Diary of a Middle Aged Gay Man

He barely manages to ask it, almost completely out of it. I pretend to reply, but continue just saying the words that take control of his mind. It’s been slow, it has taken weeks of careful planning and a gradual takeover of him, but he’s almost there.

He keeps looking at me, nearly gone, breathing deeply and looking at me in the eyes, and I smile with the anticipation of knowing that soon, maybe tonight, the final lock on his mind will be mine and he will realize all I have been doing to him, and surrender to me, and love me as much as I love him…

Nine…

eight…

And just like that, with a single word, every single thought leaves his mind. He becomes just a pretty statue, an object that can’t even move because it can’t even think about moving.

He… there is no longer he. It. It is a statue that waits until it’s called back into existence with a single word, and in the meantime it stands immobile, its cock hard and trapped by the latex suit, something that exists only to be seen and appreciated.