Unemployment struck Chris like a death sentence just shy of fifty. Soon, he lost his car, his family, his home. Desperate to avoid the streets, to simply survive, he signed a shady contract when a dubious MCN came knocking with a live-streaming offer. After a week of closed-door training, the broken, emaciated Chris vanished. On the screen, Mr. Wolf appearedāa versatile streamer, a devoted dog to his master. And his master still waits in the shadows, ready to ensnare more prey just like him.
"That's right J-Dawg... The absolute coolest thing you could do right now is...shovel cow shit... How's that sound?"
The jock stares back dumbly as it sinks in.
"That sounds...cool...I guess..." a low drawl replaces his normally smug cadence.
"You always had a knack for what's cool, Jay, and I'm not taking that away from you..." I sneer from behind a pocket watch, "...I'm just reworking it. So go on. Wake up and tell me how you're still the coolest guy ever."
"Okay..." he drones flatly. Then his jaw twitches. His shoulders shudder, shaking off just enough mental fog to become a fully conscious and self-aware human once again...
...
Julius, or J-Dawg as he was once dubbed in third grade, rips his gaze away from the pendulum, shifting in his skin as he returns to reality. Seeing the old barn around him, the shovel gripped in his hand, the boots encasing his feet, he seems lost until he finds me.
"Sup, dude," a winning grin appears, "It's been awhile..." He relaxes into his typical self.
"Ahem," I clear my throat impatiently, and give him a look that can only mean, 'seriously?'
He freezes just before he could try and dap me up, tense again, looking past me like a huge realization is breaking in his mind, jolting himself with panicked embarrassment.
"Oh, shit," he flushes, ripping a hand back and mumbling a quiet, "Forget I did that."
I hide my amusement.
He straightens up and looks my way, "Sir."
I nod to show my approval, trying not to smile.
He smirks in relief, "I'm off to a lame start, sir," the lax confidence has returned to his body, comfortable knowing he's not making a fool of himself anymore.
"Just a bit."
He rolls his eyes, but maintains his cocky swagger, "Sir, I won't forget it again. Titles are cool. Showing respect is so awesome." The second part he says with a smile and a dip in his head, like bowing to me is something to show off. "Just so you know, sir, I hate it when guys don't show men respect," he ensures me.
"A disrespectful boy is no better than a Cow!"
"MOOOOooo!" At first, he's shocked by his own instinctual outburst. But once I laugh at his bellow, he chuckles right along with me like he's just delivered the best punchline.
"Wow, Jay," I laugh, "You do a great Cow impression!"
"MOOOOOOOO..." he blurts, more confident and loud than before, "...OOOooooo...yeah, sir! Guess it's easy to imitate, working around them all day," he laughs, unaware his great joke is just a stupid trigger I left in his head.
"Alright, now shut up," I sneer.
"Yes, sir," he says with a nonchalant smirk. In that brain of his, shutting up and following my orders is the coolest thing he could do.
"Answer the question. Why would I, or anyone for that matter, want to hang out with you?"
Julius does a good job of hiding his anxiety. I'm questioning his likeability, his coolness, the skill he's developed for so many years.
"Uh...I'll always call you "Sir" for one thing," he starts, "And...I've got a pretty dope lifestyle."
"You do?"
"Hell yeah, sir," he says it like it's obvious, "I work for you."
"You just started today though," I act like I'm unimpressed.
"Sure, but I'm committed!" he grunts, "Imma be a fucking great farmhand for you, sir! I mean just check this place out!" He gestures to the cattle, to my ran-down barn, to my dad's old work-wear I had him put on while he was under. "Look at these boots, these tools. I get to shovel manure all day, and do whatever else you need around here. What's cooler than that?" ...and he means it.
"You won't miss being a firefighter?"
"Hell no, sir," he says with a grimace, "That crappy job's for losers."
"And your relationships?"
He scoffs, like it's weird to even ask him about this subject, "I mean, family sucks and women are a drag, sir. A bunch of pussies, not sure what you want me to say about them..."
I'm glad he feels that way now. It took a while to erase his loyalty to friends and family. It took even longer to redirect his obsession with impressing pretty girls.
"What about your relationship to men?"
"Men are dope, sir," he lights up, "Yeah, I mean, I'd much rather hang out with men than a bunch of girls. Talking, laughing. It's cool to be around men, you know, help them out, get their drinks, serving them and whatever. That's the shit right there!"
Exactly as I programmed...
"And dicks?"
He chuckles and looks at me like I'm finally speaking his language, "Well, I mean, they're what makes men, men, so dicks are dope too, sir. The same thing goes. Cool to be around them, when they're out at least...serving them and the men they're attached to."
"You wanna serve mine?"
"Hell yeah, sir!" he barks, loud, with his chest thrown out, "However you want to use me!"
I laugh at his bravado, "Why don't you pull your pants down and bend over that wheelbarrow. Think you can moo the entire time I'm in you? It'd be just so darn cool to feel like I'm really fuckin' a big dumb animal..."
"Bet," he snickers as he drops the shovel in the mud, "I can be a dumb fuckin' cow." He slides his sweats down to his ankles and then flexes his arms, bragging, "I shovel their shit all day for a guy like you. I can act just like one!"
He bends over the dirty hay, already doing his best to get into character.
A hypnotic spell has been cast on these officers, once under this spell they will be going to a private conference room where they will engage in an orgy with each other while still fully uniformed. When done their memory will be erased of this event
Wir wissen, dass wir fĆ¼r die Welt da drauĆen zwei wandelnde Wichsvorlagen sind, wie aus einem Porno entstiegen. Zu viel Volumen in den Schultern, zu viel Spannung im Stoff, zu dauergeil, um unsere SchwƤnze und Eier klein zu halten. Wir forcieren es bewusst, das Wissen um diese Wirkung erregt uns. Beide.
Kleidung, die uns verbergen wĆ¼rde, existiert in unserem Schrank nicht. Zum einen, weil wir es nie so wollten. Zum anderen, weil es kaum noch GrƶĆen gibt, die uns Ć¼berhaupt noch passen. Der Markt hat uns aufgegeben. Was bleibt, spannt. Immer. Ćberall.
Im Grunde gibt es nur eine Situation, bei der mich meine - unsere Masse ein klein wenig verunsichert: Beim Elternbesuch.
Schon als wir vor dem Haus standen, spĆ¼rte ich die Spannung. Meine Eltern hatten kein Problem mit Tom und mir als Paar, ganz im Gegenteil, sie liebten Tom fast wie ihren eigenen Sohn. Aber mit unserem Lifestyle, dem Bodybuilding und unserer kƶrperorientierung, damit taten sie sich schwer.
Meine Mutter umarmte mich herzlich und zƶgerlich zugleich.
Ihr Blick streifte Tom, seine breiten Schultern unter dem engen Shirt. Dann senkte sie den Kopf, als hƤtte sie etwas Verbotenes gesehen.
Mein Vater klopfte mir auf den RĆ¼cken ā so eine steife, kurze Geste, fast als hƤtte er Angst, sich an meinen Muskeln die Hand zu brechen.
Wir setzten uns ins Wohnzimmer. Der der Geruch nach Braten und Kuchen hing verheiĆungsvoll in der Luft. Und trotzdem: Alles fĆ¼hlte sich irgendwieā¦ eng an.
Meine Mutter strich nervƶs Ć¼ber ihr Kleid. āAlsoā¦ wie gehtās euch?ā
Tom lƤchelte freundlich. āGut, danke. Training lƤuft super. Arbeit auch.ā
Mein Vater verschrƤnkte die Arme. āTraining, hm.ā
Er zog die Augenbrauen hoch, schaute erst Tom, dann mich an. āIhr seid schonā¦ ziemlich massiv geworden.ā
Ich nickte. āJa. Ist auch das Ziel.ā
Ein kurzes Schweigen. Dann meine Mutter, vorsichtig: āFindet ihr nicht, dass dasā¦ ein bisschen zu viel ist? Ich meineā¦ man kann ja gesund sein und Sport machen. Aber das hierā¦ā
Sie machte eine vage Geste in unsere Richtung. āDas ist doch fastā¦ naja, provokant.ā
Tom und ich tauschten einen kurzen Blick. Kein genervter ā ein verstƤndnisvoller. Wir hatten das schon oft erlebt.
āEs geht uns nicht ums Provozierenā, sagte Tom ruhig. āFĆ¼r uns ist das eine Ausdrucksform. So wie andere Leute malen oder Musik machen.ā
Mein Vater schnaubte leise. āMalen, na gut. Aber Muskeln? Immerhinā¦ā ā er suchte nach Worten ā ādas hat doch auch etwasā¦ sexuelles. Dieses stƤndige PrƤsentieren vom Kƶrper. Das wirktā¦ najaā¦ herausfordernd.ā
Ich atmete tief durch.
āKlarā, sagte ich. āDer Kƶrper hat immer was Sinnliches. Aber darum gehtās uns nicht primƤr. FĆ¼r uns ist das ein Ausdruck von Disziplin. Von Hingabe. Von Selbstrespekt.ā
Meine Mutter wirkte unsicher und war froh, dass sie uns ins Esszimmer bitten und uns mit einem festlichen Braten verkƶstigen konnte.
Dort am prall gefĆ¼llten Esstisch spann sich die Diskussion dann weiter, als meine Mutter das Thema wieder aufgriff: "MĆ¼sst ihr euch denn so zur Schau stellen? Die engen Sachen, die Posen auf Social Mediaā¦ā
Tom lehnte sich leicht vor. āEs geht nicht darum, jemanden zu provozieren. Sondern um Stolz. Auf das, was wir erreicht haben. Auf den Weg, den wir gegangen sind. Wir stecken da Jahre rein ā SchweiĆ, Schmerz, Zeit. Das ist nicht oberflƤchlich. Das ist echt.ā
Mein Vater runzelte die Stirn. āTrotzdemā¦ ihr inszeniert euch.ā
Ich nickte langsam. āVielleicht. Aber wir tun das bewusst. Und wir wissen, wer wir sind. FĆ¼r uns ist unser Kƶrper kein Objekt. Er ist unser Zuhause. Er ist Ausdruck von StƤrke ā und von Verletzlichkeit.ā
Meine Mutter sah mich lange an. Dann, leiser: āIch versteheā¦ dass ihr stolz seid. Ich verstehe nur nicht, warum es so extrem sein muss.ā
Tom lƤchelte sanft. āWeil wir uns selbst ernst nehmen. Weil wir die Grenzen unseres Kƶrpers genauso austesten wollen wie die unserer Seele. Und weil wir glauben, dass wahre StƤrke nur entsteht, wenn du nichts versteckst.ā
Mein Vater lehnte sich zurĆ¼ck. Schweigend. Denkend.
Meine Mutter strich sich eine StrƤhne aus dem Gesicht, ein wenig weicher jetzt.
āVielleichtā¦ mĆ¼ssen wir einfach lernen, das anders zu sehenā, sagte sie schlieĆlich.
Ich lƤchelte. Stand auf, umarmte sie fester. Ich spĆ¼rte, wie sie kurz zƶgerte ā und dann entspannte.
Manchmal sind es nicht groĆe Reden, die etwas verƤndern.
The man in front of me now used to be a top litigator at the biggest firm in the city. Cold eyes, razor-sharp mind, zero heart. The kind of guy whoād gut you in a deposition and bill you for the pleasure. Not his fault. They made him that way. Society, ambition, expectation. Layer after layer of tight skin over his true self.
I peeled all that away.
Now heās here on the worn leather couch, barefoot, belly full of cheap beer. Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. Heās got a three-day beard and a lazy grin that doesnāt calculate anything. His hand rests on the thigh of another man. They pass a bottle back and forth. When they laugh, itās deep and real and stupid. Pure.
He doesnāt remember mergers. He doesnāt remember billable hours. All he knows now is the taste of smoke, the burn of whiskey, the heavy warmth of another manās body against his. The simple things. The best things.
I crouch down next to him. He looks at me with those once-sharp eyes now soft and foggy like morning after rain.
āYou happy?ā I ask.
He blinks slow. Then he grins and grabs my face with both hands and kisses me hard. Beer breath, tobacco tongue, stubble scraping my chin. When he pulls back he says, āNever been happier in my fucking life, boss.ā
Thatās what I do. I find the cold ones, the hard ones, the men society sharpened into knives. And I dull them with pleasure. I break them open with the basics. Smoke. Drink. Fuck. Brotherhood without rules. Masculinity without masks. Joy without shame.
"Oh, hey!" the worker calls, shuffling over with recognition in his voice, "It's you..."
I don't immediately react.
At 5:00am, there shouldn't be anyone calling except for bar buddies confirming I made it home. Still, something about this grunt's face does seem familiar, but surely I would recall a friend as assertive as him, especially when he's abandoning three other similarly hi-vis clad workmates. He doesn't seem bothered at all to walk away from his job. Only eager to see me.
"...sir," he grins with a nod, fishing a billfold out of his pocket, "I've got $58 in my wallet. All the money on me is yours, sir. Is now a good time for me to suck your dick?" He wipes the drool off of his chin with the back of his hand.
So that's how we know each other!
I must've hypnotized him...
Before he can drop to his knees in the middle of the street, I slap his back and guide the dopey hunk away from his coworkers, forcing a laugh like we actually are old friends.
"Keep it down," I hush in panic, "You want the rest of your crew to hear?"
"Sir, I don't care if the guys hear," he assures me with pride, "I'm your cocksucking ATM, sir."
I park him on the other side of the street, away from the other workmen, and take a moment to study the complacent face staring back at me. He looks handsome, masculine, though a bit dumb. That could just be the result of my trance. Still, I don't recall a session where I turned this bluecollar hunk into my very own cocksucking ATM!
"What's your name?"
"My name is Bitch-Dad McLaborTits," he says.
I roll my eyes, more at myself than at him. I had obviously hypnotized him to believe that was his name while he was under.
"Your real name..." I exhale, "The name your colleagues over their call you." I gesture over at the men he'd walked away from. They seem to have gone back to collecting garbage for the moment, hopefully none the wiser.
"Oh...well, they call me Brian, sir," he says with a furrowed brow, unable to make sense of it.
"Okay, Brian, when did you realize you were my...um...cocksucking ATM?"
"Only just now, sir," he explains, pointing back across the street, "When I saw your face, I realized a lot of things. You are a real man, a god even. I am just something that can serve you, in my own way, sir," his hand extends the wad of cash out to me again, "Nothing else matters before I saw you..."
"Shit man, I really did a number on you."
"What, sir?"
"Nothing," I shake my head and snatch his $58 dollars, shoving it into my pocket, "But we've met before. Think, Brian. When did we meet?"
Brian, or Bitch-Dad, scowls as he thinks, which is probably difficult in this state. I'd help him, but for the life of me, I don't remember doing all this to this poor man's mind. Could I have really been so careless with my abilities?
"I remember," he lights up, "It was about a year ago, sir. Maybe more than that. And it was around this time of night too because me and the guys were just starting a shift..."
"Go on..."
"Yes, sir," he averts his eyes nervously, "Well, I believe you were stumbling down the street with a bottle in your hand. I went to go check on you and then..."
"Wait," I jump in, "Are you about to say I hypnotized you while I was blackout drunk?!"
"Yes, sir. That's what you did." He smiles.
I slap my forehead, already feeling a hangover. Last year, I was going through a dark time and had a bit of a drinking problem. I thought I'd left that chapter behind me, but the past is standing right in front of me in an identical scenario. At least tonight I'm not blackout...
"Ok," I groan, "So I hypnotized you while I myself was barely conscious, and left a trigger for you to become my ATM sex-toy the next time you saw me. Is that it?"
"Well, no sir," he admits, smiling "You pissed yourself, so you had me leave work and carry you back to your place, so I could bathe you and do your laundry for you."
"Fuck," I sigh, cringing at myself, "So I had you clean me up and then released you?"
"No, sir," he goes on, "You fucked me in the ass. You named me Bitch-Dad McLaborTits because those were your favorite things about me, and then you threw up on my head while I had your dick in my mouth. Then you passed out after telling me to leave and forget it ever happened. So that's what I did, sir. At least, until you made me remember..."
Fuck, I truly am the worst.
"So, then what?"
"Well, I'm not sure," he scratches his chin, "I walked outside and forgot all about you. Just went back to being Brian, sir. And Brian was really confused why he wasn't at work with dried throw-up all over his head..."
I shudder at the thought of what Brian went through because of me that day...
"Alright, Bitch-Dad. I'm going to wake you out of this trance," I move on, "But first let's find a restroom or something for you to blow me..."
"Yes, sir!"
And just like that, this burly garbage collector is eagerly guiding me down the street with a thick arm around my back. Unfortunately, I can see why drunk-me went for this guy. He's got a sort of boyish charm that goes well with being a sleeper sex/money slave.
Hopefully his crew doesn't get too pissed off that he quit hauling garbage cans with them for the last 20 minutes.
Hopefully Brian's not too confused when he wakes up with a sore jaw and no memory.
Hopefully his family doesn't need that $58 dollars in cash.
Hopefully I can practice some restraint next night out.
As Jake arrived at the gym, he sensed something was amiss. No one was in the weight room but everyone was just standing shirtless in the locker room. Jake thought about calling for help but instead he walked to his locker and removed his shirt and waited for further instructions like everyone else.
Fuck! I love how he says it with his usual cocky swagger. As if he's just telling his step-son to clean his room or grab him a beer.
Not sure what my mom saw in this guy. With a name like Derrick, he was bound to be a douchebag. Sure he's fit and has a cushy software engineering job, but he's a shitty step-father, always grabbing my mom's ass and calling me his "boy" even though I'm 19!
I'm glad I snuck that subliminal programming tech into his stupid earpiece.
He had no idea I was reconditioning his mind while he bumbled over his "very important work" with all his equally arrogant tech bros. If my mom was settling for this schmuck of an ex-jock, then I was going to need some things to change, starting with those damn boxers he always struts around in after work...
"IF you wear boxers, THEN you will feel like a child playing dress up. BOXERS are for men. Briefs are for you..."
I look him up and down, just standing in front of me, flexing in the tightey-whiteys he now exclusively wears, staring at me like I could speak some word at any second that he needs to hear. Mom's car pulled out of the garage five minutes ago, on her way to dinner with her girlfriends. That meant me and Derrick had the house to ourselves...
...which, of course, is a circumstantial trigger I planted in that dense skull of his.
"IF you find yourself alone in the house with your step-son, THEN you will stop thinking, pause what you are doing, strip to your underwear, approach your step-son, flex your biceps, and silently wait for him to take the lead..."
That was the second trigger I installed in his head. The command goes on to make him prioritize this action over work, comfort, and really anything, but that's ultimately a lot of technical lingo that just makes him willing to abandon whatever he's doing. Be it calling someone for work, leaving the house, or even taking a piss, it won't stop him from pausing, stripping, and reporting to me.
"Drink!" I announce.
His body jerks into response, "Let me fix you a martini, sir!" Derrick's flexing arm snaps into a salute before he stomps away to the kitchen.
"IF you here the word DRINK spoken by your step-son, THEN you will say, "Let me fix you a martini, sir," salute, and then go make the mixed drink..."
The programming goes on to specify the exact type of martini I require and the way I like it. I just can't believe I finally have him crafting my cocktails at my whim after he's barked at me so many times to grab his fucking beer!
"Here is your martini, sir," Derrick says, dropping to his knees, lowering his head, and holding out the glass like an offering to a god.
I resist the urge to thank him. It's not like he'd even hear it in this state.
"Dick." I say.
A smile spreads across his face. He's sort of handsome, when he's like this. Controlled. Normally, he's cocky, and arrogant, and intolerably idiotic, but like this, his boyish face actually looks handsome. Maybe that's what my mother sees in this shallow asshole.
"I...I want to feeel you," he says, almost whining. Though he tries to maintain eye contact, his focus keeps shifting to my crotch. "Let me shove my face in there, pleease!" he begs, licking his lips.
"IF you here the word DICK spoken by your step-son, THEN you will become infatuated with the areas between his legs, the skin that makes up his crotch, the hair that lives there, the balls that hang, the penis that waits..."
I might have gone a little far with this command. I wrote it one night after a few too many martinis. It goes on to make him not just want my cock. He'll love it, praise it, worship every inch of it he can find, touch, smell, taste...
Unemployment struck Chris like a death sentence just shy of fifty. Soon, he lost his car, his family, his home. Desperate to avoid the streets, to simply survive, he signed a shady contract when a dubious MCN came knocking with a live-streaming offer. After a week of closed-door training, the broken, emaciated Chris vanished. On the screen, Mr. Wolf appearedāa versatile streamer, a devoted dog to his master. And his master still waits in the shadows, ready to ensnare more prey just like him.
Jake had waited all week for this moment. It was finally time that his favorite hypnotist, OBEY ME, posted their newest video. Without thinking, he quickly stripped down to his underwear and turned on his webcam ready to show all the other watchers how obedient he can be.
