’s perfect himbo. A new body, a new look, a new mindset. A preppy jock boy. A Stepford puppet. Master’s Good Boy. 

So Pinewood Studios. They film the Bond movies and Star Wars here. And now NightHawk. I play the eponymous hero - the freshman nerd who is transformed into a masked avenger through the power of a mystic relic inherited from his long dead father. Yeah the origin story is pure hokum but that’s the SIlver Age of comics for you and if the studios learnt anything from that dumpster fire Fantastic Four reboot a few years back it’s don’t mess with an origin story. But while the story’s predictable enough the action is anything but. Night Hawk fights the lowlife scum of the city with a mix of parkour and krav maga. So far, so Spiderman, Daredevil and err Batman, yadda, yadda. But the NightHawk… OK so he’s exactly like all those other guys but with a dash of Ancient Egyptian mythology for a bit of exotic colour. But the fight scenes are spectacular and I’m doing most of the stunts myself. Did I mention I’m also a bit of an adrenaline junkie? I’m loving the wire work, the hand to hand scraps, jumping out of burning buildings. It’s hard work but I make it look easy. I’ve never been in better shape. And my butt has never looked as good as it does in the NightHawk’s skin tight ebony suit.

But anyway enough of the foreplay. I’ve set the scene but we all know why you’re here right? You’re waiting for my beautiful, straight, waxed, white, Southern megastar ass to get plowed by some sick queer fucker right? The classic fall from grace. Straight-to-gay. The alpha stud taken down a peg or six to become some mindless, cum-sucking bottom bitch. That’s what’s carried you this far. You think you know this story? Heard it all before huh? Hmm well let’s see…

Maybe I’m out on the town. Looking sharp in a navy three piece Balenciaga suit and skinny knitted tie. I’m in a swanky bar in Mayfair sipping on my 21 year old Macallan. Some smoking hot blonde picks me up. She slips me a roofie that makes me co-operative, though dumb fuck that I am she didn’t really need to. You know actors, pretty but not so smart. Vain, arrogant and yet so insecure. She invites me back to her place. Heck I’ll go anywhere my dick leads me. She takes me by the hand. We’re on some cobbled back street. A pair of goons grab me and throw me in the back of a van. I struggle but one of them pokes me with a hypodermic. Everything fades into blackness. Drugged, kidnapped but that’s just the start. Someone has bought me. Hoyt Buchanan A-list star. Kidnapped to order. It’s all been planned to a tee. My captors have to prepare me for a whole new life. They fuck with my head. Sleep deprivation. More syringes full of fuck knows what to keep me docile, suggestible. I’m strapped into a contraption like a dentist’s chair but with screens and a hole right under my naked ass. They assault my senses with strobes and gay porn on loop. Strange, droning music is pumped into my ears. There are words too but I’m too strung out to hear exactly what the voices are saying. They humiliate me, toying with my nips, my cock, my tight boy pussy. There’s butt plugs, dildos and bondage gear. Black leather and heavy steel. They force me to cum, cum and cum again. To associate pleasure with being fucked in the face and ass. With having my body used by other men’s dicks. Then they lock my own cock in a cage. I will never cum again they tell me. Day by day. They break me down. I’m trained, forced to turn, to be a gay himbo slut. Sure I try to resist but the end result was always certain. These guys are pros, specialist manbreakers and I’m an actor. My cocky alpha attitude is flipped upside down so all I ever want is to suck cock, drink piss and have my new middle aged, pot-bellied Chinese billionaire master fuck my perfect ass with his pathetic pencil dick.

Not doing it for you? Shit I thought it was kinda hot! OK then, how about this:

I’m out for a run, I like to do sprint intervals first thing before my car arrives to take me to the studio. My hotel backs on to Hyde Park. There I go top to toe in my skin tight black Under Armour gear. My overshorts do nothing to hide my great ass and thick 8½ inch cock. It’s early, there’s hardly anyone around. I pause for a breath and take in the picturesque scene of the grey light filtering through the thin morning mist on the Serpentine. I run on, Judas Priest pumping into my earbuds. I take a turn up the path past the Old Police House and head into the gloomy woods on the north side of the Park. As usual no one’s around. Well that’s not quite true. Someone’s around. Someone that’s been surveilling my movements these past few weeks. They’re ready to pounce. The crackle of the stun gun pressed against my neck is the first I know of the attack. I collapse as my legs give way beneath me but before I hit the dirt track I’m caught and swung up over the shoulder of some faceless guy in dark overalls. He’s tall, strong too. I try to move, to cry out but my body refuses to answer my panicked thoughts. I’m dropped into the back of a green pick up, like the ones used by the park keepers. He hops up beside me but I’m face down and can’t see him. My wrists and ankles are secured with plastic ties and my mouth is stuffed with some kind of cloth. He wraps tape tightly around my head to hold the gag in place. A hood is secured with more tape around my neck and then a tarp is pulled over me. I hear him jump down. A couple of steps, the truck door opens and shuts. The engine turns over. We’re moving. It’s all over in seconds. Another professional snatch.

We bump along through the park then hit the traffic. Feeling starts to return to my limbs. I try to move. I struggle against the ties. My kidnapper has been meticulous, both my wrists and ankles have been fastened to hooks in the base of the truck. Why have I been taken? Not to be sold. No this time it’s personal. This guy’s been hired by Max Rashford. I’d been fucking his girlfriend behind his back for months. Even got the bitch pregnant. Worse, oh so much worse, Max had been in the running for NightHawk but got dumped when the studio learned I was interested. Now they’ll be calling him to step in after my disappearance. He didn’t really care what happened to me as long as the way was cleared for him to take up the mantle of NightHawk. He just wanted me out of the picture, so to speak.

But prime Tennessee beef, you don’t go wasting that with a bullet, a pair of concrete shoes and a dip in the Thames. Turns out the guy that’s snatched me plans on keeping me for himself. Wants to add a Hollywood A-lister to his collection. He’s got a place, a warehouse on the Isle of Dogs. It’s private, no one goes there. He can keep me there chained up in a wire cage. I eat from a bowl with Man’s Best Friend written on it. My food is laced with something. The drugs keep me sleepy, my senses dull. I’m left to sit and sleep naked in my own piss and shit. He talks. A lot. None of it makes much sense though. He whips me until, bleeding and broken, I whimper and whine just like he wants. He gives me a pink squeaky toy. And dang don’t I just love to carry it around in my mouth. To hear it’s ”skwi-ki!”. What the hell has he been putting in that bowl? He has a mask with floppy ears for me, padded gloves, knee pads, and a butt plug with a little rubber tail. If I’m a good pup he pets my little head and lets me lick his stinking balls. The name on my collar isn’t Hoyt Buchanan, it’s Princess and after careful training by the Isle of Dogs Whisperer I’ve learned to love having my perfect ass ruined by my kidnapper turned owner. The best bit is that there’s six of us. All living, sleeping, playing and fucking together. The money our owner made from my abduction and that of the former Premier League No 7 (now known only as Buddy) has allowed him to retire to the country with his pups. Once I was Hoyt Buchanan, now you can call me Puppy Princess. Or whistle. Either brings me bounding over, my little tail wagging.

Still not doing it for you? You’re not turned on by an A-list hunk being turned into a happy, collared, puppy-brained bottom? You wanted more Buddy? FFS.

OK how about this. Maybe it’s one of my fans. Maybe he’s been stalking me. He’s lying in wait outside my hotel. Shit he’s been watching and waiting since he saw me in that dumbass play three years ago. He follows me into Knightsbridge Tube Station headed out for some anonymous fun. He tracks me to an achingly cool bar in Soho. I’m oblivious. He picks his moment. I’ve sunk a couple of beers and am feeling relaxed. He gets closer, plucks up the courage to speak to me. He introduces himself, says he works on the set. Seems like a nice enough guy, presentable and friendly. My age too. And sure yeah I’ve seen him around set. Of course he’s not supposed to be there, for fuck’s sake he’s a crazy stalker, but I don’t know that. Truth is I’m glad of the company. It can get lonely sometimes in the spotlight. He tells me he knows a great new club in Borough. We jump in a cab. The place is pretty wild. He gets upset when I pull but I’m too busy with my latest conquest to notice the change in him. He takes out his rage on some unfortunate clubber in the toilets, leaving him lying unconscious and bleeding on the piss covered vinyl. Next day he comes to my trailer to hang out. We clink bottles. My phone buzzes. It’s my agent, I have to take it. I turn my back on him for just a moment and in a sudden flash of fury he smashes me over the head with his beer bottle. Knocks me out cold. He panics, he needs to get me out of there. He goes and fetches some duct tape. The stuff’s everywhere on set, what do you think holds everything together? My wrists, arms, thighs and ankles are wrapped up tight. Finally he gags me with a pair of my own socks and more tape. He pushes a wheelie bin to the back of my trailer out of sight of the crew. Then he tips my six foot frame out the window and in I go, head first. Somehow he gets me off set. After all who notices the guy with the trash can? Slowly I come to. I’m in the trunk of a car. We’ve been driving for God knows how long. Finally we stop. He hauls me out and props me up against the side of his crappy Ford. I struggle but I’m trussed up real good, like a roped steer at the rodeo. He smirks at the indignation, the muffled curses and pointless struggling. Then tenderly he strokes my cheek. The rage returns when I pull away from his faggot fingers. He slaps me so hard my skin burns.

We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, all I can see is woods. With surprising strength he slings me over his shoulder and carries me off up a near invisible path. My squirming just earns me a sharp smack on the ass. We come upon an old shack. Our new home he tells me. He drags me inside and throws me down on an old bedstead. The place is like a shrine, posters and press cuttings cover the walls. Right above the bed there’s the shot from the Calvin Klein campaign. Even now I can’t help but briefly admire my hot ass. He tells me he needs to make me comfortable. He pulls out a cloth and a little brown bottle from a duffel bag he’s brought along. He presses the ether soaked cloth to my face. I try to shake him off but I’m bound tight. It takes longer to go under in real life than it does in the movies but still, soon enough the struggle is over. I’m out. I wake up face down, spread eagled and bound tight to the four legs of the bed. Of course he’s stripped me naked. I kick and struggle in vain. There’s no give in these bonds and my limbs are stretched right out. He knows he’s knot-work. He’s left the sock gag in place. It’s not my singing he wants. I look around the room for something, anything to use to get free. My eyes lock on a framed picture by the bedside. There’s me in triple denim - cowboy boots, blue jeans, shirt and trucker jacket but he’s pasted a photo of himself in there with his head on my shoulder and arms wrapped around my chest. It’s even signed, “to my wonderful husband Robin, you’re my everything, love Hoyt, XOXO.”

Robin’s standing back, leering, admiring his prize then he moves in and starts fondling my ass, Hoyt Buchanan’s perfect, hairless bubble butt. Spandex, the Calvins, painted on blue jeans, nothing beats the view of my naked ass. He tells me he loves me, that we’re going to be together forever. He climbs on top of the bed. My wrists and ankles are burning as I thrash against my bonds desperate to get away. This can’t be happening to me. To me? Hoyt Buchanan? Straight as an arrow. Alpha male. He tells me to shut up. He slaps me. Again. Harder. Again, again. But I’m really losing it now, this whole situation has me totally freaked. My protests enrage him. I think I’m getting somewhere when he jumps off of me but he’s back in a flash and suddenly there’s a razor blade at my throat. He growls in my ear. He draws just the tiniest drop of blood but it’s enough, suddenly I’m really fucking scared. This guy’s a total psycho. I freeze. Then Hoyt Buchanan alpha stud starts crying like some little pussy. He coos in my ear, comforting me. He would never really hurt me. He loves me. He just gets angry sometimes. He can’t help it. He loses control. His body presses down on me. He gently caresses my neck, my back, tracing his fingers over my sculpted delts and lats. I shiver. Then his lips lightly brush the nape of my neck. I’m still, silent, trembling as he slowly, teasingly descends down my spine. Kissing every inch of the way. His tongue is at my ass. My tears soak the bed sheets. He dips his tongue between my butt cheeks and then gently, tenderly pulls them wide so he can probe deeper. It’s fucking awful. It’s fucking everything. He teases my ass. First his tongue licks around the rim of my boy cunt, then it’s a finger, then two. Probing, opening me up. He knows what he’s doing back there. Then I hear him unzip his pants. He’s going to fuck me? I cry and thrash but there’s nothing I can do. He forces his way in, gentleness forgotten. Now it’s unstoppable. There’s nothing I can do… And that’s exciting. I’m horrified and electrified at once. What the fuck? What the fuck Hoyt? A guy’s taking you up the arsehole and you’re getting off? Sure enough, I’m rock hard. He comes and then, cheeks scarlet with shame, I follow. I’m a wreck, sobbing, broken. He pets me, caresses and comforts me. I can’t stop shaking. He gets angry, he slaps me. I goad him. And then he pushes into me again. And again. The Met Police tracked me down a few days later. Everything is kept hushed up, especially the bit about me not escaping despite being found alone and unbound. I was naked but for my white tube socks, terrified and with no idea where I was, what was I supposed to do? Run off into the woods? He told me he loved me. He told me he would kill me if I left. They didn’t need to know that it only took 48 hours for me to tell him I loved him too and wanted to stay with him forever. Obviously I was just humouring the creep, trying to stay alive. You understand, right?

No? Gees tough crowd. Too quick? Or is it that I didn’t put up much of a fight? Surely the fag needed to do a bit more than pop my cherry to turn me? Haven’t you ever told someone you loved them just so they’ll stick their tongue in your hole?

OK let’s give this one last shot.

Maybe it’s the costume designer. Weedy, effeminate faggot. Maybe he’s sick of my shitty attitude, my sense of entitlement, of being treated like crap by some dumb actor. Especially a ghastly American and a Southern redneck at that. He crosses the line, fondles my butt while fitting me into my ebon spandex. That would be a good one. I’d roughly shove him aside, threaten to have him thrown off set, to tell the producer he’s a fucking perv. Of course he plays to my ego, all submissive and apologetic, begging me not to take away what he loves most in the world. His pathetic wheedling wins him a reprieve but I warn him if he touches me again I’ll not only make damn sure he never works again, I’ll give him the hiding of his life. Just hours later he’s at it again, I catch him sniffing the crotch of my sweaty spandex suit after the shoot. Sick fuck. I advance towards him furious, telling him I’m going to beat the living shit out of him and then I’m going straight to the producer. Fucking fag’s so terrified he pulls out a can of mace! Seems he’s been beat up before. He squeals something about his never going to be a victim again.

So there I am on my hands and knees, coughing and choking. Before I can recover he’s grabbed cuffs from a props cupboard and clapped them around my wrists. My curses are stifled by the bandana gag he stuffs between my lips. The next thing I know I’m shoved into an old metal trunk with my stinking costume. I hear the padlock click. Stunned I’m quiet for a moment but then I’m thrashing around and roaring into my gag. Surely the old fag will calm down and let me out? Or my driver will come looking for me when I don’t go to get my car? I try to free my hands but the fucking director had demanded authenticity and these are standard issue NYPD cuffs. I’m starting to get cramps all bent up inside the trunk. Why isn’t anyone coming? Why can’t they hear the trunk shaking or my “mmph... Mmmph-ing”?

Finally I hear footsteps, at least a couple of guys, maybe more. Must be some of the crew come looking for their missing star. In relief I start to make a ruckus. They’re right there talking but I can’t quite make out what they’re saying. Why aren’t they letting me out? Then one of them kicks my prison and shouts “shut it bitch or we’ll shut you up!” Seems the old fag has friends. I quieten down only to feel the trunk lifted up. They carry me a ways and then I’m dropped indelicately to the ground. I can hear the sound of a sliding van door. I start struggling again but can do nothing as, trunk and all, I’m shoved into the van. At least one guy gets in and sits on top of the trunk. He taps the lid, “we’re gonna have some fun tonight cowboy.” It’s the same voice as before. The van door slams shut. Now I’m shitting myself, what the fuck is happening?

We arrive wherever it is they’re taking me. At last the trunk lid pops open. I blink into dazzling bright lights. I’m hoisted out. I can’t make out much, a concrete floor, black curtains, huge spotlights. I can’t see any doors or windows. I guess maybe it’s a basement set up as a makeshift theatre. There’s three of them, each a bigger fag than the last. The costume designer of course and one I recognise as a cameraman. The other, maybe he’s from the set, I can’t be sure. Heck do you know how many people are milling around Pinewood during a major shoot? Then I spot the fourth. He’s different. He’s huge, broad and muscular and covered with brightly coloured tattoos. His head is shaved but he has a thick salt and pepper beard and is wearing a leather harness and kilt and high, lace up boots. A fat cigar dangles carelessly between his fingers. His gaze is hungry. “Strip him.” The costume designer and his mates leap into action, ripping off my boots, jeans and t-shirt. My Calvins and socks follow. I’m butt naked save for the gag and cuffs. They throw me down at the big guy’s feet. The three are from the set, this guy, their alpha, he’s new. I’d know if I’d seen him before. “Well girls, looks like we’re going to have some fun. This homophobe is going to learn to love being bitched by four queers.” They close in, touching, fondling. My pecs, my shoulders, my ass. The fury at being manhandled by a bunch of faggots drives me wild. I manage to kick the old costume designer, sending him tumbling to the concrete floor. The big one grabs me by the hair, wrenching me to my feet. A massive fist slams into my belly and he hisses in my ear, “behave cowboy, your ours for the night. Longer if you cause us trouble”. That cold, powerful voice would send shivers down any man’s spine but it’s the smell of him that really conveys his power and dominance. Cigar smoke and the thick musk of a real alpha. The moment of menace is brief, his tone quickly turns lighter, “OK let’s make a porno. The studio will pay us a fortune to keep it from being posted on Pornhub. Hoyt Buchanan, A-list fag”. They all laugh.

He drops me down and then his three bois all move in once more. They force me into my sweaty spandex suit and mask. “Yeah, the title’s Superhero to Superslut. Not original but who doesn’t love the idea of one of the Earth's mightiest heroes captured and transformed?” I'm just relieved that the suit covers me from head to toe. Maybe if I just keep calm and carry on, as all the mugs say in England, I can get through this and not be fired from NightHawk. I’m told to put on a show of struggling, “it’s hotter if you fight back. And lose''. Obviously the costume designer knows the story of NightHawk. As I’m jostling, trying to get loose from the supervillain’s henchmen in their rubber drone costumes, the boss dude, now wearing a snake head headdress to represent Set strides over. He laughs in a deep, OTT evil villain way and gives a little monologue while hanging a chain around my neck from which hangs the Obsidian Scarab of Osiris. I know the drill, the pendant macguffin robs me of my super strength and speed leaving me weak as a baby. I’m dragged to a black leather sling hanging from a heavy steel frame. I hang limp, compliant. My feet are secured in stirrups, my neck held up by a collar linked to the frame by heavy chains. I’m uncuffed but only long enough for my wrists to be pulled up above my head and locked into steel shackles. I’m groped all over. Then my blood freezes, “let’s see what our little birdie has going on under that supersuit.”

You’d have thought the costume designer would have qualms about cutting up his work but there’s twenty more costumes back on the lot, more back at his place for cosplay and, well, whatever queer shit this is. They take their time. This isn’t their first straight to Boyztube video. Soon enough there’s just my mask left. “At last, let’s see who’s behind the mask!” The mask and hood are whipped off. “Who knew all this time that model and movie star Hoyt Buchanan was really SuperSlut!” They’d forgotten about the gag and pause to reset. I sniffle and quietly sob. “Man up Bucky boy,” the big guy says as he pats me roughly on the head, “this is gonna be your greatest role to date. Might even earn you a BAFTA.” Again they all howled, “Bitch get the camera. You two clean him up and get him ready.” A few minutes of fussing and he seemed happy. Then something was forced into my nostrils and everything went crazy. They took it in turns, one after the other then two, then three then all four together. It started off tame enough. Merciless tickling till I was laughing so hard I was retching and crying. A good way to make it look like I was in on it all I guess. Then out came nipple clamps and some weird wand that they used to tease my nuts with electric shocks. ”You know you love it. Beg for more Superbitch.” And I did. The poppers were only partly to blame. The new sensations, the fear and shame. They did the rest. Truth be told I didn’t have much of a mind to start with, now it was totally blown. So I begged. They’re all masked and keep their backs to the camera, me, my face was always there, unless they were focussed on my perfect ass being rabbit fucked. I took each cock in my movie star mouth. My technique wasn’t so great but I was committed and put on a fine show for the camera at least. They fill every hole, they wank over my chest and face. The sheer agony of taking two cocks in my tight boy cunt. It felt like I was being ripped in half. They worked on my own cock too, already semi-hard from the thrill and horror of it all. They all cheered when I busted my load. They made me taste my own cum. He told me that I loved it. And shit he was fucking right. And then quite suddenly it was over. Exhausted, I must have just passed out. I woke up in my hotel room. They’d cleaned me up. I wondered for a moment if any of it had really happened but my throbbing arsehole confirmed it was all real. Then I saw the photos spread out on the bed beside me, along with a thumb drive and a typed note:

“Superhero to Superslut. Starring Hoyt Buchanan, A-list fag, £100,000 or this gets posted on Pornhub and TMZ tomorrow 6pm PST. Instructions to follow.”

Still not enough for you? Fuck your must have read so many stories on here that nothing surprises you anymore! Well how about this then. The truth is, all of that’s happened to me. Or at least a version of it. You see, not content with the millions of dollars I’ve earned him through acting, modelling and two hit country albums, my agent has developed a very lucrative, very private sideline.

It had started with a straight, umm, yeah, transfer of power. I was a hick, pretty for sure with a hot body from years in the saddle and the school football field. But I was young, dumb and desperate for fame. He found me, offered to turn me into a star if I just blew him. I wasn’t into that but I was naive and when he told me that’s how things are done in the industry and that there were a thousand pretty Southern boys just as desperate as me to have their perfect cowboy asses on a billboard, I got down on my knees and took his ugly, fat cock in my mouth. It was fucking awful. I choked on the thing but he held my head tight with his sweaty, sausage fingers and kept going till he was done. He left me curled up on the floor of the cheap motel room he’d taken me for the ‘meeting’. I just lay there crying like a baby the whole day after. It happened again, and again. But just as he promised, it got easier the more we did it. What he didn’t tell me is that each time I got down on my knees another tiny piece of me died. That was the point, the innocent kid from the ranch had to go to make way for the new me.

Weeks turned into months. He taught me, shaped me. He was constantly whispering in my ear. He took total control. Isolating me from all that I knew before. Friends, family, everything that was familiar and meant something to the old me. Of course the drugs helped. Then there were the sessions with the creepy therapist who would regress me back to my childhood. I never really knew what his angle was or what we did in our hypnosis sessions but he taught me how to focus and become more accepting, willing and eager to learn and take direction. They picked up on my daddy issues. They exploited every possible angle to keep me under their control. My agent became a surrogate dad, a role model. The firm guiding hand. The man I had to listen to and obey. Everything reinforced my obedience. He got me jobs, crappy modelling gigs at first but as my experience grew and I kept listening and learning I got bigger roles. An ad for Palmolive, better modelling gigs, then things really started to take off. Milan fashion week, a campaign for Abercrombie & Fitch, a pilot for a CSI clone. So I kept dropping to my knees for him. Kept being his good boy. Kept listening. Following his every word. Obeying his every sick whim. I learned to do whatever he asked of me. Blow jobs turned into regular fuckings. He was always so matter of fact. It was all business. There was no tenderness, no love just ownership. He looked after me but in the way you look after a prized possession. An asset.

Part of me knew he’d broken me, turned me into his bitch. He trained me to like it, crave it, need it. And that didn’t come from the drugs or therapy, that was something that had always been there, buried, hidden until they pulled it out of me. My agent lined me up with the best coaches to train me to be super confident, to strut the catwalk and the red carpet. I was great at taking direction, they all said it. A dream to direct. A blank canvas. So versatile. They all thought it was talent. But it was all down to hard work and constant training. In front of the camera I’m the swaggering alpha male who knows when to laugh, when to flash a kilowatt smile, and when to crack jokes in the press interviews and on Jimmy Kimmel. That’s the cocksure guy you met at the start of this little tale. Your narrator, Hoyt Buchanan A-list movie star. Back in the trailer or in the hotel room it was a different story. My agent reduced me to an obedient fembot. He drilled me so well he could have me drop to the floor and open my mouth with just a look.

He took all my money. The mansion, the cars, the designer clothes, all of it was in his name. I just got to pretend. Turned out Hoyt Buchanan’s best and biggest acting role was playing Hoyt Buchanan, A-list star and alpha male. I deserved an Oscar. Heck I deserved a cupboard full of little gold statues. I might deserve an award but he had turned me into a living statue. Cold and hollow, doing whatever was required, whether it was hours in the gym perfecting my abs or on my hands and knees pleasuring his cock. Everything was glitz and glamour. Everything was fake, including the girlfriends. Especially the girlfriends. Sure I fucked some of them but I felt nothing. It was always business first. And in this business image is everything. So I had to be seen to be dating the hottest starlets and models. Beyond the facade there was only obedience and my complete surrender. I was owned. I’d given away everything to get my ass on a billboard. That’s all I was, Hoyt Buchanan, A-list ass.

For a long time it was just him and me, my agent/master and his totally obedient fucktoy. Well and maybe the therapist. He had to be getting something out of it but I could never remember our sessions clearly. Then one day he decided to share me, to have me give up my perfect ass for a favour from a big studio boss. I was hesitant. The guy was even older and uglier than my agent but this is how Hollywood works, you want the part, you gotta suck creepy old man dick first. So I did. It was weird though, the guy wanted me to act out a little scene. I was his English butler Carson. He wanted me clean shaven, hair slicked back. He had me turn up at his McMansion in a tux. There was even a script. I had to ask, “would sir like to fuck one now or after his elevenses?” He told me I needed to work on my accent but somehow I still got cast in that Amazon miniseries set in Georgian London.

And so it started. He’d pimp me out. Discreetly of course. During the breaks between movies. While I was supposedly resting. By now I would do whatever I was ordered to do. Taking direction was second nature. Turns out there are lots of super rich perverts that will pay a fortune for a day, a week or even a month of owning an A-lister. Some just wanted me to be immobilised under a skintight black PVC sheet for a few hours and to fill my mouth with their piss and cum. Others love to have me act out little scenarios. Sometimes it’s an elaborate kidnapping, the star spirited away for kinks and torture, or to become a slave in harem of kept jocks and popstars. Of course it’s never explained why a movie star, usually surrounded by security and assorted hangers on, is caught alone. One creep paid to keep me in diapers and feed me formula for a week. Maybe it was the hours of regression therapy but I kind of enjoyed that one to be honest. He didn’t fuck me. He put me up in a nursery complete with toys and an adult sized crib and high chair. All I had to do was crawl around on all fours, giggle, cry, eat and fill my diapers. Sometimes I get to play a character. I am an actor after all. So for a few days I’m an undercover detective caught spying on the cartel, who gets tortured and winds up a dancing in a gold thong in a stripclub. Or I’m a superhero who gets trapped by the villain and winds up totally helpless with a giant pink kryptonite dildo rammed up his ass. Superhero to Superslut really is a big thing thanks to the MCU. And yeah, as you might have guessed it by now, Hoyt Buchanan’s perfect ass gets worked over. A lot.

He thought of the cheesy stage show he’d gone to when he was in college where the hypnotist had had his mates Pete and Angus clucking like chickens. Pete had even taken off his shoe and used it as a phone. He’d taken this piss out of them for weeks after.

He’d always thought hypnosis was a load of bullshit but it had worked on the two rugger buggers. 6,742 notes, 4,322 likes and 12,420 reblogs. He scrolled through the comments “yes… please”, “go on try me”, “I want to be a goodboy”, “I wish to serve”… Jamie remembered how hot Angus had looked when he was tranced. His cock throbbed as he thought of the big ginger fullback stood on stage, eyes tight shut and head bowed. Of course he’d had an enormous crush on his friend but back then he was so deep in the closest he had hidden his feelings. Instead he’d passed many a lonely hour guiltily masturbating thinking about Angus brutally fucking his face and still virgin hole

Now though he pictured himself up on stage. Deep in trance, head bowed in hypnotic submission. His cock jerked in renewed excitement. Jamie pulled and tugged. Harder, faster. Then he came, spewing jis over his navy t-shirt. With a groan he grabbed for the tissues and cleaned himself up. He looked at the screen and quickly wiped away a stray milky blob. “Reblog if you want to be a goodboy for a hypnomaster”. With a shrug Jamie hit the reblog button. Then he slammed the laptop shut and headed for bed.

The next day passed as so many others had during lockdown. He got up early and went for a run. Tall and lean, despite all his efforts in the gym he had never been able to fill out his lean frame, he’d always been a runner. It had been nearly ten years since graduation but he was every bit as fast as we had been back then. His usual playlist was pumping through his airpods as he ran. It was all so repetitive. Same routine, same circuit round the park, the same techno music filling his ears, the same chalky protein shake waiting for him when he got home.

Jamie pulled up by a bench in a quiet corner of the park where the grass was left to grow wild under the limes and oaks. He checked his phone, opening up the app. A part of him yearned for a message from a hypnomaster but unsurprisingly there was nothing. With a sigh he tucked his phone back in his pocket and resumed his run.

Zoom meetings, coffee, more meetings, a late lunch, then a couple of hours to get on with some actual work. Jamie loved his job. At least when he got to do it. He worked for a marketing and communications consultancy and was one of their best designers. He looked the part too. He always looked sharp for clients even if off screen under his desk he was wearing sweat shorts. The oversized spectacles, cleanly shaven cheeks and carefully sculpted quiff were all part of his own brand. Nerdy cool. He liked expensive clothes. He always had to look his best, even when the only audience was digital.

Finally the day was over. Dinnertime. He sighed at the lack of any excitement. He flicked through the channels on the tv, eventually settling on the same shit movie he’d put on the night before. Slumped once more on the sofa he pulled open his laptop. After reading the news headlines and checking up on Facebook he returned to his favourite NSFW site and started to scroll. An hour, then two passed. He wasn’t sure when it had appeared but suddenly he noticed he had a message. He hesitated a nanosecond before opening it.

“So you wish to submit.” The name on the account was hypnomaster8739. Jamie stared at the words. It was not a question, it was a statement. A fact. And at that moment he knew more than anything that yes he wanted to submit. He realised just how trapped and sick he felt, how much he wanted to change, to be someone, no, something else. But for all his horny frustration he was cautious. He’d never heard of hypnomaster8739 before. He clicked on the link to their blog page but it was blank.

He paused. Should he respond? What should he say? He didn’t know if hypnomaster8739 was a man or a woman. He had no idea who or what he was getting into. But that in itself added to his excitement. “Yes sir, I wish to submit”. Minutes passed. Five, ten. Jamie waited nervously, licking his lips.

“Send me your name and a picture. I only accept boys who are young and fit, aged 18-30.”

Jamie had turned thirty during lockdown. Worst birthday party ever. Beers with the boys on Zoom were just so sad. He was still young and fitter than ever. He told himself he was a good looking guy that just happened to have had the bad luck to have been single when the pandemic hit. He took off his glasses and popped open the top buttons of his white poplin shirt. Careful to avoid showing his full face he took a picture. He captioned it with “Jamie Dee wants to be a goodboy for hypnomaster8739”. He flushed with a mix of excitement and shame. It was so stupid. What was he even thinking? Regretting his eagerness he moved to close the app just as another message popped up.

“Very nice boy, very nice indeed. You may just have what it takes to be a goodboy.” Reading the words sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. “It’s so good to meet you Jamie. Jamie wants to be a goodboy, don’t you Jamie? Jamie wants to be a goodboy for a hypnomaster, Don’t you boy? Jamie likes to follow and obey.”

“I want to be a goodboy for a hypnomaster”. The words seemed to type themselves. “I like to follow and obey. I need to obey.” He was getting seriously turned on. It wasn’t hypnosis though, not yet. They were roleplaying as master and subject. And Jamie was loving every second of it.

“Goodboy Jamie. I see you are eager to obey but before Jamie Dee can become my goodboy I must know more about you. Are you single? Where do you live?”

Jamie hesitated but his excitement drove him on, “Yes sir, I am single. I live alone in Edinburgh in Scotland.” Again cursing himself for sharing details to a complete stranger he waited for a response.

Five minutes passed then, “Mmmm I love a Scottish accent. And a man in a skirt.” Jamie was waiting for hypnomaster8739 to share something of himself but instead the next message continued to tease Jamie to share more, “I need to see you. All of you. Send me a full body shot. And a head shot. I want to see that beautiful face of yours Jamie.”

Jamie sighed but complied, even flexing to show off his narrow waist and toned limbs. Really where was the harm in a little online flirtation when the guy was probably on the other side of the world. He needed this, he needed to feel again.

“Goodboy Jamie. Such a beautiful boy. So smart and perfectly turned out too. You’re finding it so easy to follow my words aren’t you Jamie? Such a goodboy. What are you packing in those tight jeans of yours I wonder?”

Jamie fondled his semi-hard cock through the dark denim. He wondered if he should send a dick pic. It had been a question right, not a command? He was confused but the thrill of the game gave him courage. He snapped a picture of his semi-hard six inch rod and sent it with a message, “My cock belongs to hypnomaster8739.”

He waited for a reply. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes. Frustrated he tapped out another message, “Jamie wants to be a goodboy for hypnomaster8739.” and then another, “Goodboy Jamie wants to follow sir’s words. Goodboy Jamie wants to obey. Goodboy needs to obey.”

Had he pushed too hard? Jamie chided himself, the sub didn’t make the running. He turned back to his usual photos and stories of bondage. He lingered over a tale of a bank manager turned into a rubber drone. A search for gay hypno slave turned up a slew of new images and kinky scenarios. He wondered what his own picture would look like with spiral eyes. He jerked off at the idea of being hypnotised into being a musclebound himbro.

Two hours later and he was ready to retire. The role play had been cool even if it had left him feeling a bit dirty and used. It had been stupid to send the pics and share even the little information he did with an unknown blogger. Still he’d gotten off and had found a whole new set of blogs to follow. It was then that a new message from hypnomaster8739 popped up.

“Still up boy?” Jamie had already decided he didn’t like the questions. Should he answer? Luckily before he could think about it further another message followed. “Goodboy Jamie. I want you to grab that delicious dick of yours and I want you to pump it.”

This was an unexpected but far from unwelcome turn and Jamie eagerly followed the words.

“Harder boy, harder. I want you to keep going till you cum. Message me when you are done with a picture of your smart clothes covered in your beautiful cum.”

These were easy orders for the horny stud and soon enough he was hitting send, with a caption, “Jamie is a goodboy. Jamie cums on command for hypnomaster8739.” The response this time was swift.

“Nice, very nice. Goodboy. But you must be tired. What time is it there? Goodboys need their beauty sleep.” Jamie looked at the clock. It was past 1am but despite his exertions he couldn’t sleep. He was too excited, too drawn into the fantasy. “You like to follow my words, don’t you boy? You want to follow my words. You want to be a goodboy for Master? Goodboys follow and obey Master’s words. Jamie wants to be a goodboy. Goodboys need to follow and obey. But following makes you tired. Sleepyboy Jamie. Yes I think Jamie could be one of Master’s goodboys. You’d like that wouldn’t you sleepyboy? Following Master’s words feels so good. It feels so good to be a sleepyboy. Feeling so relaxed, simply following along. Taking in every word like a goodboy should. Goodboy. Sleepyboy. Following. Obeying. My goodboy. My good sleepyboy.”

Jamie absorbed every word. Each letter a tingling sensation that tickled his deepest fantasies. For the first time in a long time he felt alive. He wanted nothing more than for it to be real. He was desperate to be one of hypnomaster8739’s goodboys. Dully he wondered how many goodboys he had already. He realised he really was tired. He yawned. “Good sleepyboy” he said, the monotone sound of his own voice surprising him. He giggled to himself. He imagined himself becoming more tired and sleepy as he slipped deeper under hypnomaster8739’s hypnotic control. “Good sleepyboy” he repeated. His head bobbed. Sleepyboy. He jolted upright.

Another message, “goodboy sleepyboy. It’s time for goodboy Jamie to go to bed. Good sleepyboy. Sleepytime for goodboy Jamie. Goodnight sleepyboy. Sweet dreams.”

Jamie tapped out a quick response, “sleepytime for goodboy Jamie. Good night Master.” He didn’t know why but it just felt right. Then he shut down the laptop and hastened to brush his teeth and jump into bed. He fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.

A few hours later Jamie was roused by the alarm on his iPhone. Despite the lack of sleep, he was full of energy and was soon out for his daily run. His day passed like so many others and yet today the relentless monotony wasn’t there. He felt renewed. He thought back on his role play session with hypnomaster8793. Had he been hypnotised? No he was sure he hadn’t but being a goodboy had felt so right. And just maybe there had been a moment, a teasing hint of trance. Hypnotised or not it had been exciting, dangerous even. Throughout the day he kept an eye out for a message from his hypnomaster8793. He wondered if they’d continue their sexy chat. He got hard with the anticipation.

Once he’d had his dinner and there still wasn’t anything from hypnomaster 8739 he plucked up the courage and sent a photo of himself kneeling with the message, “goodboy Jamie wishes to submit.” Then with a shrug he said to himself, “and now goodboy Jamie will sit and wait for Master.” He realised that it was probably still early in the States. Somehow he imagined hypnomaster8739 must be an American. A powerful, older alpha male. A daddy bear who would show him his place. He could almost smell the heavy black leather and cigar smoke.

To fill the time while he hoped and waited for a response, he flicked through a host of manips of beautiful boys with spirals for eyes. Some were bound, forced to watch multi-coloured spirals on giant screens while an evil scientist smirked in the background. Pop stars, footballers, teens, bears, no one escaped the swinging watches and spinning spirals. Mind and body bound. Jamie scrolled through reading the stories of kidnappings, brainwashing and slavery. “I want to obey. I need to obey. Obedience is pleasure and pleasure is obedience. Just follow my words. Follow and obey.” Soon enough he was aroused and stroking his swelling package as he pictured himself in the manips, bound and kneeling before his imagined master with his blue eyes replaced with black and white spirals.

An hour passed and at last a message appeared from hypnomaster 8739,”goodboy Jamie. Such a goodboy. You want to submit. Say it out loud boy, ‘goodboy Jamie wants to submit’. Say it three times then message me to say ‘I submit’”.

“Goodboy Jamie wants to submit. Goodboy Jamie wants to submit. Goodboy Jamie wants to submit.” And it was true. He knew it with every fibre of his being. There was no thought behind the fingers as they typed, “I submit.”

The messages came fast now, one after another. “You want to submit. You need to submit. Goodboy. Sleepyboy. It feels so good to follow my words. Goodboys follow. Follow and obey. Such a goodboy. Such a good sleepyboy. Following my words. Following and obeying. So sleepy. So obedient. Submitting more and more with every word you read. Goodboy. Sleepyboy. So sleepy. Going deeper. Good sleepyboy. Deeper and deeper. So sleepy. So obedient. Goodboy Jamie.”

“My goodboy. It feels so good to follow my words. You feel so safe, so aroused. It’s so easy to just follow. Follow and obey. Now I need you to do something for me Jamie. I need to be able to see you. I need to see my beautiful sleepyboy. You want to be my goodboy don’t you Jamie? I need to see you to better understand how you react to my words. Only with the camera on can I know for certain you have fully submitted.You have Skype. You will contact me now. My username is hypnomaster8739.”

It was so fucking hot. Jamie could feel the gentle but insistent tug of trance. Could this be real after all? He had to know. The words had lulled his senses, he did feel safe. He searched and found the account and called it. He almost fainted when the video came up but all he saw was himself.

Another message popped up in the app. “Nice, very nice. Such a goodboy, such a beautiful, perfect boy. You have done so well Jamie. Goodboy Jamie. See how my words make you smile. It feels so good to follow my words. To follow and obey.” Jamie watched a dopey grin spread across his face. “Such a perfect, beautiful boy.” He’d never felt this good before.

“Now Jamie you must follow my words. Following, obeying and absorbing each and every word. Watch yourself. See what a goodboy looks like as he sinks down into perfect obedience.”

“From now on every time I say the word goodboy you will feel a jolt of pleasure. Every time I say goodboy Jamie, you will feel this electricity. Feel it, see it. Watch your body twitch with pleasure. The pleasure of obedience. Goodboy.”

“And everytime I say sleepyboy you will feel a pleasant haziness and know that all you need to do is relax. Hazy, lazy, relaxed and following my words. You are feeling more relaxed with every word now. Goodboy. Feeling that electricity, the pleasure of obedience.”

“Sleepyboy. Falling deeper into relaxation, hazy, lazy and relaxed. Sleepy and obedient. Such a goodboy, such a sleepyboy. Aroused, obedient, feeling wave upon wave of pleasure building with every word. Feeling so deeply relaxed. So sleepy, so relaxed. Hazy, lazy. Submitting more and more. Following, obeying, submitting to Master. Goodboy Jamie, see yourself on the screen. Sinking, submitting. It feels so good. Such a goodboy.”

The words flowed one into another. Jamie felt every spark of pleasure, his body tingling under a relentless assault. He followed each word, hazy, lazy, accepting, powerless to resist. He let the words carry him off into a deep state of relaxation. He hadn’t noticed the night before where the role play had ended and the trance began. The border between the two had become a blurred space of deepening shadows and treacherous pitfalls. It was into one such trap that Jamie now cast himself. Sinking down, down, deeper and deeper into a state of hypnotic subjugation. He lost all track of time. His conscious mind slowed, while his unconscious opened up, absorbing everything he read. Hazy, lazy, no doubts, no fears, no thoughts at all. He watched himself mindlessly obeying every command, his body slumped on the sofa. His lips parted slightly, murmuring as he repeated the triggers and deepeners. A dribble of drool formed in the corner of his mouth.

Letters were replaced with numbers that he had to read out. It was a countdown, “100, 99, 98, 97, 96…” each number was a stone step on a spiral staircase that descended deeper and deeper taking him down into a Master’s hypnotic control. He could see the marble flight stretching away into the darkness. Down he went, counting, “…67,66, 65, 65…”.

“Goodboy Jamie, keep counting.” Hypnomaster 8739 had stopped typing the digits somewhere in the 80s but captivated by trance Jamie continued counting his steps anyway.

“41,40, 39, 38…”

“Such a goodboy, such a sleepyboy.”

“22, 21, 20, 19… 10, 9, 8…. 3, 2 and 1.” Jamie paused there, suspended in trance. No words, no thoughts, his eyes open as he waited for his next instruction.

“Goodboy, sleepyboy. You are now deeply hypnotised. You love this feeling. So relaxed, so deep and so very, very obedient. My goodboy. Yes I accept you as one of my goodboys. Feel the pleasure, feel the power. Feels so good. Feels so good to obey. Good sleepyboy. You will send me a picture of yourself. You love to kneel for Master, that’s plain. Before you take the picture you will strip and you will find a pen and write ‘GOODBOY’ on your chest. You will kneel and you will take a picture and send it to me now”

Mechanically Jamie set aside the laptop and went to his desk. He shrugged off his t-shirt and in one motion pulled down his jeans and white Calvins. His Argyll socks followed fast behind. Clothes cast aside, he picked up a marker pen from his desk and wrote on himself as commanded.

Picture sent he remained knelt on the carpet dumbly staring at himself on the screen until the next message popped up. “Goodboy Jamie. Slaveboy Jamie. It feels so good to submit. To obey. Following my words brings you enormous pleasure. Feel the pleasure, the lightning spreading through your being. From the tips of your toes to the top of your head. Feel the crackling, roaring power of obedience taking over. Feel it in your arms and legs. Your shoulders, your chest, your waist, your fingers.”

“Now gather that energy in your hands. Bring it to your cock and stroke. Feel the heat, pulsing, filling you. Goodboy. Such a good obedient boy. Yes Jamie, you are my goodboy. Feel my power. Submit, obey. Stroke, rub. Feel my control taking you over. Harder, harder. Keep going until you cum and when you cum, tell Master ‘goodboy Jamie thanks Master for allowing me to cum.’ And when you cum know that the pleasure you feel is the pleasure of obeying. Only through obedience can you find release. You cum at your Master’s pleasure.”

“Goodboy Jamie thanks Master for allowing me to cum,” the thrill was real, the explosion of pleasure overpowering, unlike anything he’d ever dared to imagine. He knew it was true, only through obedience could he find release. He didn’t just want to be a goodboy, he needed to be a goodboy. It was his everything. Goodboy, sleepyboy, slaveboy. The triggers had sunk deep into his subconscious, anchors that held him in thrall to an unknown master.

“You will message me with your email address. I am going to send you a file that you will download and play on loop when you go to sleep tonight. Reading my words brings you enormous pleasure but now you will hear my voice. Master’s voice. You will reach a whole new level of pleasure goodboy Jamie. Hearing my voice will take you further, deeper. Sleepyboy Jamie. You are mine. My slaveboy. My toy. Your body, your mind. They are mine now. Submit to me. Submit to me. You are my goodboy. My good sleepyboy. Goodboy Jamie.”

He typed in his gmail address, his mind clouded by trance.

“You have the file? Answer me slaveboy Jamie.”

“Yes Master, I have the file. Thank you Master” he answered.

“Goodboy. Such a sleepyboy. My slaveboy, my toy. You are tired sleepyboy. So tired. On the count of five you will shut down your computer and go to bed. Tonight while you sleep you will listen to my voice and go deeper still into trance, you will sink further into submission. This is your reality now slaveboy Jamie. Now I will count down from five to one and you will shut down your computer and go to bed. Five, four, goodboy. Three. You are mine. My goodboy. Two. Now it is time to say good night slaveboy Jamie. And one. Sweet dreams sleepyboy.”

Still tightly cocooned in the hypnotic power of his Master’s words, Jamie slipped in his airpods and lay down face up on top of his bed. His breathing slowed and those big blue eyes closed tight. Everything melted away. The track played. Over and over. His Master’s voice. It was all he could have imagined and more. The sweetest honey, the iron fist, the devil’s scourge. Had he been cognisant he might have picked out a hint of a Northern accent and realised his Master might be a good deal closer than he had suspected. Instead he just sank deeper into sleepy oblivion. The voice repeated “Goodboy. Slaveboy. Sleepyboy. My toy, my plaything. The pleasure of obedience. Deeper. Deeper and deeper. Feel the lightning pleasure of obedience. Sink into relaxation. Hazy, lazy. Surrender. Submit. Obey.” Beneath the voice subliminals whispered of empty, mindless, obedience. They fogged and calmed the mind offering the joy of forgetfulness. Jamie crumbled before the relentless assault as it looped around again and again. Thoughts, memories, all he knew and was just a day past was blasted into nothingness. There was only submission. Total devotion. This was his new reality. The life of a goodboy, a sleepyboy, a slaveboy.

But the file carried more than his new god’s mind melting chants and mantras. Interspersed between the deepeners and triggers, Jamie’s new Master offered profound instruction on what was needed of a goodboy. “Goodboys look after themselves. They eat the healthiest foods and they exercise daily. Goodboys perfect their bodies. Goodboys are beautiful, obedient toys that exist only to serve. They are empty vessels for Master’s words. Beautiful and decorative, made sacred as they are filled with Master’s wisdom. Their bodies and minds belong to Master but goodboys must still carry on with their normal lives, they must earn enough to pay the bills and buy themselves the best food and clothes. My goodboys do everything they can to look their best for Master. Goodboys are clean shaven. They remove all hair below the eyebrows. Hair and eyebrows are shaped and perfected.” This last would not present much of a problem for Jamie. His Master had claimed him at least in part for his clean cut, good looks and waxed, milky chest. He’d need to shave his armpits, legs and thick bushy pubic hair but his own vanity would make this transition an easy one.

But of course it was the fact that he lived only a hundred miles away that had secured Jamie a place in Master’s stable of goodboys. This opened new opportunities. He had picked out many a goodboy that had been hooked by the reblog trap, including Jamie’s own favourite blogger. Most he only toyed with them for an hour or two. He tested their resistance, teasing, finding out how receptive and eager they were to submit to his control. If they were pretty and open to his suggestion they might pique his interest. He’d check their blogs, skimming through their posts, their likes and reblogs. Some would attract him purely for their own online reach, he could use them to lay out more traps for unsuspecting souls like Jamie. Jamie’s own feed had intrigued him. It was full of bound boys bent over in submission. There were videos of pretty bleach blonde twinks being used by superior men but there were also hunky jocks struggling while tightly bound with ropes and leather restraints. He’d smiled at a few photos of rugby players in kilts. He really did love a Scottish accent and a man in a skirt. But what excited him most were the number of collared slaves. Jamie clearly wanted a steel collar and a heavy chain leash. He wanted to be a goodboy for a hypnomaster but he needed to be a slaveboy. The desperate urge to submit, the pretty boy looks coupled with the possibilities afforded by geographic proximity made Jamie a real prize. One that his new Master fully intended to make his own.

Jamie was awoken by his alarm. He needed to train. His earbuds were still playing Master’s looped track but he didn’t notice. He just pulled on his UA running tights and compression shirt, tucked his toes into his trainers and headed out. He needed to be perfect. He pushed himself harder than ever before to knock a half second off his personal best. He came home, chugged down his protein shake and, still sweating, took out his airpods, threw off his running gear and trotted into the bathroom.

He stopped to admire himself in the mirror. His pale skin glistened with sweat. He stared at the word written on his chest. Goodboy. He was awake now, well as awake as he would ever be now he had fallen under hypnomaster 8739’s thrall. Gazing at his reflection he felt the power of that word. Goodboy. Tickles of pleasure crackled through his being. He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the wax he used to leave his chest smooth to the touch. Everything below the eyes had to go. He paused to pout at himself like one of the mindless twinks he had seen in his feed. He plucked out a rogue eyebrow hair then all but danced into the shower. He would be perfect.

Another day of zoom meetings and design briefs glided by. He seemed attentive and engaged. He was the normal Jamie Dee as far as his colleagues were concerned. Only when he logged off his work computer and turned to his laptop did the new submissive slaveboy emerge from its professional chrysalis. He opened the app and instantly felt crushed. No new messages. He then checked his gmail. Yes! An email from hypnomaster8739.

“Goodboy Jamie. You are doing so well. You will read this message and the instructions set out below from beginning to end three times. You will read it aloud, listening to every word. You will then follow each and every instruction. Then and only then you will message me to say you have completed your instructions. You will include a picture of yourself naked and kneeling with your slave mark clear for me to see what a goodboy you are. And then you will sit and wait for Master. No matter how long it takes for me to respond”

Jamie read out the words that sent him tumbling back down into a deep trance state. He followed the instructions. He bought recording gear and a bottle of peroxide. He already carefully pomaded his hair just how Master liked it but the mousy colour needed to go. He followed the words to a website he’d never visited before. He didn’t hesitate. He ordered every toy and sex aid on Master’s shopping list. He signed up to the livecam site, creating an account under the username slaveboyjimmydee. Each new link took him deeper into submission, leaving him in deeper jeopardy. He would do everything the words ordered. He would be perfected. With proper training he would be remade as a blonde, himbo cam slut performing kinky sex acts on demand for perverts around the world. All to enrich his Master.

Jamie messaged hypnomaster8739 to confirm he had completed all his instructions and then crouched and waited facing the screen. An hour passed leaving his limbs aching in discomfort. The weight of his submission pressed down on him. He felt his Master’s control. Fear stirred deep within. Did he really want this? Did he even have a choice? But then he heard the alert, someone was calling him on Skype. He could see the username. Hypnomaster8739. He accepted the call without hesitation. Once more he was confronted by the view from his own cam. He should be furious, terrified. He didn’t know anything about hypnomaster8739. Instead he watched himself wait attentively. He was calm. He was submissive and open. His reward was Master’s voice.

“Goodboy Jamie. Goodboy. Sleepyboy. I see you have marked yourself with a pen just as I commanded. Just as I knew you would. There is no alternative. There’s no choice. You read my words and hear my voice and all you can do is follow and obey. From now on you will always wear your mark but you will only allow yourself to be seen with it when I permit it. Such a good slaveboy. You understand now what it means to be a goodboy for a hypnomaster. You love how it feels. You want to obey. You need to obey. You submit. And you sink down, down, deeper and deeper. Goodboy.”

“Put on your headphones and listen. Listen to Master’s words. Follow my voice. Follow and obey as a good slaveboy must. Goodboy. Sleepyboy. Feeling the electricity building. Sinking down into relaxation. Hazy, lazy. Time to put on the collar slaveboy Jamie. Time to become what you’ve always wanted to be. Master’s perfect, mindless slaveboy.”