Most of it is gay.

NSFW. Recon : Mald0r0r

[suitsandties]

Zachary - Dressed to dissapear

It’s the smell that hits me first—not the sterile whisper of overpriced, hospital-grade cleaning products or the faint citrus of marble polish that usually clings to the cool tiles, but something older, heavier, more oppressive. It settles in the air like dust disturbed after decades of silence, rich and cloying and impossible to ignore. Musk, clove, oil—it hangs there like the memory of a man long gone, like the ghost of my grandfather's wrath pressed into scent, the kind of cologne that outlives the suit it stains. It clings to the corners of the room with the same permanence as incense in a chapel, not holy but ritualistic, loaded with consequence.

Pomade.

It’s already open, the black glass jar sitting just above the sink like an artifact unearthed from a deeper world, its lid discarded to the side, gleaming faintly like a tarnished halo that once belonged to a saint with dirty hands. The substance within glistens faintly, untouched but somehow already present in the air, already in my lungs.

I haven’t even stepped fully inside. My bare feet hover just beyond the threshold, my shirt rumpled over one shoulder, throat dry, and skin already dampening under the pressure of expectation. But the scent is already inside me, sinking its claws gently, changing something beneath the surface in a slow, silent theft—each molecule pulling me inch by inch away from the version of myself I used to recognize.

I feel my pulse ticking like a clock inside my throat, every beat loud, intrusive, a kind of muted accusation, as if each thud is whispering: you let this happen.

But I move forward anyway.

The mirror on the wall doesn’t end. It stretches without mercy from edge to edge, an unbroken sheet of reflection, offering no escape and no angle for mercy. There’s only me. Zachary. Twenty. Caught somewhere between morning haze and something far worse than waking up—being watched. Not by anyone else. By myself. By what I’m becoming.

My reflection stares without blinking. That’s the part that gets me.

I take another step. Then another. Cold creeps up from the tile to meet the soles of my feet like a punishment laid in stone, and I don’t stop until my toes nudge the base of the sink. The chill pulses through my skin, finds the bones beneath, and makes a home there.

Good. I want that. I want the discomfort. I want the ache.

Because I don’t deserve comfort this morning—not after what I agreed to.

He gave me a choice. That’s the worst part. That’s the cruelty wrapped in civility. He let me choose.

It was just a week ago, and yet it already feels like it happened years back, in another body. We sat in the study, him in his chair, the one shaped like a coffin and just as soft. The chandelier overhead gleamed like teeth, crystal and sharp, biting the air with its glow. He poured a drink. Not for me. Just for him. And when he smiled, it was that particular, deliberate kind of smile—slow, dangerous, and final, the kind that doesn’t start a conversation but ends one before it even breathes.

His voice, always soft, was a scalpel dressed in velvet. No volume. Just edge.

“Zachary, my boy. One last game. One roll,” he said, his words floating on the smoke that curled up from the collar of his suit like it belonged there. “If you win, you walk. Everything’s yours—your world, your music, your denim jackets and cursing and laziness and girls who call you baby. But if you lose…”

He leaned in then, not far, just close enough to let the whiskey and tobacco settle between us like a promise.

“…then you are mine. Not in passing. Not in theory. Completely.”

I nodded. I don’t know why.

Maybe I wanted to test him.

Maybe I wanted to test me.

Either way, I lost.

And now here I am, stranded in the silence of this bathroom that feels more like a cell, facing a goddamn mirror, a pair of shears resting beside a bowl of water gone lukewarm, and that jar of pomade releasing its silent sermon into the room like it’s waiting to be obeyed.

I’m sweating already, and I haven’t even started.

My skin is clammy, slick in places I didn’t expect, and my jaw is clenched so tight I can feel the beginnings of a headache behind my eyes. The light above exposes everything—every stubble on my chin, every blemish I thought might have faded, every drop of sweat glistening along my neck like shame. The collar of my undershirt sags, wet and stretched, tugged loose from all the versions of me that didn’t want to be here.

I look like someone waiting to be punished.

But that’s not what this is.

This is something worse.

This is obedience. And I have to be the one to do it.

I reach for the shirt first. It’s heavier than it looks. The cotton is fine, expensive, woven tight and made stiff with starch. When I slide my arms into it, the fabric rasps against my skin, catching the hairs along my forearms and dragging a shiver up my back. It doesn't give, doesn’t flow—it resists, like it doesn’t want to belong to someone soft. The collar folds up like a verdict, sharp and high, pressing lightly against the base of my neck. It doesn’t need to squeeze to make its presence known.

I leave it unbuttoned. Not yet. That’s one of the rules. One of the lessons he’s taught me.

Preparation must be deliberate.

Next, the comb. I pick it up from the counter.

It’s not plastic. It’s metal. Solid. Unforgiving. Still cold, even after sitting here for who knows how long. The teeth are tight, close together in a way that speaks of precision and severity. I drag it against the flesh of my palm. It bites, even there. Not enough to cut. Just enough to remind me of its purpose.

He gave it to me the morning after I lost. Wrapped in plain paper, like a gift and a warning. No note. No explanation. Just an object and the weight behind it.

I lift it to my hair.

I didn’t wash it today. I knew better. It’s still oily from sleep and yesterday’s rebellion, and the comb doesn’t glide—it snags. It drags through the longer strands, pulling hard enough to make me wince. Each pass through my hair feels like a tiny betrayal, a silent undoing of all the nights I let it grow, let it curl, let it fall in my eyes.

This is the hair girls used to play with. The hair I let blow loose in the wind. The hair that used to brush my lashes when I laughed, when I smirked, when I said no to him.

Now it’s being tamed.

I part it. Harshly. Left side. Not my choice.

The line cuts deep. A scar carved into my scalp with the comb’s silver teeth, splitting me down the middle. I comb it again. And again. Until the resistance is lessened. Until my hair stops fighting back.

Then I pick up the scissors.

They tremble slightly in my grip. My hands are slick. I almost drop them. There’s a smaller mirror inside the cabinet door, and I swing it open, needing both angles—front and side—to see all of what I’m about to dismantle. The scissors are ornate, weighty, more like surgical tools than something you’d find in a drawer. I can see my own face, stretched and warped, in one of the blades. I look hollow. Already half-erased.

I start with the sides. That’s what he wants. Tighter. Cleaner. Less youth. More precision. More discipline.

The blades close with a sound so soft it hurts.

Snip.

Snip.

Each strand that falls feels like a sentence ending. A chapter closed. A breath I won’t take again. My hair lands on the marble like ash. Like something burned away.

I feel naked. I feel exposed. Shame creeps in like a chill.

But behind the shame, something else lurks.

Heat.

It starts at the base of my skull and moves downward, slow and uninvited, threading through my spine like a shiver in reverse. A flush crawls up from inside. I pretend it’s just the air. Just the light. Just my nerves.

But it isn’t.

Still, I keep going.

I keep obeying.

I stare straight into the mirror, unblinking, as if looking long enough will give me permission to stop—to scream—to rip the shirt back off and run, barefoot and breathless, through this marble house and all its watching rooms, all its locked drawers, all its rules.

But the mirror offers nothing. Just him. Just me. And not me.

The part is too straight now. Too rigid. It no longer resembles anything free. The sides are shorter, but not enough. Still too soft around the temples, curling slightly like an afterthought. Too casual. Too much mine.

I remember what he said. How calmly he said it. No anger. No drama. Just truth:

“If you want to keep the softness, Zachary, then you must be content remaining a child. But children don’t get freedom. Men do.”

So I stand here, scissors in hand, surrounded by silence, and I begin to become.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring.

The scissors grow heavier the longer I hold them, like guilt with a handle. My grip tightens and slips again. I lift the blades to my right temple and freeze.

My reflection copies me, of course. But my eyes—his eyes—they look afraid.

Are you really going to do it? they seem to ask.

Are you really going to destroy what’s left?

And the sickest part, the part that makes something squirm inside my gut, the part I don’t want to name or feel or even allow—

The part I’m afraid to say out loud, even inside my own skull?

I want to.

I close the blades, a breath caught in the space between hesitation and surrender, and the scissors, in their cold finality, bite through the thick strand with a sound that is somehow louder inside me than in the room itself—just a soft snip, but it lands like a verdict. The curl falls in a slow arc, brushing my cheek like a goodbye whispered too gently to be stopped, and then, weightless, it disappears into the white sink below, where it lies like a broken part of something living, now silent. It makes no sound when it lands—but my ears ring anyway, loud and hot and sick, as if I’ve been slapped by my own reflection.

My stomach clenches, folds in on itself, a tight, nauseous fist that turns my insides against me, and for a brief second my knees nearly give. I catch myself, but only barely. The act was so small—just a snip, just one curl—but it feels like something deeper, more vicious, something irreversible. It feels like I just severed a nerve. Like I’ve cut through a vein of memory.

Because I did.

That curl was mine—my softness, my freedom, my youth, the shadow of a version of myself who lived outside this mirror, who wore his hair long and let girls touch it and didn’t flinch under the weight of a shirt collar. That was a boy’s strand. And it’s gone.

The next cut comes easier, sliding through with a fluidity that almost feels like consent. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be easier. But it is.

Snip.

Snip.

Two more curls fall, joining the first in the basin like discarded birds, black and bent at the neck, feathered shapes gathering in the porcelain like a nest built from silence and steam. My hand doesn’t shake anymore. It’s steady. My jaw, though, is clenched tight—teeth pressed hard enough to ache—and a sheen of sweat slides down the side of my face, curling under my jaw, trailing into the collar of the shirt that still hangs open like an unfinished sentence.

I exhale in short, sharp puffs, each breath barely leaving me before the next takes its place, almost angry in its rhythm. It’s not just hair. Not anymore. It’s the end of rebellion, the soft defiance that once lived in every strand that flopped carelessly over my forehead, the permission to slouch, to stay up too late, to not care. Each snip now is a confession. A surrender. A sin being stripped away from me, not by someone else, but by my own trembling hands.

And that’s the part that makes it unbearable.

Because I’m the one doing it.

By the time I reach the back of my head, I’ve bent forward in a way that feels almost like bowing—chin tucked down, arms twisted awkwardly as I angle the scissors by feel and by the limited reflection I catch in the double mirrors. It’s hot. My neck slick. My shoulders tense. The blades are damp now, slick with hair and sweat and whatever product was left over from yesterday’s attempts to look like I wasn’t breaking. My knuckles ache from gripping too hard, the white pressure of my fingers stark against the polished steel.

This isn’t grooming anymore.

This is penance.

Each new cut exposes the round shape of my skull more clearly, erasing the familiar volume, the curl, the softness. The crown is flatter than I thought. The hairline sharper. I’m not just removing hair—I’m revealing a head that was never shaped for kindness, but for control. I’m shaping someone else. Someone who belongs to him. Someone who could never belong to me again.

There are moments, flickers in the mirror or maybe in my chest, where the tears rise too fast, too hot—but they don’t spill. I won’t let them. I can’t.

Instead, I shiver—not from cold, but from something else. Something more dangerous. The deeper I cut, the more exact the lines become, and the more something unexpected stirs at the base of my spine, low and slow, a heat that doesn’t belong. It’s not pride. It’s not satisfaction. It’s not even arousal, not yet. It’s something like pleasure, but shamed and aching. Like hunger inverted.

It’s in the repetition. The ritual. The slow carving away of what I used to be. It’s in the transformation—the power of taking a mirror and using it not to see yourself, but to erase yourself. The more hair I remove, the closer I get to something I don’t understand. Something I once found repulsive in others, but now feel pulling at me like gravity.

I try to breathe through my nose, steady, slow, but my body is burning. My collar’s still open, the tie still waiting, but the heat pulses under my arms, rolls in waves down my back, sinks under the waistband of trousers I haven’t even put on yet. My spine tingles. My scalp tingles.

I raise my eyes again.

I look at myself.

The sides are neat now. Too neat. High and tight, stripped of every defiant curl. The top still holds length, a last remnant—but not for long. Not for much longer.

I raise the scissors to the front, my breath catching. This is the face. This is the fringe. The part that moves. The part that made me look young.

This is the hardest cut—not because it requires more skill, or more precision, or more time than the others, but because it is the cut that carries weight, the one tied not just to appearance but to identity, the cut that doesn't only change how the world sees me but alters how I see myself. This is the fringe—the part that moves, that falls, that softens the angles of my face and lets a bit of boy linger around the edges, the part that still feels alive, still feels mine. I press the blades together slowly, not with force, but with inevitability, and when they finally close with a quiet, intimate snip, the sound barely audible yet impossibly loud in the stillness of the room, a thick lock of hair, soft and dark and somehow dignified, drops from the blades and floats down past my cheek like a condemned petal, brushing my skin in the process, whispering goodbye as it lands in the basin below, weightless, soundless, final.

But though the hair falls without sound, my body hears it; my ears ring as though I’ve been struck, and in my stomach something tightens—a twist, a clutching sensation like a fist curling in the pit of my gut—and my knees, just for a moment, lose their strength. It’s absurd, how much power was bound up in something so small, how a single curl could carry the burden of a person I used to be. Yet I feel it—the loss of that strand like the loss of something vital, something tender, something mine. That hair belonged to another version of me. A gentler one. A freer one. A boy’s softness now erased.

And somehow, the next cut comes easier.

It shouldn’t.

It absolutely shouldn’t.

But my hand moves more fluidly, the scissors obey more willingly, and the next snip feels less like tragedy and more like momentum. I cut again. Another strand releases, tumbles. Then again. Snip. More hair falls into the sink where the pile is growing—dark, tangled, a scattered collection of softness and defiance reduced now to debris, little black birds felled and neck-bent, forming a nest of memory and steam at the base of the porcelain.

My hand no longer shakes, not the way it did when I began. My grip is firm. My jaw is set. My body has accepted the rhythm. I feel a heat gathering in my cheeks, in the hollow of my spine, a slickness beneath my arms and across my collarbone. Sweat is sliding steadily down the side of my face now, carving a path from temple to jaw and disappearing into the damp cotton stretched across my clavicle. Each breath I take is short, shallow, a soundless exhale that catches halfway down my chest like it doesn’t want to go any deeper. I’m panting, not from exertion, but from the sharpness of what’s happening. This isn’t hair. Not anymore. It’s rebellion stripped away. It’s freedom severed. It’s the erasure of laziness, the denial of softness, the execution of the boy who stayed up too late, who laughed too loud, who never tucked in his shirt. I’m cutting him out of me. Piece by piece. And the horror of it—the thing that makes my fingers feel cold even while my skin burns—is that I’m the one doing it. No one else. Just me.

By the time I reach the back, the posture I’ve taken has bent me forward in a way that doesn’t feel natural anymore—it feels like submission. Chin dropped toward my chest, arms reaching awkwardly behind my head, the scissors now damp and slippery with product, while the tension in my knuckles is bright white, a silent scream pressing through my joints. The mirror guides me, barely. I’m working blind, carving by instinct. And I know—I know this is no longer grooming. This is no longer maintenance. This is punishment.

Each snip reveals more of the scalp, more of the true shape of the head that once hid under curls and mess and charm. The crown is flatter than I remembered. The hairline sharper, more geometric. The skull beneath is exposed now, and I am sculpting—not grooming, but creating, crafting something cold and clean and compliant. Something that will fit the rules, will pass the test, will never again be mistaken for a boy.

There are flashes—small, quiet moments where I feel the pressure of tears gathering behind my eyes, heat swelling, but I refuse them. I swallow them. I close the door.

Instead, I shiver.

Not from cold—there is none—but from the strange and terrifying realization that the more precise I become, the more deeply I cut, the more completely I obey… the more pleasure begins to stir in me. Not loud. Not proud. Not even clear. But there’s something there. A tightness. A hunger. A sensation like reverse-hunger, like an ache that doesn’t demand food or water but more of this.

It’s in the motion. The ritual. The clean repetition of blades through hair. The discipline of it. The transformation. And it whispers to something inside me I didn’t know could be tempted—something that now leans forward every time I cut, drawn toward the sharp, silent promise that if I go further, I’ll become something I can’t name, something I always claimed to hate, and yet… now… it calls to me.

I try to center myself with breath—inhale through the nose, slow—but my body doesn’t cooperate. My skin is too hot. The collar of my shirt is still open, but the heat has pooled under it anyway, steaming in the hollow of my spine, along the base of my neck, sliding down to the waistband of the trousers I haven’t even stepped into yet. It’s unbearable. And I want more of it.

I glance up. Catch myself in the mirror. The sides are done now. Neat. Tight. Not a trace of curl remains. Not a hint of casualness. The top still holds length, but not for much longer. Not with my hand lifting the scissors once again.

This is the top. The crown. The most visible part. The one that defines the man, shapes the silhouette, controls how the light hits the face. This is the hair that frames the expression. That allows it movement, flair, humanity.

I bring the blades in with a grip that’s steadier now, not because I feel calm—God no—but because something inside me has surrendered to the act, as if the motion has bypassed doubt entirely and found its way into muscle memory, into some deeper part of my nervous system where consent no longer requires thought. This is the place where the final defense lives, where the last piece of softness remains, where the hair still moves when I tilt my head, still falls slightly when I lean forward, still resists the idea of belonging to someone else. But it falls. Of course it falls. The first cut across the top is not simply another shearing of strands—it is the end of a disguise, the quiet obliteration of the story I once told with my hair, the version of me that was allowed to look casual, to look careless, to move in wind and light and time. This cut doesn't just change my shape—it exposes it, reveals the order beneath the chaos, the pale scalp previously hidden, now laid bare, suddenly geometric, obedient, a grid of skin beneath a style that can no longer hide my intention or his. I drag the comb through what remains, tugging it back, flattening the remnants, and then I go again—snip, a clean slice that rings sharper than it should, then again, and again, each motion carving deeper into the top until nothing remains that could curl, nothing that could fall, nothing that could say: I’m still me.

Every slice is crueler than the last, not because they hurt, but because they don’t—because my hand no longer hesitates, because the act has lost its violence and become instead a kind of sacred precision, a cold ritual where the knife becomes a brush and the boy becomes the canvas, blank and waiting. What’s left isn’t volume. Isn’t softness. Isn’t individuality. It’s surface—flat, tight, directionless except for the one it’s told to follow. It’s a slate. A template. Not a hairstyle, but the silhouette of control, the shape of a man who has rules pressed into the follicles of his skull. It’s his shape. The one he modeled for me. The one I mocked. The one I swore I would never accept. And now it’s here. Now it’s mine. And even as I sit in stunned, sweating silence, I can’t stop reaching up to touch it.

The scissors fall from my hand—not dropped, but laid down carefully, placed on the counter like a weapon being surrendered after battle. The tension in my fingers lingers even after I’ve released the handle; they tremble subtly in the absence of steel. My face, flushed and burning, holds heat that creeps from ear to cheek to neck like embarrassment, but hotter. Deeper. The heat of crossing a threshold you can’t uncross. I look at myself. And he is there.

The stranger in the mirror—my stranger, the one I summoned with each cut—is fully present now, fully formed. The part is cut high and hard, combed straight and sharp across the crown, already gleaming faintly from the oil my hands and sweat have pressed into it. The scalp is visible where it wasn’t before, pale and precise. The sides are shorn into obedient flatness, exposing skin that hasn't seen daylight in years, skin that glows faintly under the cold bathroom light. The jaw beneath is clean, the shirt still crisp despite the sweat, and the face—that face, that mask—is unnervingly still, emptied of all the playfulness and softness that once hid behind longer hair. It’s a face with no argument left. A face with rules.

It isn’t mine.

And I love it.

God help me.

I love it.

The scissors rest now, silent and satisfied, and the shape they have left me in continues to radiate through the mirror, back at me, back through me, like a verdict passed by my own hand. My breath comes shallow, not because I’m gasping, but because I can’t seem to find enough room inside my chest to pull it in fully. My lungs are small now. Folded. My throat, dry and tight, tries to swallow, but nothing moves. My back is soaked. The shirt that once hung loose is now clinging to me, every inch of cotton slick and pressed to my spine, sticking under my arms, pooling in the waistband like guilt congealed into sweat. I am not trembling from fear anymore. Not exactly. My fingers twitch because something has changed—not in the room, not in the mirror, but inside the chest of the man sitting here, inside the cooling collar of a shirt that’s begun to chafe. I can’t tell, not fully, whether I am revolted by what I see… or deeply, dangerously aroused. Because I’m both. Entirely both.

The reflection—the stranger—stares back, but not in judgment. In acknowledgment. The haircut has become more than hair. It’s a message written in flesh, a flag of surrender raised on a scalp that used to hide under curls. The sides are shaved high now, the top stripped to bare efficiency, not styled, not yet, but waiting. The room is full of steam and silence and the scent of oil and sweat. My hair is ready. Ready to be pressed further. Flattened. Finished.

But I can’t do that yet.

Not until I’m proper.

He would never allow it otherwise.

The tie is already waiting, of course, because it always was, because nothing in this room is unintentional. It rests like a sealed edict across the counter, folded into thirds, the silk deep navy but nearly black under the clinical white light of the bathroom, without pattern or texture, lifeless in its elegance, obedient in its stillness. It doesn’t suggest style. It demands submission.

It isn’t clothing.

It’s a law.

And I stare at it too long. I can feel the rawness on my cheeks, the sting of the razor still ghosting over my skin, and the air against my face has turned electric, every pore opened, every follicle hyper-alert, and nothing is left on me now—not sleep, not rebellion, not even heat. Just this hum. This sense of clean, stripped readiness. This hum of surrender.

But I don’t put it on.

Not yet.

The shirt is still open. The collar still flared at the neck. The fabric stiff with starch, heavy and thick, a garment that holds its shape whether I want it to or not. It drapes across my chest like a curtain waiting to fall, but underneath, my skin is still damp and cooling. The collar brushes gently against my jaw when I turn my head—just a whisper at first, but already I feel the promise of how hard it will become once it's sealed.

I begin to close it.

One button at a time, starting at the base of my stomach and rising slowly, each one slipping through its hole with a quiet resistance that feels more sensual than it should. The cloth drags faintly across my skin, which flinches with every pass. It’s too clean now, too exposed, too new. The shirt doesn’t settle. It fastens. It claims. And when I reach the final button, just beneath my throat, I hesitate—but only for a breath.

Then I press it through, the final button sliding home with a soundless click, and the collar, already stiff from starch and expectation, lifts into place against the sides of my neck, its wings closing in like twin jaws that don’t bite—but hold. The fabric presses in even before the silk touches it, as if anticipating what’s coming, eager to serve as the frame for the noose I’m about to knot beneath my chin. It is already becoming something more than a collar, more than structure—it is becoming a border, a boundary, the hard white line that separates what I used to be from what I’ve now agreed to become.

And then, finally, I reach for the tie.

The silk greets my fingertips with a temperature that startles me—not warm from the room, not softened by the air, but cold, unnaturally cold, like it has been waiting in stillness, untouched and patient, quietly absorbing the chill of its purpose. It moves like liquid as I lift it, but not like water, no—not soft, not passive. It glides through my hands with a grace that feels deliberate, as though it’s aware of itself, slick with a kind of sentience, sliding not toward comfort, but toward control. It feels alive. It feels like memory. It feels like the hands I once swore I’d never let touch me, the ones that now feel inevitable, the ones I’m about to recreate with this ribbon of silk tied firm across my throat.

I drape it around my neck.

And of course, it lands perfectly—of course it does—falling with the weight and precision of something custom-fit not just for my frame, but for my compliance. There’s no awkwardness. No need to adjust. It rests like it’s been here before. And that’s the part I hate most of all—that everything he gives me, everything I swore I’d resist, fits. Not approximately. Not eventually. Immediately. And without resistance.

In the curved chrome of the faucet below, I catch the ghost of myself—reflected in warped metal, refracted, doubled, bent. One face above, one below. Both mine. Neither mine.

I begin the knot.

My fingers don’t hesitate. There is no stumbling, no confusion, no pause. I don’t need a mirror. I don’t need a diagram. The act is already inside me, as though learned without instruction, as though muscle remembers what the mind still wants to forget. Half-Windsor. Strong. Balanced. Clean. The knot of a man with no excuses left, no masks to hide behind, no room for softness. The silk loops with terrifying elegance, folding itself across my chest, crossing and tucking and slipping into shape with a kind of mechanical grace that feels less like dressing and more like sentencing.

And then the dimple takes its place beneath the knot—sharp, centered, precise.

Just as he told me it must be.

I pull.

And the world tightens.

The collar, already close, becomes a force. The fabric digs inward, stiffened by starch, hardened by ritual, and now the knot rises into my throat like a verdict made manifest—not choking, not cruel, but immovable. It isn’t pain, not yet. It’s something colder. Something final. A claim staked in cloth.

I try to breathe—not freely, not as I used to, but with a kind of negotiated restraint, a testing of limits that confirms just how tightly the collar now fits, how completely the knot beneath my throat has taken up residence inside my windpipe, reminding me with every fractional inhale that the air moving into my chest is no longer an instinct but a concession, a slow and measured privilege granted only when I stay perfectly still, perfectly aligned, perfectly silent beneath the grip of silk and starch and expectation.

My fingers move with quiet finality, guiding the narrow tail through the keeper loop on the back of the tie, flattening it with a care that feels less like grooming and more like sealing an envelope whose contents are too dangerous to speak aloud, as though with this last motion, I’ve not just completed the knot but locked in whatever part of me still believed this could be undone.

And that’s it—done, finished, enclosed.

But I don’t move, not yet, not even a little, because even in stillness the presence of the tie has begun to grow, not in shape or weight but in significance, in the way it asserts itself across my body like a claim, a signature, a warning; with every beat of my heart it seems to tighten slightly, not through friction or pressure but through awareness, through the knowledge that something has shifted inside the hollow of my neck, something quiet but unyielding, and now even my pulse has to work harder to push past the silk that guards my throat like a sentinel carved from cloth.

It doesn’t hurt—not really—but neither does it release; there’s no sense of tolerance here, no easing, no adjustment; the tie is not something worn, it’s something endured, a fixture now embedded into the very structure of how I carry myself, how I breathe, how I speak, if I speak at all.

It isn’t comfort.

It’s command.

And the collar, stiff and clean and pressed so sharply that its wings could draw blood if they moved, stands like a wall behind either side of my jaw, angling up toward the edge of my cheekbones, forcing my head into an alignment that’s not exactly unnatural, but not mine either—somewhere between posture and discipline, somewhere between pride and punishment, somewhere between mannequin and man.

The knot beneath it does not sit; it asserts, pushing upward into the hollow of my throat like the flat heel of a gloved hand, silent and firm, controlling without words, present without motion, a reminder that the shirt isn’t just buttoned—it’s sealed, and in doing so, it has transformed from garment to boundary, from uniform to instruction, and beneath it, my skin, still tender from the razor, sings faintly with the ache of contact, with the electric sensation of cotton rubbing rawness, of fabric claiming flesh that no longer belongs to me.

I am clean. I am groomed. I am dressed.

And my mouth is dry.

I reach for the glass of water sitting on the counter—placed there with precision, as always, in the same spot every morning, crystal-clear, filled just enough, room temperature, not too cold, not too warm, calibrated like everything else in this house to erase the idea of spontaneity—and when I lift it to my lips and drink, swallowing in three deep gulps, the relief should be immediate, should cool my throat and soothe the sting rising behind my jaw, but it doesn’t, not really, because the tie tightens with each swallow, pushing back with silent, gloved insistence, as though reminding me with every mouthful that this isn’t ease, this isn’t comfort, this isn’t thirst being quenched—this is ceremony, and ceremony never forgets its boundaries.

I lower the glass, still parched, my tongue dry against the roof of my mouth, and turn my attention to the cuffs, those stiff, immovable white French cuffs at the ends of sleeves that have been so heavily starched they feel like pressed paper, crisp and absolute, ending precisely—impossibly—at the bones of my wrists as though tailored for someone engineered, not born, and when I slide the plain silver cufflinks through, flat-faced, cold, unadorned, their minimalism makes them feel even more controlling, more unforgiving, because they offer nothing decorative, nothing expressive, just presence—quiet dominance worn like punctuation at the edges of a sentence I didn’t get to write.

Click.

Click.

The sound, soft but surgical, echoes through the bathroom like gunshots in a church, and for a moment I hate how practiced it is, how certain my fingers move, how easy it is to align the cuffs and lock them into place with that mechanical grace that shouldn’t be mine, that should belong to someone older, stricter, colder, someone who believes in posture more than emotion—and I adjust the sleeves automatically, pulling the lines straight, smoothing the creases, aligning myself until the mirror starts to respond, showing me not a young man in transformation, but something taller, something thinner, something paler, something... corrected.

And still, I hesitate—not physically, not obviously, but inside, deep in the chest where breath lives and drowns—because I know what moment this is, I’ve known it since before I stepped barefoot across the marble, since before I touched the comb or the scissors or the starched cotton, because this, right here, is the part he always watches for, the part he never says aloud but waits for with that expressionless patience of his, the final check, the presentation, the unveiling not just of appearance, but of outcome, of conquest, of whether or not I’ve finally turned into the thing he promised I’d become.

I look again—fully now, not in fragments, not in passing—into the mirror’s vast, punishing reflection, and I study everything: the parted hair, the gleam already present even without product, the bare jaw, the collar standing high and locked, the tie sitting like a seal pressed to parchment, and I don’t blink, I don’t allow myself that mercy, because blinking might break the illusion, might offer softness, and right now, everything has to hold—has to remain still, composed, bound.

Everything is in place.

And I should feel something like relief, something like satisfaction, like I’ve completed a task, fulfilled a ritual, climbed the mountain and rung the bell—but I don’t, I can’t, because instead of victory, what rises up from the base of my spine is a thick, heavy nausea, a slow, dragging sickness that feels like gravity turned sideways, because in that sudden, inescapable flash of clarity, I realize—not because of what I’ve done, not because I obeyed—but because I don’t want to take it off.

Not the shirt.

Not the collar.

Not the tie.

Because somewhere in the burn of the cotton, in the choke of the silk, in the ruthless symmetry of the reflection, I see something that doesn’t feel like defeat—it feels like arrival, like something inevitable, like destiny in disguise—and I don’t know who that makes me anymore, don’t know whether I’ve found myself or lost what was left.

My body shifts slightly, and that’s all it takes—just a breath deeper than allowed, just a movement outside the lines—and the tie responds, pulling, reminding, scraping the underside of my throat as the collar digs in with clean violence, soft but sharp, wordless but punishing, and somehow, impossibly, that tiny friction against the skin at my neck makes my fingers twitch in a way I know isn’t innocent, isn’t purely discomfort, because it isn’t protest, it’s craving.

I lean closer to the mirror, and the pressure increases with terrifying intimacy—the tie presses up beneath my chin, the collar tightens along the width of my neck, the entire construction of fabric and expectation locks around me like armor that was tailored not just to my body but to my soul—and in that moment, a single bead of sweat betrays me, sliding from the corner of my temple, down along my hairline, creeping beneath the sharp edge of the collar where it disappears into darkness, into heat, into submission.

The sensation is maddening.

I can feel the sweat pooling in places it shouldn’t—beneath my arms, along my ribs, down my back where the shirt sticks like wet parchment to the curve of my spine, held there not by comfort but by pressure, by fabric too stiff to yield and too arrogant to absorb—and my skin, my poor skin, it wants to breathe, wants to gasp open like a window in summer, but it can’t, because I’ve sealed it shut, locked it in beneath starch and silk and ritual.

And yet… I’m not done.

Because there is one last piece.

The hair.

It’s the only thing left untouched by product, the only part that still whispers of softness, of before, the way it clings lightly around the ears, the way the fringe sits just a little too uneven at the temples, the way the strands fall with defiance toward my forehead like they haven’t yet learned discipline—and I know, standing here in this skin that doesn’t quite belong to me anymore, that they don’t belong here, not with the knot in place, not with the shirt closed to the bone, not with a reflection already half-machine.

My throat tightens in sympathy, as if the knot senses my hesitation, as if it too is growing impatient for completion, and I raise both hands, slow and deliberate, to the buttons once more—not to undo them, but to feel their consequence—my fingertips brushing over each one from sternum to collar, confirming the closure, the fit, the cage, and when I reach the top, I press against it, firm, pushing it inward, feeling the way the collar tightens again, clicks into place like a manacle fitted with purpose.

And there it is, not just a sensation but a fact—the cinching, the subtle but relentless compression that isn’t violence but certainty, the second breath that doesn’t fully reach the chest, that hovers somewhere tight and shallow just below the collarbone, a breath shaped by limitation, a breath permitted rather than granted, and that permission hangs in the air around my throat like law written in cotton and silk and old money, a slow, deliberate reminder that freedom isn’t mine anymore, not here, not now, not with this knot secured and pressing into the soft hollow of my neck, not with this collar framing my jaw like an architectural detail in some forgotten chapel of discipline.

And that’s when it begins—not loudly, not suddenly, but with the quiet, treacherous certainty of something waking up inside me, something buried deep and low and uninvited, something that doesn’t care whether it belongs here, something shameful, electric, undeniable, crawling up from my stomach like a pulse with nowhere to go except outward into the trembling edges of my spine and downward into the parts of me I wish I could shut off, something that doesn’t come from pleasure, not exactly, but from containment, from the exquisite knowledge of being sealed, perfected, corrected, as if every rule enforced upon my body has sent out an echo into my nerves and found a place willing to respond.

And I don’t know why it feels good—but it does.

And I don’t know why the pressure feels like attention—but it does.

And I don’t know why the loss of comfort feels like the gaining of something deeper, harder, heavier—but it does.

No.

No, don’t think that.

I blink, sharp and fast, trying to cut the thought clean out of me before it roots, before it flowers, and my chest stutters with a single, helpless rise like a boy on the edge of something too big to hold in his lungs, something that might become sobbing or panting or screaming, but it doesn’t come, I don’t let it, because I can’t, because this is what I asked for, what I bargained for, what I lost into—this was the game, and I rolled the dice, and now this is what I rolled into.

And that’s when my hand, not entirely under my control, moves toward the final implement of this transformation, the one that has been waiting quietly, patiently, as if it knew its moment would come—the black glass jar that hasn’t spoken a word but has demanded everything, the pomade, round and cold and absolute, already half-filled with legacy before it ever touches my skin.

The jar feels heavier than its size should allow, the lid matte and smooth under my palm, lifting with a soft resistance like a vault not meant to be opened lightly, and inside, the surface is perfect—unbroken, glistening under the fluorescent light like oil on a dark sea, slick and still and knowing, as if it’s been waiting for the right moment to make itself part of someone new.

The scent unfurls the second I crack the seal, rising up into the room with deliberate force, thick and spiced and unapologetically male, built from clove and musk but undercut with something sharper, something edged and mechanical, something that smells like gasoline filtered through cologne, the kind of scent that doesn’t whisper or flirt or fade, but embeds, saturates, announces, and it hits me not as something unfamiliar, but as something I’ve always known—because this is what my stepfather wears, not like a choice, not like an accessory, but like an identity.

And now, it’s mine.

There’s no label inside the lid, no instructions, no delicate suggestion of use, but I don’t need them, because the rules are already inside me, planted like seeds in a season I didn’t know had come—no light touch, no playing around, no minimalist dab of wax for definition.

Pomade isn’t styling.

It’s structure.

It’s armor.

Hair must not move. Not when walking. Not when sweating. Not when bending to orders or stiffening under fear.

“You apply it until you can see yourself in it,” he said once, like it was a proverb passed through bloodlines.

“If it doesn’t glisten, it’s not finished.”

So I dip my fingers in.

The surface gives slowly, resisting like skin, but then yielding with thick, molten intent, and the wax wraps around my fingertips like something living, coating me in a way that feels less like product and more like commitment, its consistency somewhere between oil and glue, elastic and slow, pulling from jar to hand in threads that shimmer under the light like connective tissue.

And I raise my hand to my scalp.

The contact is a jolt—the cold of the product meeting the warm of my skin, the sudden understanding that this is the last step, the final crossing, and I press it in, not like a touch but like a claim, and immediately, I feel not just the application but the resistance, not from the pomade, but from my hair itself, as if it remembers being free, as if it still believes there’s a chance to rebel.

But there isn’t.

I press harder.

Both hands now.

Scoop. Warm. Press.

The sides first, because they are the easiest to tame, already short, already compliant, but I don’t take that for granted—I rake the product through with an almost punishing intensity, smoothing down every last strand as though covering evidence, wiping away fingerprints, removing traces of someone who lived here before.

The heat from my palms begins to melt the wax into a layer that gleams like varnish, and still it’s not enough, so I reach again, deeper, bringing up more than I need, more than I should, because too much is the point—because the excess isn’t a flaw, it’s the rule.

My fingers shine now, glistening under the harsh light with a lacquered sheen that no amount of wiping will remove, the remnants of pomade clinging to my skin like something consecrated, like oil from a ritual that cannot be undone, and beneath those fingers, my scalp no longer feels like skin and hair—it feels sealed, covered, wrapped in something meant to preserve or present, not comfort, as though I’ve poured resin over my head and am now waiting for it to harden, to cure into permanence.

The top resists—not because it’s stronger or thicker, but because it remembers itself, because it dares to think it can still be hair, still fall forward when I lean, still move with wind or thought or whim, because it still holds some identity, still wants to believe it is part of a person—but I don’t give it that luxury. I drag my fingers back through the length, flattening it into submission, forcing it into ridges shaped by the hardness of my hand and the weight of the wax, until the surface starts to feel less like something grown and more like something forged, something crafted from materials meant for precision, for shine, for message—not expression.

And then comes the comb.

It arrives in my hand like a tool summoned by instinct, not decision—its body solid, its teeth cold, sharp, close together in a way that signals intent, a comb not for grooming but for sculpting, for control—and I draw it through the crown with slow, deliberate pressure, and it bites, oh it bites, not just into the pomade but into the illusion of softness itself, dragging through resistance with a satisfying scrape that sends a thrill up my neck and down my spine, and that bite—that exact, unmistakable bite—is the sound of cost, of compliance, of a toll being taken from whatever part of me thought this wouldn’t change everything.

So I do it again.

I drag the teeth through the top, then again, and again, carving the part into place with a cruelty that feels necessary, positioning it far to the left, deeper than instinct, more surgical than stylish, a part not chosen but assigned, not aligned with nature but cut against it, a correction, a declaration, a wound in the scalp that announces something irreversible has occurred.

And in that moment, the truth lands with the weight of something final, something inevitable.

This isn’t a style.

It’s a sentence.

I continue to smooth, to press, to flatten every remaining whisper of motion or personality, every innocent ripple that suggests sleep or rebellion or youth, until the shape of my head becomes a mask of intention, a helmet of polish and compliance, until there is nothing left that resembles freedom, nothing left that resembles me.

My hands are useless now—sticky, slick, their prints erased by the gloss of submission—and I should be recoiling from them, should be desperate to wash this off, to reclaim the texture of skin, but I don’t. I can’t. Because even as the disgust should rise, it doesn’t. Because I am still looking. Still watching. Still admiring what is taking form before me in the mirror.

Because the more I stare, the more I see something approaching—no, not beauty, but clarity. Perfection. The glint that curls over the arc of my crown, the deep trench of the part that catches the light like a blade, the faint, flesh-toned shimmer of exposed scalp underneath the weight of control—it’s not accidental. It’s designed. It’s intended. It’s what he wanted.

I don’t look styled.

I look engineered.

Not shaped by whim or fashion, but drawn from schematics, as if someone drafted my silhouette with tools meant for architecture, not aesthetics. As if I am less man now, and more machine. Groomed by industry. Assembled.

And still the collar holds, tall and rigid, cupping the underside of my jaw like a frame, like a brace, unyielding in its starch, while the knot, now hot with sweat and tension, pushes back against my throat, a pressure so constant it no longer feels like fabric, but presence, like an invisible thumb pressing upward to remind me of its control.

And I don’t care.

Because when I look at the mirror now—truly look, not just glance or measure—I see nothing hesitant. I see no trace of the boy who once stood here half-dressed and afraid. I see nothing partial. Nothing undone. What stares back from behind the sheen and the polish and the collar and the tie is no longer wondering who he is.

Because he knows.

He’s product.

And the sickest part?

He’s beautiful.

I reach for the towel, but it’s pointless. The fibers catch nothing. The pomade has already claimed my skin, clung to the folds between my fingers, buried itself beneath my nails. There is no wiping it off. It’s in me now. And the scent—the same spiced, musky scent that coats his office, his shirts, his gloves—already rises from my body like a brand, like a story I will carry into every room.

He will smell it on me.

He will know.

And he will be pleased.

And in the mirror, my hair isn’t hair anymore.

It’s armor.

It doesn’t move.

It gleams.

It commands.

I lean in, too close, too hungry to pretend it’s just about checking the final result, and the lights above catch every glint, every glossed ridge, every perfect stroke of comb and hand. I turn my head and see it—the profile that no longer suggests hesitation, the jawline now framed like a sculpture, the part sharp enough to slice, the silhouette honed like a weapon.

Weaponized.

I swallow.

And the tie answers.

I am trapped.

I am finished.

And I am aroused.

I turn the tap and let the water run until steam begins to rise, curling upward like a veil over the mirror, thickening the already too-warm air of the room until it clings to my skin, mixes with the sweat already collecting at the small of my back and beneath my arms, soaking into the thin cotton of the shirt until it feels like a second skin sealed by starch and moisture and heat. My body is coated now, not just in fabric and routine but in layers of ritual that don’t breathe. I lean forward, cupping hot water in my hands, splashing it against my face—not to clean, not really, but to shock myself into alertness, to jolt whatever part of me is still resisting this new form into consciousness—but all it does is sharpen the contrast, make the damp pores of my cheek feel even more exposed against the sleek, unyielding gloss of my scalp, the old skin meeting the new surface like a wound pressed to wax. I look down into the basin and see them—those first few snipped strands, slick with pomade, curled like dead insects against the porcelain, a crime scene in miniature, evidence of something that can't be undone.

I haven’t even reached the razor yet.

It’s waiting for me, lying beside the bowl like an artifact too proud to flinch—long, silver, glinting under the unforgiving bathroom light, its polished ebony handle a quiet monument to tradition and control. There’s something ecclesiastical about it, something surgical too, as though it might belong in the kit of a Victorian barber or a priest preparing a sacrament—or maybe in a drawer labeled punishment, its blade meant not only to shave but to strip away the last defense of the self. I dip my fingers into the water, heat biting into my skin for an instant before surrendering into warmth, the kind that seeps in, that claims rather than comforts, and I reach for the brush—badger bristle, of course, never synthetic, because details matter, because antique rituals demand antique tools—and begin to whip the soap into foam. The lather rises quickly, thick and white and medicinal, its scent a sharp blend of menthol and austerity, the kind of cleanliness that doesn’t soothe but commands. I bring it to my face and begin to apply it—not gently, not like a balm, but with rough, methodical strokes that make the bristles scrape faintly at the fine hairs on my jaw, not enough to hurt, but enough to wake the nerves and remind me that softness is over, that each inch of skin still carrying resistance will now be claimed by ceremony.

The contrast is unbearable. The room is a furnace. My body, wrapped in cotton and silk and sheen, radiates heat from beneath layers that trap rather than release, and the moment the cool foam touches my skin, it’s like ice settling into a fever—it shocks, it stings, it clarifies. I cover every inch that matters: the neck, the cheeks, the jawline, the slope of my chin. I leave nothing undone. Because that’s not permitted. Because perfection isn’t a reward. It’s a requirement. I know I don’t need to shave—there’s hardly any growth, a day’s worth at most, fine and fair—but that’s never mattered. This isn’t about grooming. This is about obedience. “A gentleman shaves even when he doesn’t need to,” he told me, voice steady and cold, the morning after I lost, standing behind me in this very room, his hand on my shoulder like a yoke, his tone like a promise carved in frost. “You’ll wake at six. You’ll groom by six-fifteen. You’ll wear what I’ve selected. And you’ll learn to see the mirror not as a window to yourself—but as a door you walk through every day. Into the man you are now required to be.”

I pick up the razor.

It’s heavier than it looks. Heavier than it has any right to be. I test its edge—not directly, just close enough to feel that whisper of danger, that gleam of threat hiding behind tradition—and I bring it to my cheek, careful, deliberate, mindful of angle, because you can’t go flat or you’ll scrape, and you can’t go steep or you’ll bleed. You have to find the perfect line. The obedient one. The first stroke glides clean. I hear it, soft but undeniable—the sound of the blade removing not just foam, but stubble, ritual, resistance. I wipe the razor. Begin again. The second stroke. The third. My face begins to chill with every pass, the rawness of the air touching skin that no longer has a shield, and I hold my expression blank even as my chest starts to panic, because this is it, this is the last of me being stripped away, and still, beneath the dread, beneath the shame, something else stirs—tightens low in my abdomen, pulses faint and treacherous between my thighs. It’s pride. It’s arousal. It’s hunger, and I don’t know how to bury it.

I finish the shave and rinse the blade, then my face. The water is scalding this time, and it bites, but I don’t flinch, because I’ve learned now that pain can be part of the process. I pat my skin dry. In the mirror, the man I see is no longer in transition. He is no longer preparing. He is sealed. The jaw is pale and gleaming, the cheeks bare and punished. My hair doesn’t resemble hair anymore—it reflects the overhead light like oil on polished stone. It’s not soft. It’s not warm. It’s a helmet, molded to my skull, trapping heat and thought and breath beneath its lacquered surface, sealing everything in until even the sweat has nowhere to go. I test it—turning my head slowly, side to side, careful not to strain the collar or knot—and it doesn’t move. Not one strand. Not one tremor. It’s solid. It’s absolute. There’s no humanity in it anymore.

I raise my hand, almost against my will, and touch the surface. My fingertips glide across it like glass. There’s friction, yes, but no give. The pomade has set like concrete. The hair holds its shape like a sculpture cast in wax. The sides reveal my skull in ways that feel anatomical—each curve, each indentation above the ear, each plane behind the temple now on full display. It doesn’t feel like grooming. It feels like autopsy. Exposure. A reveal of something meant to be hidden. I am no longer casual. No longer capable of pretending ease or softness or selfhood.

I press harder. The surface crackles faintly, not in protest, but in resistance, like something old and firm asserting its permanence. I pull my hand away, and again, I see the residue—the shine, the weight, the scent already leaking into my skin. I bring my fingers to my nose before I even realize I’ve moved.

And the smell—clove, musk, heat, oil—hits me like a slap to the soul.

It smells like him.

And I hate myself, deeply and with venom, because the scent floods through me with a force I can’t block, and it doesn’t stop at memory. It travels downward. To my throat. My chest. My stomach. My groin.

It’s not fear.

It’s not shame.

It’s something deeper.

And it’s dangerous.

I step back—not far, not even a full pace, just a half-step, just enough to draw the entire image into frame, to see not the components but the sum, the architecture of the self I’ve been slowly assembling piece by piece like a ritual sculpture, and now, finally, it stands. The tie, pulled so tight that its knot has become less a fashion and more a presence, sits proud and firm against my throat, still pressing inward with that calm, cruel pressure, not suffocating but unmistakable, a constant reminder of structure, of rule. The shirt is a sheath now, wrinkleless, vacuum-sealed to my chest and arms by starch and by submission, its form so fitted that it feels less like fabric and more like containment, the prison of a man sculpted from cotton. And the collar—oh, the collar—rises with imperial resolve, high and hard, encircling my neck with all the grace of a vice wrapped in cloth, and it does not move, it does not bend, and it does not forgive. But it’s the hair—God, the hair—that gleams like wet iron beneath the light, that catches the reflection of every fluorescent edge and throws it back in a high-gloss sheen of control, of perfection, of something designed to last. Nothing is out of place. Nothing dares to be out of place. I blink, just once, and the mirror, that silent, merciless judge, does not blink back.

And it’s in this moment—this tight, trembling moment suspended between breath and awareness—that something inside me slips, not loudly, not violently, but with the quiet gravity of tectonic plates shifting beneath centuries of silence. I feel it—not in the body, not in the blood, but deeper, buried somewhere behind the bones and beneath the name I used to answer to—a slow, guttural recognition, like the opening of a vault long sealed shut. A part of me, old and wordless, finally exhales. Not in comfort. Not in joy. But in something darker. In knowing. It whispers, low and direct and without hesitation: There you are. And I flinch—not outwardly, not visibly, but within—because I do not know if it’s speaking to me… or through me… or of him.

My hand moves again, automatic, like a ritual already memorized, reaching for the comb I had set aside as though the ritual were done, as though I had arrived, as though anything is ever truly finished. It lies across the sink, silent and innocent, and yet it calls to me like a relic, a tool of confirmation. I should be finished. My hair has already hardened into place, every strand frozen by oil and obedience, but still—my fingers curl around the comb’s cold spine. I lift it. I angle it. I place the teeth precisely at the part. And I trace it—once, only once, slow and deliberate, not to fix but to feel, to remind myself that I can still touch this form and not undo it. That what I’ve created, what I’ve allowed to happen to myself, is no longer temporary. It’s been set. Sealed. Seared into permanence. The teeth move like a scalpel through a healed scar, slicing no skin but cutting something deeper. And when I draw it back, smooth and reverent across the slick crown of my head, no hairs move. Not one. The part is perfect. It was perfect. But now, it’s also mine. And not mine. And that’s why I needed to touch it.

The mirror holds me there. Watches. Waits. As if it knows that this—this is the moment of surrender, the moment I stop pretending there’s anything left to protect, anything left to salvage. The pomade has dried now. Hardened completely. My hair is no longer a style. It’s a casing. A shell. My thoughts feel sealed under it, vacuum-packed beneath the slick. I can feel my scalp tingling faintly, itching somewhere under the gloss, but I will not scratch. I will not break the surface. Not after everything. Not after what I’ve done to become this.

The tie hasn’t moved. The collar still clamps tight. I am groomed, but not dressed. Not fully. Not yet. I turn—slowly, so the seams don’t strain—and face it. The suit. Waiting there in silence, hanging on its brass stand like a relic of another century, a relic from the world he built. It’s not just a jacket. It’s not just clothing. It’s a verdict. A commandment. The fabric is deep navy—so dark it swallows light—cut in a herringbone weave that only becomes visible when you’re close enough to feel its weight, a texture you don’t notice until it’s already on you, already pressing down. The lining is red. Not just red, but blood-red. Hidden under the folds like a secret. Like a threat. I haven’t even touched it yet, but I can already feel what it wants from me—discipline, posture, stillness. Authority.

So I begin.

The socks come first. Knee-length. Wool. Charcoal gray and thick with intent. They don’t slip on—they climb, rising inch by inch over damp legs, clinging to flattened hair and hot skin, constricting without cruelty but with absolute certainty. I sit on the cold marble counter, the chill biting through the fabric beneath me, and I pull the first sock up, slowly, slowly, watching the wool consume the leg like shadow. It ends just shy of my thigh. The second follows—same rhythm, same compression. And once both are on, I stand. The socks stretch tight. Seamless. Silent. And I feel something shift just below the waist—a whisper of submission where my body begins to yield.

But I’m not finished.

Shirt garters next. Thin black elastic. Cold metal clips. He insists. One end clamps to the hem of the shirt, the other to the top of the sock, and the moment I fasten the first, I feel it—the tug. The draw. The mechanical correction of posture. My back straightens. My shoulders align. The shirt tightens downward with silent precision. No more movement. No more rumpling. Just authority. I fasten the others. Snap. Snap. Snap. Each one a lock. Each one a law. Now, the shirt is a second skin, fitted tighter than flesh. There is no wrinkling. No misalignment. Only containment.

Sleeve garters. Thin silver bands, polished to a dull shine. I slide them up my forearms and lock them just beneath the elbows, gathering the excess fabric into smooth, perfect folds. Decorative, yes. Obsolete, maybe. But here, in this house, tradition is command. Elegance is not a suggestion. It’s enforced.

Then the trousers.

Except they aren’t trousers.

They’re shorts.

Wool. Tailored. High-waisted. Ending just above the knee. Not modern. Not boyish. Not accidental. Designed to humiliate and define. They are precise in their cruelty—cut to deny dignity but demand posture. The waistband rises above the navel. I step into them slowly, watching the mirror, watching the boy with bare thighs pull them up over the garters, watching the shift as skin disappears beneath tailored wool. The moment they close around my thighs, I feel it—the seal. The grip. They don’t give. They don’t forgive. The fabric presses into my skin like an oath. And below the hem, that narrow, deliberate strip of exposed thigh. Two inches of skin, framed between the bottom of the shorts and the top of the socks. Not childlike. Not adult. Just visible. Just wrong.

I feel the air brush that strip of thigh. It chills me. Reminds me. Those inches are intentional. They are not forgotten. They are part of the uniform. Not a mistake. A design.

There is no belt.

There are suspenders.

Navy blue with red piping, leather ends, fastened by hand. I find them draped where he left them, and I pull them over my shoulders with reverence. Fasten the front. Snap. The waistband lifts. I reach behind, twisting slightly, and secure the rear. Snap. Snap. The braces draw everything upward. They finish what the garters began. My spine straightens again. My chest expands—not with pride, but pressure. The shirt is pulled taut across my torso. The shorts are now fixed. My body is a pillar.

I cannot slouch.

I cannot hide.

I cannot breathe without permission.

I glance again in the mirror—just a glance, brief, but somehow it strikes deeper than the last, because this time the frame is full, and I see it all—the shirt drawn skin-tight across my chest, the tie knot perched like a stone at the base of my throat, the shorts cutting off my dignity mid-thigh with brutal precision. And the effect of it—of seeing myself like this, dressed not by taste or style or even punishment, but by decree—it’s unbearable. But it’s also arousing. Because the look is not boyish. It’s not youthful. It’s not playful. It’s controlled. Corrected. Composed. The kind of look that erases choice. That denies comfort. That replaces freedom with ritual. But the shorts—God, the shorts—they rob me of any illusion I might still cling to, any pretense of autonomy, any fantasy of adult rebellion, because I know, and he knows, and the mirror—always the mirror—knows, that I am too old to be wearing this. And that’s exactly why it works.

So I stand there—just for a moment longer—hands hovering awkwardly at my sides, breath slowing into something shallow and regulated, every inch of me pulled and pressed and cinched into place by the unholy trinity of silk, starch, wool, and command. I feel it. The coolness of the air brushing against my thighs where they’re still exposed. The compression of the waistcoat wrapping like a second ribcage around my torso. The bite of the braces holding everything too high. The collar locked into my neck like a chain with buttons instead of links. And there it is again—that unmistakable sensation: I am suffocated. And I am thrillingly small.

The waistcoat waits. Double-breasted. Same navy wool as the shorts, same cold authority stitched into every seam. The buttons are flat and dark, disappearing into the fabric like they don’t want to be seen, as if their only job is to disappear while they do the work of making me disappear too. The cut is high. Deliberately so. It shows the knot of the tie perfectly, frames it with narrow lapels that rise like punctuation, quotation marks that encase silence, that point upward toward my face and say: this is the center now. I lift it. Slide it on. And the second it settles across my shoulders, I feel the trap spring shut. Not cold. Not immediate. But inevitable. The wool wraps around me like heat from a fire you can’t back away from, closing in from both sides until the space between me and the fabric is gone.

I button it slowly. From the bottom upward. Each one a new compression, a new subtraction of space. I feel the garment pull inward as I work up the line, until the final button—the highest, the cruelest—slips into place and presses into the softest part of my gut. I try to inhale. I try to breathe with any depth. I can’t. The waistcoat has taken that option away. I’m not comforted. I’m not protected. I’m compressed. Trimmed. Sculpted into someone else’s version of control. The lining brushes against my shirt. My shirt strains to obey. The tension is everywhere now—in my ribs, in my arms, in my neck. The sleeves draw perfectly to the wrist, the cuffs now sitting in flawless formation just below the edge of the jacket-to-come. The French cuffs, pure white against dark blue wool, sit like punctuation. And the cufflinks—those flat silver circles—shine with a kind of mute precision. They don’t sparkle. They don’t draw attention. They enforce. I flex my hands once. The cuffs don’t shift. They never do.

And below it all, still visible from mid-thigh down, the shorts remain. A rebellion against formality. A contradiction too deliberate to be accidental. They reveal the pale bands of my upper legs, the skin that doesn’t belong in this ensemble, and yet insists on staying, and the chill on that exposed strip of thigh is a constant whisper that I’m not in control. The contrast sharpens everything. The dignity of the jacket. The humiliation of the shorts. The fusion makes me feel not incomplete—but punished. Finished. And yet, deliberately reduced.

Then comes the jacket.

It hangs waiting, like a final sentence, single-breasted, three-button, peak lapels that flare not gently but sharply, aggressively, like blades cut to draw the eye and cut away whatever softness remains. I take it from the hanger and immediately the weight surprises me. Not metaphorically. Physically. The wool is dense. Structured. It pulls down with its own gravity, as if it knows what it is and won’t let me forget. I slide it on.

And it lands.

It doesn’t settle. It lands—on my shoulders, over the waistcoat, across the shirt and the braces and the guilt and the heat. It’s not a garment. It’s a verdict. The silk lining brushes the wool below it with a sound like a warning. Red against red. Blood against order. It hisses as I pull it into place, and I feel the sleeves fall precisely, almost militaristically, just short of the sleeve garters still hugging my arms beneath.

The cuffs of the shirt emerge, white and clean, showing exactly the right amount of contrast. The jacket ends just where it should. The shorts, of course, still betray me—framing the lower half of my body in disgrace. But the top… the top is perfection. I fasten the middle button.

And that’s when the silhouette emerges.

My chest flattens. My waist narrows. My shoulders square. The collar presses harder against the base of my skull. The tie presses upward with renewed intensity. My torso becomes geometry. My form no longer human but uniform. The shorts beneath are almost irrelevant. Almost. But they remain. They frame my thighs like a joke the tailor didn’t bother to explain.

The wool grips me like a second skin. No, not a skin. A casing. A mold. A sculpture of submission. The garters pull downward. The braces pull upward. My spine has been dictated to. My limbs aligned. I cannot shift. I cannot twist. I cannot slouch. The suit has made those decisions for me.

I reach for the pocket square.

Red. Always red. The same hue as the lining, the same red that lives in warnings and branding irons. Not puffed. Not flamboyant. Folded. Clean. Four corners up, pressed into a line so perfect it doesn’t look inserted—it looks embedded. Sewn in. Claimed. I place it in the left breast pocket. The jacket resists for half a second. Then it gives. The square vanishes into place like it belongs there. I smooth it once. One trembling hand. One final adjustment.

Then I look up.

And there I am.

Waistcoat. Jacket. Tie. Cufflinks. Shorts. Socks. Garters. Skin. Every line exact. Every color planned. The pale thigh beneath the hem of the shorts stings under the fluorescent lights. My arms hang straight, like I’ve been ordered to present. My lips are dry. My collar is choking. My groin aches.

I am humiliated. I am terrified.

And I am aroused.

Only the shoes remain. And after that—there will be nothing left to dress.

They sit on the low stool by the counter like punctuation marks to the sentence my body has become—polished black Oxfords with cap toes so bright they reflect the bathroom lights in miniature, every line sharpened by layers of wax and the kind of attention that doesn’t suggest care, but scrutiny. They gleam not with vanity, but with enforcement. Not shoes, but the final installment of a uniform. I lower myself slowly, carefully, my knees already stiff beneath the wool of the shorts, the brace of the waistcoat making the simple motion feel ceremonial. My thighs press against the edge of the vanity as I bend, the tight hem of the shorts digging slightly into skin that’s already oversensitive from exposure. My spine stays erect even as I crouch—because it must, because the braces allow nothing else—and I reach for the first shoe with both hands. The leather opens just enough to admit my foot, the heel sliding into place with the quietest pop, as if the shoe were taking a breath and choosing to hold it.

Then the second.

It resists for a moment, the angle off, the pomade on my hands making the leather slip, and I feel a flicker of panic as the lace slips through my grasp, a pulse of shame bright and sudden. I grip harder, harder than I need to, and thread the laces with trembling fingers, slick with product and sweat and something else I won’t name. I knot. I pull. I bow. And the laces draw tight—not comfort-tight, not firm-but-forgiving—tight like a grip, like a verdict, like they don’t just fasten but fasten me.

I rise.

And the soles speak before I do.

They are hard, unyielding, clicking once against the marble as I settle my weight. There’s no softness. No tread. No compromise. They announce each step as if delivering a statement, and my feet now feel farther from the floor than they did seconds ago—not because the shoes raise me, but because they separate me, elevate me into a posture that was never mine until now. The braces pull from above. The collar grips from beneath. The waistcoat compresses my torso. The socks cinch my calves. The shirt garters dig their unseen command into the tops of my thighs. There is no freedom of motion. There is only structure. I am laced, strapped, buttoned, closed, drawn, and shaped.

I turn toward the mirror.

And what greets me is no longer a man midway through dressing. No longer a boy halfway into punishment.

What greets me is a result.

The reflection stands still, impossibly composed, every edge locked into form—no creases, no sag, no slack in the line from collar to toe. The hair gleams like lacquered wood, the part sliced clean and sharp across the scalp, the style hardened into permanence. The face beneath it is pale from heat, red around the jawline, still raw from the razor, but composed. The shirt is flat against my chest, drawn into place with mechanical pull from beneath, the tie biting into my throat with an elegance that no longer feels delicate, only inescapable. The shorts—my God, the shorts—mock the dignity of the rest, their juvenile hem hovering inches above the socks, revealing skin that feels both overexposed and branded. They do not allow me to pretend. They do not let me perform maturity. They expose the lie. The shoes below frame it all with finality, black mirrors at my feet that reflect a person I no longer understand.

And that’s the horror of it.

Because what I see is not unmade. Not awkward. Not in transition.

He is complete.

Finished.

The thing in the mirror is taller than me—not in measurement, but in posture. Straighter. Shoulders squared, chest tight, arms held close like a soldier at rest, eyes too calm to belong to someone just dressed. His presence feels cooled, sealed, resolved. There is no rebellion left in him. Not in the tilt of the head. Not in the glint of the eye. Not in the line of the mouth. He wears the uniform like a skin. Like it grew from him, not around him.

There is no softness in that figure.

No hesitance.

No noise.

Just clean, symmetrical silence.

And beneath the symmetry, there is no trace of the boy who came into this bathroom barefoot, half-awake, mouth dry, smirking still in some half-forgotten memory of freedom. He is gone. He’s been trimmed away. Shaved. Sealed. Combed back. Buttoned under. Forced down. Packed into wool and starch and silk and shine. And what’s worse—worse than all of it—is the part of me that still stands behind the glass, blinking, chest burning, collar biting, knowing this isn’t who I am - and also knowing that I look better than I ever have.

God help me.

I look good.

My stomach knots violently, a twist that feels less like nerves and more like something deeper turning inside out—tight, acidic, a surge of hot shame that crawls up my chest until it coils beneath my ribs like a swallowed scream, and I want—God, I want—to tear at the tie, to rip the jacket from my arms, to drag both hands through the gelled shell of my hair until the part is ruined, the shine destroyed, the obedience shattered, until I’m disheveled and wrong and human again—but I don’t move. I just stare. Paralyzed. Held not by the clothing, not by the collar or the shoes or the braces, but by the reflection itself—its judgment, its finality—and I feel it.

The arousal.

It rises slow, brutal, traitorous, not in a rush but in a seep, like something dark and long-contained emerging from beneath the floorboards of my gut, like heat from a furnace that’s been burning quietly for years. It pulses low—once, twice—just below my navel, unmistakable, unavoidable, twisted between the garters at my thighs and the socks climbing up my calves and the wool pressed tight around everything else, and I feel it—not abstract, not metaphorical—but real, heavy, physical, alive in the most shameful part of me, swollen against the uniform that forbids it.

I suck in a breath—sharp, desperate—but the tie doesn’t allow it, not fully, not easily; it tightens in return, a silk noose that reminds me I am sealed, I am bound, I am not allowed to feel this, and yet here it is.

No. No. No.

This can’t be happening. Not now. Not here. But it is. My body reacts. My mind rebels. My reflection watches—all of it—and does nothing, offers no rescue, no mercy, only the silent company of another me who already knew this would come. I shift, or try to. I try to relieve the pressure, to adjust, to hide it—but the trousers are too tight, the suspenders too firm, the fabric too thick, and the uniform too complete. There is no space left for movement. Not even that kind.

And then—like a bell tolling inside my chest—I remember his voice. Low, cold, final.

“If you cannot behave, Zachary... if you disgrace the uniform... you will know chastity. You will live with the consequences of unearned pleasure. Forever.”

Forever.

I tremble—not from cold, not from fear alone, but from the compound weight of it all—fear and shame and the wretched spark of desire. From the unbearable truth that I am standing here, erect in every sense, while dressed in the exact image of what he wanted me to be. And my heart is pounding in my ears now, my pulse booming against the base of the collar, my jaw clenched, my breath ragged but shallow, and I cannot bear it—

But I cannot look away.

Because it isn’t just control anymore. This is submission turned erotic. This is the body admitting what the mind still denies.

My throat clicks as I try to swallow again, but the tie is waiting—it always is—and it presses up under my Adam’s apple with cool silence, as if saying: you chose this. Now wear it. The pomade has dried into its final form. I can feel it hardening like lacquer across my scalp, holding every thought beneath a shell of shine, and the scent hasn’t faded—it lingers in the heat, wrapping around me, clove and musk and discipline, a scent too intimate to be clothing, too masculine to be safe. I can smell it in my breath. On my skin. Inside me.

And the suit—

God, the suit.

It doesn’t wear like fabric. It holds like iron. It doesn’t breathe. It seals. The waistcoat compresses my core like a binding; the trousers pinch at the hips, hugging me tight; the suspenders lift and stretch and keep me pulled upright; the socks climb and the garters yank downward; every layer applies a new law. There is no comfort, no warmth but the kind that suffocates, no give, no flex. Just heat. Just pressure. Just silence.

My mouth is dry.

I inhale again—forced, shallow—and straighten without thinking. My back locks into posture. My hands fall, fingers resting just beside the seams of my trousers. The jacket shifts around me, not with grace, but with control. The cuffs brush against my wrists like cool reminders that even my arms are not mine anymore. The shoes grip the tile like clamps.

I hear his voice again, as if it's still inside my head, not memory but prophecy, smooth and sharp like glass under pressure, quiet enough to sound like reason but firm enough to override it: “Before you enter, you bow.” And my body tightens, not because I want it to, but because everything in me still functioning beneath the layers of heat and wool and ritual knows that he means it—that this is not ceremony, not politeness, not grace, but a command carved into habit, one that has waited silently for this exact moment. My stomach twists violently in protest, in panic, in shame, because bowing now—bowing dressed like this, groomed like this, sealed like this—feels like the final surrender, the one I’ve managed to delay by the friction of hesitation. But there’s no delay now. Because this isn’t about instinct. This isn’t about resistance. This isn’t even about dignity.

So I bow.

Not deep. Not a plea. Just the angle I’ve been trained to produce—the precise dip of the head, the slight incline of the spine, the lowering of the chin until the collar, stiff and starched and punishing, crushes up against the underside of my jaw, until the knot of the tie pushes back like a hard finger of silk, until the jacket tightens along the shoulders and across the waistcoat with the unmistakable resistance of wool built for control, not motion. I rise slowly—measured, upright, flawless—because that’s how I’ve been taught to rise. And as my eyes return to the mirror, my reflection is already waiting—unmoved, unimpressed, unchanged—his eyes meet mine with a stare that does not forgive and does not need to. He nods.

Barely.

A gesture so small it barely registers, but the meaning lands like iron. Not approval. Not affection. Just recognition. A mirror acknowledging that its occupant is now properly shaped. A soldier saluting the moment of his own submission. A man admitting he has been claimed.

I turn.

The jacket shifts, heavy as ever, unmoved by grace, unwilling to forget that it was designed to resist. The trousers tug slightly at the back of my legs, the braces pulling taut across my spine like reins. I walk. One step. Then another. The hallway waits.

It stretches ahead like a corridor of consequence, long and narrow and quiet, its polished wooden floors so perfectly waxed that they reflect the trim of my shoes and the cuffs of my socks in shallow echoes beneath me, like ghosts of movement. A Persian runner softens the steps, dulls the echo but not the weight. The walls are lined with oil portraits of men—old men, grim and silent, rendered in rich, dark tones beneath gilded frames. All of them in suits. All of them watching. Their painted eyes seem to fix on my chest—not my face, not my hands, but the very center of me where the tie lies flat and the waistcoat cuts tight. They are not welcoming eyes. They do not smile. They watch.

The air here is cooler. I know this. But I don’t feel it. The heat trapped inside the suit has become my climate, my prison, my sweat-slick world. Every step is friction. The wool shorts chafe against the bare skin of my thighs. The tucked and stretched hem of my shirt rubs beneath my waistcoat with the tight motion of fabric that no longer flows but binds. The suspenders ride with every breath. And the shoes—God, the shoes—they don’t offer comfort, only presence. Their soles land with a precision I cannot mute.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The hallway amplifies each step like a judgment. Every click is louder than it should be. Every click is a confession. And with each confession, the arousal returns—not gentle now, not passing. It burns low, pulsing behind the wool and the restraint and the pressure. The waistband presses too high, the braces pull too hard, and every square inch of fabric seems to know what it’s doing, seems to join in the effort of keeping me bound. I’m no longer just dressed. I’m occupied. Contained. Encased.

The pomade in my hair has dried fully now. The part is so rigid it feels like a second skull. My scalp has forgotten motion. My neck, pressed by the collar, held by the knot, has no liberty. The pocket square gleams in my vision, red like a flag raised in warning. I have become what he demanded. And something inside me wants to suffer for it.

The door is there now—half-open, never wide, never closed—always that calculated fraction that sits precisely between invitation and refusal, between entry and exile, between obedience and punishment, a sliver of space that signals more than it permits, and as I approach, my chest tightens not from the walk, not from the wool, not from the tie pressing into my throat, but from the simple inevitability of this moment. I step inside.

He’s already there, of course—he always is—anchored behind the vast slab of oak he calls a desk, his posture unshakable, hands folded with the kind of stillness that implies power has nowhere to go, that it does not need to move to dominate. His suit is grey today—darker than mine but cut the same—his hair combed and parted with the same ruthless discipline, glistening under the brass lamp with the exact same hardened finish I now carry on my scalp like a badge or a seal. He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t speak. He simply looks.

And that look—God, that look—it isn’t a glance or an inspection, it’s a process, a slow blade drawn from bottom to top, shearing away pretense as it climbs. His eyes begin at the shoes, where the polish mirrors the floor and the ceiling in equal measure, then up to the socks pulled tight and symmetrical, and further to the bareness of my thighs where the shorts end too early, revealing more than they should, but exactly as he’s designed them to. His gaze lingers at the waistband, takes in the tug of the braces, the cinch of the waistcoat, then climbs again—past the lapels, over the flat line of my chest, pausing again at the tie. And then higher. To the collar. To the jawline it traps. And finally, inevitably, to the hair—sculpted, gleaming, parted with surgical severity. The part. The gloss. The glint.

He nods.

Once.

There is no praise in that nod. No approval. No warmth. It is not recognition of achievement, but of compliance—pure, wordless acknowledgment that the work is done, that the uniform has been accepted, that the resistance has been flattened beneath protocol and starch and tailored wool. And in that silence—so total, so choking—I want to scream. Not speak. Not cry. Scream. Tear the collar from my throat, rip the sleeves from my arms, ruin the part in my hair with both hands and drag my nails down the lining of the waistcoat until I feel something like skin again. But I don’t. I can’t.

I stand.

Spine erect. Arms at my sides. Chest rising in small, shallow breaths that don’t reach the bottom of my lungs. Shoulders squared. Chin slightly lifted—not with pride, but because the collar leaves no other option. And the ache in my groin, that shameful heat I thought I could ignore, flares again beneath the weight of everything I wear. The desire isn’t gone. It’s worse now. Hardened into something unbearable, something that pulses behind layers of fabric and control and silence, something that feels like a sin I can’t name.

His voice cuts through the silence—not loud, not harsh, but low and immovable, the kind of voice that doesn’t request but commands, that doesn’t rise but sinks deep enough to carry weight: “Turn.”

And I do, not in haste or hesitation, but in that practiced, perfect motion he’s trained into me over weeks of instruction and weeks more of silent, implicit correction—slowly, precisely, every muscle responding as if my spine were marked with a ruler and my heels set on tracks, pivoting with mechanical efficiency, my chin remaining fixed not by pride but by the collar that will not permit it to fall, my arms held motionless at my sides not by thought but by form, by conditioning, by the architecture of the suit that cages me. I don’t glance at him. I don’t seek his face. I know better. I know I am not permitted that.

He studies me again.

There is no urgency in the examination, no impatience, no wasted breath. He has all the time in the world, and I have none, because I belong to this moment, to his inspection, to this cold scrutiny that doesn’t need words to hurt, only silence. The pause stretches, grows fat with stillness, with held breath, with the weight of wool on my shoulders and sweat beneath my shirt, until it becomes not simply a gap between statements but a wall, a chamber, a verdict.

Then, finally—calm, precise, irrevocable: “You’ll remain like this. Until further notice.”

There is no explanation offered. No gesture of reassurance or cruelty. No elaboration that might soften or sharpen what it means. Just a flat declaration of permanence. A suspension of identity. A freezing of self. And I know what those words carry, how long they stretch. I know what “further notice” can mean in this house, in this system, in this design. I know it could be hours. Days. Weeks. I know that it isn’t the command that matters now—but the silence that will follow it.

The wool seems to grow heavier in that moment, as though every thread has absorbed the decree and decided to cling more tightly to my shoulders. The collar feels higher, stiffer, a millimeter tighter against the back of my neck and beneath my jaw, so that even breath—already shallow—must fight harder for passage. My lungs begin to treat air like rationed currency, measured and taxed, no longer mine to take. I can’t draw deeply. I don’t dare try.

But I don’t resist. I don’t protest. I don’t move.

Because this—this stillness, this structure, this suffocating calm—is what I’ve become. Not accidentally. Not through coercion. Through process. Through choice.

He lifts his glass, not toward me, not as a salute, not even with the faint theatricality of dismissal, but with total, unshakable indifference—his attention already drifting back to the papers on his desk, the numbers and signatures and matters of control that now matter more than I do. Because I have become something finished. Something static. Something that no longer requires his energy.

I am not dismissed. There is no motion, no hand waved, no verbal cue—no final acknowledgment that I am free to go, because I am not. I am simply no longer present. Not in his world, not in his focus, not in the weight of his attention. He’s already returned to the papers on his desk, to the neat lines of ink and order, to the logic of numbers and names that matter more than the boy—or the man—who just completed transformation before his eyes. I am not dismissed. Because dismissal would mean I’m still a variable. I’m not. I am solved. Filed. Finished.

Not because I failed.

But because I am complete.

Complete in a way that leaves nothing loose, nothing soft, nothing undefined. Complete in the way glass is complete, or steel. There are no more edges to sand down, no fibers to tuck, no posture to correct. There are no more commands to give. No more corners to straighten. No more disobedience left to correct. Because there is nothing left of me that hasn’t been shaped by him. Nothing of me that hasn’t been folded and stitched and sculpted and sealed into place—nothing that can move freely anymore, not breath, not thought, not desire, unless it is first authorized by the architecture of the uniform, the code of the silhouette, the outline of his expectations made manifest in wool and steel and silence.

The design is finished.

And like any finished object, I no longer require attention. I am not his ward. I am not his worry. I am the result. The artifact. The echo of a boy smoothed into silence.

I turn again—this time without command, but not without permission—because I no longer need instructions to know what comes next. Even that motion, that pivot of the body, that subtle shift in the line of the shoulder and spine, is part of the system now. It is already built into me, pre-programmed into my posture, stitched into the braces, aligned with the jacket seams. The creak of the garters is soft beneath the waistcoat. The shoes whisper once against the thick Persian rug, the soles recognizing the floor with that obedient hush of polished submission.

And then—

Click.

Click.

Click.

I leave the study in silence.

The corridor feels longer now. Brighter. Harsher. Every light gleams too cleanly off polished tile, every window pane reflects too much, and my footsteps—silent though they are in those polished Oxfords—feel like violations in a museum. My reflection flickers in the high-gloss cabinetry as I pass: little fragments of myself in full uniform, disconnected glimpses of a figure that should not exist and yet somehow now must—hair like a sculpted helmet, suit like a vault, collar cinched like a vice. I am sweating beneath it all. My skin is soaked and sticking, the fabric too tight, too close, too sealed. But there is no escape. The wool traps it. The garters hold me. The braces lift me. The tie binds me. The part in my hair slices across my scalp like a surgical line of submission, glinting with dried pomade under artificial light. And so I walk. Slow. Straight-backed. Into the living room.

The room is massive—soaring ceilings, silent windows, the city held at a distance like a painting. Wall-to-wall glass reveals a skyline I no longer feel part of, twenty-eight floors above the world I once called mine, when I wore hoodies, and sneakers, and let my hair curl wild, let my voice swear when it wanted, let my mouth move without permission. Back when I thought freedom was real. Now, there is only this silence. This shine. This weight. I move toward the couch, a broad slab of leather the color of dried blood, dark and cold and polished to reflect. It doesn’t welcome me. It waits. And I don’t collapse into it—can’t collapse. That would be impossible. Not in this armor. Not in this skin.

Instead, I lower myself. Slowly. Precisely. Like lowering a statue into a glass case. Like a museum exhibit finally placed where it belongs. The trousers pull tight across my thighs as I sit. The waistcoat presses harder into my ribs, reminding me that breath is not owned, only leased. The braces tug from behind, lifting me even in surrender. The socks slide taut and silent against my calves. My back stays straight. It has no choice. My spine won’t let me. My collar won’t allow it. I place my hands on my thighs, palms down, fingers together, as instructed. Perfect posture. Just like I was taught.

And then it happens.

There’s no sound. No moan. No grunt of pleasure or gasp of release. Just a shift. A slow, terrible release that creeps upward through my stomach like nausea reversed into arousal. I feel it build as I sit—everything my body has been holding since I buttoned the shirt, since I tied the knot, since I greased my hair and fastened every rule to my body like a chain. The arousal, the pressure, the ache that’s lived between my legs since the first stroke of the comb—it finds no outlet, no permission, no granted expression. So it chooses for me. And so it releases itself. A warm pulse. A twitch. Then stillness.

Shame floods me immediately. A cold, crawling shame that sours the heat already pooling under every layer. My armpits are drenched. My back is a river. My thighs are sticky beneath the wool. Everything is wet. But nothing shows. Because the suit hides it. Because the uniform doesn’t care. Because the point was never comfort.

I can’t move. I sit frozen, still upright, still bound in place by cloth and collar and conditioning, by invisible laws that reach deeper than the garments themselves. I can feel it now—the truth of how I’m stuck. Trapped not just in fabric, but in function. In identity. In the ritual of submission I chose and can no longer escape. I let it happen. I let it all happen. And now, I sit in silence, panting quietly, unable to even loosen my tie or undo a single button without permission that will never come.

Outside the window, the city breathes. Free. Fast. Ungroomed. Its people run and laugh and kiss without protocol. Its air is hot and full of wind. But inside this penthouse—this glass box of order—I sit like a doll. Hair sculpted. Face shaved. Suit sealed. Posture perfect. And I mourn. I mourn everything I used to be. I mourn the laughter, the recklessness, the curl of my hair in the wind, the way my sneakers scuffed pavement, the voice that said “fuck this” whenever it needed to. All gone. All cut away. All polished.

And now I am his.

A dressed, silent, obedient puppy.

To be displayed. To be shown off. To be owned.

I sit like that for a long, long time. Barely breathing. Drenched beneath wool. Muscles twitching with every heartbeat. My body hot, my skin burning, my mind soaked in the slow chemical mix of shame and obedience and something darker. And waiting—always waiting—not just for the next command, but for the moment it arrives, because in that moment, the tension will break again, and the suffering will flare, and the shame will sharpen, but threaded through all of it—beneath the collar, under the waistband, between every stitch—will be that awful, exquisite thrill: the pleasure of being told who to be, the quiet ecstasy of losing the last inch of will, the sweetness of surrender unfolding without warning in a room where I no longer belong to myself. Just waiting for the next command.

[wedgiedude96]

Tighty whitey Nerd hanging wedgie

[diaperfags-blog-deactivated2025]

This is what a failed man looks like. Broken from years of diaper humiliation training, reduced to a whimpering mess, utterly controlled by the thick padding between his legs

[rubberboya]

Classic

[rubberboyrbro]

Heavy rubber outfit check

[rubberboyrbro]

Full rubber armor

[expos3dfag]

Pissing Faggot

Uh oh! Having an "accident". Opps.

[movingtobluesky-deactivated2025]

Me, last week

Me, this week.

Today is 1/9/25.

1 reblog = 1 additional day I keep my eyebrows shaved clean.

[rockportskin]

[runkansasrun]

Sit on my face and I'll show you a good time.

[rubbergimps]

Credit: cjmarsh12

[gearbikernl]

Ooh what a dream. Would love to be kept in heavy rubberbondage like that.

[jockbroski34-deactivated2026033]

The Bro Cap

Biology was my favorite class this semester.  Not only did I find science to be interesting, but I also shared the class with one of the hottest guys in the school: Aaron Moore.  He was the star of the school’s baseball team as a pitcher and he was the talk of the school.  Girls were always swooning over him for how tall and handsome and athletic he was.  He was good at every sport; football, basketball, and so on, but in school, he played baseball.  He was a major source of envy for a lot of guys.  A lot of guys wished they could be him.  I, however, wanted to be with him.  Fortunately, I sit behind him in class, so I get the best view of him, despite being from behind.  At least it meant he wouldn’t see me watching him.

I often found myself getting distracted by him.  Even if I couldn’t see his face, I could see his broad shoulders, which were built like mountains, as well as his arms which were shaped like mounds of muscle.  His tall stature sometimes made it hard to look at the board, not that it was the main place my eyes were looking at in the first place.  His favorite baseball hat, adorned with our school team’s logo on it, was worn backwards like most of the jocks at the school.  He didn’t come off like the rest of them though.  His relaxed vibe made him easy to talk to and he could be quite funny compared to the rest of the meathead jocks.  He got along with everyone really well, making him very well-liked.  Although he was far from the smartest guy in the class, I could tell that he tried.  It was no wonder why he was so popular.

Today, I was daydreaming when I was disrupted by our teacher, Mr. Martin.  I felt him stare directly at me, almost as if he knew I wasn’t paying attention.  It was like he could read my every thought, and honestly, if that were true, that’d be extremely humiliating.  The last thing I needed was for my crush on Aaron to be exposed to the rest of the class.  Knowing how embarrassing he could be, I wouldn’t put it past him.  He asked me a question, and I thankfully already knew the answer, as I awakened from my daydream.

“Correct!  I wasn’t sure if you were paying attention or not,” he chuckled.  “You always look like you’re off in your own little world.  But you still manage to do well.  You gotta tell the rest of your class your secret.”  Looks like someone has caught on to my tendencies.  Mr. Martin was a middle-aged guy, probably in his 30s.  He looked good for his age, and was a pretty relaxed and carefree teacher.

The class went by as usual, and eventually we were dismissed.  All of the other students dispersed, but I needed to ask our professor a question about the homework.  He helped clarify things for me thankfully.  I was about to leave, but then he pointed out something on the ground.

“Hey Aiden, doesn’t Aaron sit in front of you?  That’s his hat, right?”  he asked.

“Yeah, I always see him wear it.”  It was unusual for him to have left it here by accident.

“Do you know if you can bring it to him today?  If not, I can keep it here until next class.”

“I’ll hold onto it until I see him next.  I have a feeling I’ll run into him later.”  I don’t know why I said that.  We don’t have any other classes together and we certainly aren’t close enough to be friends, even if I wished we were.  I’m also not on the baseball team.  Either way, my professor smiled for helping him out.

Regardless, I grabbed Aaron’s hat, but instead of chasing after him, I realized I really needed to go to the bathroom.  He was probably long gone anyways.  After I went, I noticed that I was still holding onto his hat.  I went to observe it and I noticed that it smelled a little like him, with a mix of sweat from wearing it all day and whatever shampoo he used.  I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt a sudden urge to put Aaron’s hat on.  Despite the fact that I would feel really embarrassed if someone saw me wearing it, I knew I would likely never get this opportunity again.  I was completely alone, so it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it.  It wasn’t just any hat, it was Aaron’s.  It’s not like he had lice or anything.  What’s the worst that could happen?

And so I put it on, wearing it backwards like he would.  Strangely, for a few seconds, I felt as though time had completely stopped.  The leaky sink faucet paused its rhythmic dripping.  The stomping of feet in the hallway deafened.  My watch skipped a tick.  But as time seemed to return to its natural course, I was able to see how I looked.  I had to admit, I looked really good in it.  I wouldn’t call myself an unattractive guy, but Aaron was way out of my league.  Despite that, a smirk appeared on my face.  A wave of confidence washed over me, almost like a little bit of Aaron had rubbed off on me.  Suddenly, I didn’t really feel like taking it off anymore.  I wasn’t too worried about what would happen if Aaron or one of his friends saw me wearing it.

After admiring myself in the mirror for a few minutes, I realized that I was late to my next class, algebra.  I had no idea I had spent so much time checking myself out.  I must’ve lost track of time.  As I walked to my seat, I felt like all eyes were on me for some reason.  I never used to make much of an impression on most people.  I was quiet and had only a couple friends.  Normally, I would’ve felt a little anxious with so many people staring at me, but I didn’t really give a shit now.

“Late as always, aren’t we Aiden?”  the teacher remarked.  Very funny.  I always showed up on time.  I sat down in my seat, but it didn’t feel right.  My body squeezed tight into the desk.  I felt like I was sitting in a chair meant for a middle schooler.  Weird.  Something weird is going on, but I can’t figure out what it is.

The class was just as weird because I felt like my classmates were a little more talkative.  I couldn’t focus during class due to being distracted by someone whispering.  I still felt a couple of their eyes on me.  I looked over and made brief eye contact with one of the girls on the far side of the room.  She immediately looked away and giggled towards one of her friends.  Her cheeks turned a deep crimson, the color of passion.  She was cute, but definitely out of my league.  I wasn’t straight either way, so I didn’t care if she was into me.

Normally, I was good at math, even if I didn’t like it, but I felt myself struggling to answer questions today.  Something must be wrong.  The room felt hotter than usual, and I felt myself sweat a little and my body started to ache.  I noticed that I smelled a little like Aaron’s cologne.  I’ve recognized his scent from sitting behind him, but for that smell to linger and for me to smell like him is really weird.

Class was dismissed, and this was usually when I went to lunch.  I received a text from one of my friends, Bryan, from half an hour earlier.

Bryan: Hey, me and the guys are getting food.  Wanna come with?

Normally, we always got lunch at the same time.  But for some reason, I didn’t really want to?  That’s weird for me.  I felt my fingers move on my own as they typed out a message.

Me: nah bro i dont feel like it mayb sum other time dude

I didn’t text like that normally.  Nor did I turn down my friends. Is it the…Before I could finish my thought, I was interrupted by the booming sound of two guys further down the hall, with one of them calling my name.  They were two jocks.  I recognized that they were both friends with Aaron because they hung out together a lot.  What did they want?  I didn’t really get along well with either of them or the rest of their kind.  Hopefully they didn’t think I was a pervert for wearing Aaron’s hat and beat me up.

“Sup bro, we were just about to get some food before hitting the gym.  Wanna come with?”  the other jock asked me.  Judging from his tone, he seemed surprisingly friendly with me.

Were they serious?  Did these jocks actually think I was one of them?  I would never get an opportunity to hang out with them again, so I agreed.  Part of me felt guilty for ditching my nerdy friends to hang out with the jocks, but I knew they were cool guys.  My perspective on these two big jocks changed as I walked with them.  For some reason, I felt a strong sense of camaraderie with them, almost like I’ve known them for a long time.  I’m not sure why I was so intimidated by them before.  They were really chill.

I saw another one of my friends as I walked with my new friends.  I waved to him, but he barely seemed to notice me.  Was he mad at me for skipping lunch with them or did he seriously not recognize me since I was hanging out with the jocks?  It almost felt like he didn’t know me at all.

I pulled out my phone to see what was up with him, until I realized that Bryan had finally responded to me.

Bryan: My bad.  Thought you were someone else.  He must’ve given me the wrong number.

Was this some kind of prank?  He obviously knew my number.  Of course he knows who I am.  Whatever, I don’t care what a nerd like him thinks.  I put my phone away and resumed chatting with my jock friends.  You know, my real friends.  I noticed as I walked with them that they didn’t look as big and menacing as they seemed.  Either that or maybe I hit my growth spurt recently.

We went and got food, with the jocks making sure I got enough protein.  I swear I almost never eat this much.  The jocks must eat a lot to stay in shape, I thought to myself.  But did they seriously want me to go to the gym with them?  I had class soon.  But these guys were cool and I didn’t want to disappoint my bros.  I figured I could miss a day and go lift with them.  As long as it doesn’t turn into a habit.

I realized as we stepped into the gym that I had never worked out before nor had I stepped into an actual gym.  I was worried about coming across as weak and humiliating myself in front of them. I changed into some clothes that I'm not really sure when I bought, a tank top and gym shorts.  To my surprise, I simply followed the motions of my bros and I was able to work out with them just fine.  I noticed that I was able to keep up with their workouts, and I surprised myself with how much I could lift.  It shouldn’t have been possible to lift as much as they did but maybe they were just going easy on me because they knew I was a beginner.  By the time we finished, I was just in time for my last class.  But just before I parted ways with my new friends, one of them said something that caught me off guard.

“Later, Moore.”

Must’ve been a slip of the tongue.  There was no way in hell they mistook me for Aaron.  At least it gave me a mental reminder to give Aaron his hat back next time I see him.  Although…his hat is so nice that I’m a little tempted to keep it for myself.  He could always just get another one, right?  I just don’t want him to see me wearing it though, so I’ll only do it when he’s not around.

In class, everyone was still staring at me as if I went to school in my underwear.  Maybe there was something weird about me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.  I did smell a little bit since I came from my workout, but I don’t think it was that.  I shrugged it off.  They can stare all they want for all I care.  I felt incredibly sore after my workout, and my arms looked unnaturally swollen.  If I had to be honest, I almost felt as big as the two jocks I worked out with.  But in such a short amount of time?  With no prior lifting experience?  That was impossible.

I found myself completely zoned out and indifferent to class today.  All I wanted to do was leave and uh…What was it that I had going on later?  I pondered that thought throughout the entire class period.  Eventually, we were dismissed and I was free to leave.  I was walking towards the dorms until I ran into, guess who?  Aaron Moore.

“Hey bro, you still coming to practice?”  he asked.

“Practice?”

“Yeah, baseball practice, you big dummy!  You know, you’re always so forgetful, dude.  Good thing I always was the smarter one, bro.”

“Yeah, you’re right, bro.  My bad.”  I’m not sure which statement I was agreeing with.  But as I looked at him, I realized something.  He was wearing his hat!  But then how was I wearing his hat if he was wearing it?  “I thought you lost your hat.  How are you wearing it?”

“I was wearing my hat all day, dude.  One day you decided to copy me and wear your hat to school like I do.  But honestly, I think you rock it better than I do, so keep it up.  You’ll impress the ladies.”  But I was gay.  And I’ve only had this hat for a day.  If it wasn’t his, then how was it actually mine?  I was overwhelmed and full of questions after everything that had happened today, from my growth spurt, to me hanging out with the jocks, to my old friends barely knowing who I am, but I didn’t seem to have the brain power at the moment to seek the answers to them.

As we walked, I kept chatting with Aaron as if it was natural, as if we always knew each other.  Something felt off, but I couldn’t figure it out.  Was it because we were going to practice?  I’ve never played baseball in my life.  Nah, that can’t be right.  I feel like I’ve swung a bat before…  We went into the locker room to change.  I looked in the mirror and paused for a second.

My reflection wasn’t there.  Someone else’s was.  Someone much stronger and much taller than me.  That wasn’t me.  It was Aaron Moore.

No, except it wasn’t an exact match.  There was enough different about the guy in front of me to know that it wasn’t Aaron.  This figure was a little stronger than him, and still stood probably a little over 6 feet tall.  I walked closer.  “Aaron” walked closer.  I moved my hand to feel my face.  So did “Aaron”.  A dull, confused look appeared on his face.  Had I really become him?  But Aaron was over on the other end of the room changing.  Then who am I?  Was I like this since I put the hat on earlier?  I reached into my wallet and pulled out my ID.

Aiden Moore...That’s not my last name.  That’s…Aaron’s?  Normally I wouldn’t have minded taking his last name, but we definitely WEREN’T married.  As far as I knew, Aaron was as straight as an arrow.

Date of Birth: 08/17/2003…If I recall, that’s Aaron’s birthday.  I knew my birthday, and it was in January.  Don’t tell me…Are we…?

I compared the face in the ID to the one in the mirror.  It wasn’t an illusion, and it wasn’t a dream.  It was like I was his twin!  Aaron was an only child though and I only had sisters.  At this point, I was so confused and overwhelmed.  Panic was the only emotion I could feel as I felt like I was going through an identity crisis.  I realized that this all started when I wore his hat.  I reached to grab it off of my head…until I felt a hand touch my shoulder.  My bro…I mean Aaron.

“Admiring yourself in the mirror, bro?  Yeah, you’re a pretty handsome dude just like me.  I think it runs in the blood, you know.  You like that, right?”  He placed his other hand on my head, pushing the hat tighter on my head.  I nodded.  I proceeded to flex, as I became self-absorbed with my own reflection.  I always thought rather highly of myself, especially about my body.  At this point, I couldn’t comprehend the paradox of me somehow being his own non-existent twin brother.

“You know, not every guy is lucky enough to have a cool brother like I do, let alone a twin.  The two of us can play ball together, work out together, and even get all the chicks we want together.  This is all you ever wanted, right?”  He wasn’t necessarily wrong, but I wanted to be “with” Aaron, not be him.  Whoever granted me this wish got it all wrong.  But as I listened to him, I started to realize that maybe it wasn’t my wish to begin with.

“Yeah bro.  This shit’s the life, dude.”  I noticed Aaron’s face light up as I said that.  The way I talked sounded like it came out of the mouth of some dudebro.  I noticed his irresistible smirk that was always on his face when he was in a good mood.  As I kept admiring myself in the mirror, I felt my mind slow…down...like it was on autopilot…

“That’s right…Just let it happen…  I know it’s been a while, so it’s okay if you don’t remember, but you know that one trophy we won a couple years back?  During senior year?”

“Fuck yeah, bro.  I remember.”  But I’ve never played baseball before…But…I have right?  I know I have.

“You know you were the reason we won, right?  One lucky hit in the bottom of the ninth, and you practically won us the game.  I’ve never been more proud of you bro.”  Aaron patted me on the back.  I remembered that game fondly, even though I should have no recollection of it.  That year, our baseball team was the best in the state.  And I…led our team to a championship?  As much as I tried to deny it in my head, the memories felt real.  But why was he reminding me of this now?

“You didn’t do half bad yourself, bro.”

As Aaron and I kept chatting, the memories of being his twin brother kept flowing into my brain, as memories of my former life faded away.  Turns out that I was the brother he never had.  We were a pair.  We complemented each other perfectly.  I was actually the twin brother of the most popular guy in the school.  I remember I thought he was hot…wait, what the fuck, bro?  That’s gay as shit.  And weird.  This was my own twin we were talking about.  Although I guess if I was a handsome stud, then he’d have to be too.  After all, no girl can resist either one of us.

“So the hat is working…”  Aaron whispered under his breath.

“What hat?”

“Nothing, bro!  I was just saying how good your hat looks on you.  Come on, let’s go.”  I followed him, as my transformation was now complete.

From this day on, I was Aiden Moore, Aaron Moore’s twin brother.  Except that’s who I was technically born as and that's who everyone already knew me as.  Although we had a lot in common, I definitely felt more like a stereotypical jock.  I was loud, cocky, and masculine, almost to the point of brutishness, compared to my brother who was a lot more laid-back and charismatic.  Not that it was a bad thing, although most nerds and weaker men would disagree.  But what me and Aaron did have in common was playing sports, working out, fucking chicks, and being the most popular guys in the school.  I know I wanted to be closer to Aaron, but I never expected this.  But at the same time, it felt good, almost pleasurable at times.  I realized that in my new state, I could hardly last a day without an orgasm, whether it was in my grip or in some bitch’s pussy.

Two days later, I had biology again.  I remembered I kinda struggled with this class.  I sat behind my bro as usual.  I was grateful for him since he always helped me with the homework.  I noticed him talking to the professor in private when we got to class.  When I asked him, he wouldn’t say.  It wasn’t like him to keep secrets from me.  We practically knew everything about each other after all.  After class, I was called to stay after by Mr. Martin.

“Aiden Moore…Your brother told me to check up on you.  Is everything alright?  Did you need any guidance on the homework, too?”

“Never felt better, bro.  I think I was just up too late partying the other day.  And nah, I eventually figured it out, dude.”  I conveniently hid the fact that I copied the answers off of some nerd.

“Good, good.”  Mr. Martin smiled.  “I won’t leave you too long.  I know you two have your hands full with practice today.  Hmmm…Still wearing that hat, I see.  It suits you well, Aiden.”  I saw him write something down in a notebook as I left.  Mr. Martin was always cool.  I felt like he understood me and my brother better than most teachers here.  I couldn’t help but feel grateful for him, but for what?  I quickly discarded that thought because it wasn’t important to me.

What was important to me was hitting the gym with my bros.  I ditched class again, I don’t even remember what the class was anyways.  Probably nothing important.  As long as I pass and get to stay on the team, I couldn’t care less about how badly I do in school.  I’m basically only here because I got some fancy scholarship.

At the gym, I always pushed myself to lift the heaviest weights.  All of my bros were impressed with how much I could lift.  Must run in the blood.  After school, I went to practice with Aaron.  We shared a room at the dorms, and on the weekends, we always went to the biggest parties our school had to offer.  We always bragged to each other about what girls we slept with that night, almost like it was a competition.  Man, this was the life.  I never felt like I understood Aaron on a personal level until recently, but man, we were the luckiest pair of brothers in the school.

[slut4spirals]

That's it, bro. Just focus on the pretty words as your head gets so so fuzzy. Such a good bro. No more thoughts. Just empty-headed bliss.

[transform4u]

Hi I'm a british liberal nerd visiting the US and this red wave link keeps on showing up on my phone. Is this a bug my female friend has it too?

As you glance down at your phone, your gaze is drawn into the endless stream of hollow, arrogant images flickering before your eyes. Each person, more repulsive than the last, radiates an unsettling aura of superiority. The screen flickers in a sickly red glow, pulsing with a low, malevolent rhythm. The phone hums, its unsettling energy seeping into your fingertips as if it were alive—like it was drawing you into its orbit. It starts, a heat at the base of your neck, creeping down your spine.

And then it happens—the air grows thick with a noxious, pungent scent, sharp and heavy, as if something rancid were festering beneath your skin. The acrid stench drips from your pores, an unbearable miasma that fills the air, wrapping itself around you like an inescapable fog. You can’t help it—you inhale, and the smell slithers into your lungs, clawing its way deeper into your body, attaching itself to your thoughts. It's a foul, toxic blend of sweat, arrogance, and desperation.

The sickening odor leaks into your consciousness, clouding your thoughts like an unholy fog. Your memories blur—those late-night binge-watching sessions of Queer as Folk, the pride parades in London, the comfortable warmth of your liberal upbringing—all of it begins to fade. It's as if your mind were a dry erase board, and someone was frantically erasing every trace of what once made you who you are. You struggle to hold on, but the image of your school uniform, the soft fabric of your memories, slips away, until you're left standing in a foggy, vacant space.

Then a voice cuts through the haze, deep and guttural, a whisper at first, but growing louder, more commanding, more insistent. It’s seductive in a way that pulls you under, a siren song for the self-centered. The voice booms with confidence—no, arrogance—and begins to carve itself into your very bones. It's the kind of voice that drowns out any other, leaving only its echo.

Slowly, like an ominous tide, you feel your body begin to change. Your limbs tighten, muscles slowly swelling beneath your skin. What was once soft begins to harden, the familiar weight of fat burning away under the onslaught of this insidious voice. It commands you, molds you, reshapes you into something new—something loud, something imposing. You feel the heat radiating from your body, a burning sensation as your frame inflates, packing on muscle with each passing second.

Your shoulders broaden, impossibly wide, filling the space around you, like you could barely fit through a doorway now. Your chest thickens, firm and sculpted, pecs jutting out from your ribs with unnerving precision. Every inch of your body feels like it’s been carved from stone, each muscle a declaration of strength—of dominance. Your arms, once slim and unremarkable, now bulge with powerful biceps and triceps, veins snaking along them like living highways. The muscles twitch and flex under your skin, rippling with every movement, as if they were begging to be noticed.

But it’s not just about size; it’s about aesthetics, about perfection. The tightness of your abs, the way your six-pack gleams like sculpted marble, is a declaration. Your waist narrows just enough to accentuate the V-shaped taper of your frame—every angle calculated for attention. Your neck thickens, straining against the confines of your body, radiating strength like a fighter’s, a warning to anyone who dares approach.

And then your skin—your skin, once pale, begins to darken, a deep, rich tan that glows under the artificial light, as if begging for the attention of the sun. You can almost feel it, the hot, golden glow that seems to make every muscle pop, every feature sharper, more defined. Your reflection stares back at you, unrecognizable—gone is the softness, the gentle curves of the person you once were. What remains is a polished, gym-honed shell, a body that demands the world’s gaze.

Your face morphs too, sharp features coming together in a cold, calculating way. Your jawline cuts through the air like a blade, lips curled into that ever-present, cocky half-smile. Your eyes are full of that arrogant fire, scanning the room like a predator waiting to pounce. You wear that look of superiority, that smirk, as if everyone around you should be grateful just to be in your presence.

The clothes you wear seem to accentuate every inch of this new form—tight tees that strain against your broad chest, sleeveless shirts that highlight the definition of your arms. It’s all about the show. It’s all about flexing—whether in front of a mirror or in the eyes of the world. You wear your arrogance like a badge of honor, your confidence oozing from every pore, every flex.

And as your body inflates, every muscle, every vein, every inch of you becomes a testament to the hard work, to the obsession of maintaining this perfect physique. You’ve become the embodiment of everything that voice told you to be—a walking, breathing, flexing monument to the power of self-centered image. The world around you seems to bow before it.

The voice starts to grow, just faintly creeping into your mind, but it grows—louder, sharper, more toxic. It has that brash, self-absorbed tone that mixes a vile sense of superiority with a grotesque confidence, like the worst of a self-proclaimed “alpha” persona. There’s a raw arrogance to it, an utter lack of self-awareness, echoing with the worst traits of alt-right talking points, spewing a cocktail of misogyny, racism, and self-righteousness. It infects your brain, poisoning your thoughts, twisting the very core of who you are.

Each word, sharp and venomous, pulses in your mind like a drumbeat, relentless and unyielding. The voice grows louder with every passing second, its every syllable steeped in hatred, entitlement, and blind superiority. It feeds you a torrent of vile, regressive ideas—ideas that, just a moment ago, you would have fought with every fiber of your being. But now, as the voice weaves its insidious narrative, you find yourself unable to push it away. It takes root in the deepest corners of your psyche, burrowing itself into your very essence, until it feels impossible to untangle. What was once clarity—your liberal values, your empathy, your understanding of the world—starts to crumble, one thought at a time.

The words, laced with venom, begin to gnaw at the edges of your consciousness, replacing everything you once stood for with something darker, more primal. A twisted ideology takes hold, and with each passing moment, it burrows deeper, suffocating what was once you. The familiar compassion you once felt for others fades, replaced by a dangerous, unyielding sense of us vs. them. The lines are drawn: everything you believe is right, everyone who disagrees is wrong, and their existence is only a threat to your newfound superiority.

But it doesn't stop there. As the vile rhetoric consumes you, an overwhelming sense of patriotism floods your veins, suffocating all reason with its intensity. It's a feverish, blinding nationalism that drowns out everything else—an unwavering devotion to an idea of America that is pure, untouchable, and destined for greatness. The flag that once symbolized unity now becomes a banner of division, one that demands allegiance without question, without compromise. You find yourself saluting it in your mind, pledging loyalty to the ideals of an America that has never truly existed, but one you now feel compelled to defend at all costs.

This overwhelming wave of patriotism becomes a twisted religion—your new faith. It pushes out everything that doesn’t fit, everything that doesn’t conform to the narrative of power, strength, and dominance. It’s a belief system built on unshakable conviction, fueled by anger and a need to be on top. The world outside becomes a battlefield, with the righteous fighting for supremacy against the “weak,” the “outsiders,” those who dare to challenge the truth you now hold as gospel. You start to see yourself as part of something much larger than yourself—something invincible, that cannot be questioned or toppled.

As the voice continues to grow louder, it intertwines itself with images of power—figures of influence who’ve shown you that strength comes from domination, from bending the world to your will. The words in your head echo with their confidence, with their absolute belief that they know best, that they are the ones who deserve power. It doesn't matter if you once rejected this worldview—it doesn’t matter if you knew it was toxic. Now, it feels natural. It feels right.

Your thoughts become consumed by a distorted sense of duty and purpose, a belief that it’s your destiny to uphold this new world order—one that justifies cruelty, entitlement, and violence in the name of freedom. You embrace the idea of strength, raw, unapologetic, and unforgiving. The more you think about it, the more it feels like you’re being reborn into something larger than yourself. The politics of strength and unyielding dominance, fused with a religious-like devotion to a vision of American greatness, drown out any trace of who you once were.

Your mind no longer questions, no longer challenges. You accept the voice, and with it, you welcome a twisted sense of purpose—one that distorts everything, from your relationships to the way you see the world. You’ve become something else now, something you never thought you’d be. The person you once were? A distant memory, slipping further and further from reach, like the fading echo of a dream. Now, you stand with the new you—a soldier in a war you never asked to fight, but one you now believe in without hesitation.

It’s hard to think straight. Hard to remember what you used to believe in. You want to fight it, but the more you try, the more this voice fills your thoughts, like it’s the only truth left. It’s powerful, intoxicating, and it burns away every trace of compassion and understanding. You feel yourself becoming hollowed out, consumed by the vapidity of it all, until there’s nothing left but a reflection in the mirror of something less human and more monstrous, a creature built for nothing but the pursuit of ego.

You look to your friend for comfort, for any sign that things haven’t changed, but what you see is... different. The girl who was once quiet, introspective, with a love for books and ideas, is now something foreign. She’s blonde, now, her hair impossibly light, shimmering in the light like something manufactured, fake. Her eyes have lost their depth, replaced with the gleam of someone obsessed with superficiality. Her entire being has transformed, and what you now see is a parody, a walking, talking caricature of vapid beauty.

Her voice is high, strained with that unmistakable valley girl accent—flipping every vowel with exaggerated sweetness, dripping with a tone of entitlement and unearned confidence. "Oh my god, babe, like, where are you?" she calls, her giggle hollow and fake. The warmth and authenticity that once marked her are gone, replaced with a shell, a polished doll who lives for attention and validation.

You feel the shift within you, the toxic pull of the voice now fully integrated into your thoughts, and as you look back at her, you can’t help but smile—a cocky, smug grin that feels foreign yet familiar, like it belongs to someone else now. A part of you recognizes this as wrong, but it’s buried beneath the waves of toxic masculinity and self-centered arrogance that are swelling inside you. You give her a nod, that smirk never fading as you meet her gaze, feeling the sharp pull of the new version of yourself.

"Over here," you call back, the arrogance oozing from your words as your mind and body seem to adapt to this new identity—a mindless, narcissistic, shallow reflection of everything that you’ve let inside. You see her for what she’s become now, a creation of the same toxic influence that’s infected you. And as you stand there, you feel the growing, sickening thrill of being seen, of existing for no other reason than to be admired, with nothing real beneath the surface. Her usual carefree smile seems more…inviting. Her blonde hair cascades down her shoulders, catching the sunlight just right. Those big, blue eyes meet yours, and you swear you see a spark of desire flicker within them.

Without thinking, your hand reaches out, fingers curling around the generous curve of her ass. The fabric of her skirt is thin, barely a barrier between your palm and her firm flesh. She gasps softly, pressing back into your touch. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, igniting a fire in your loins. Suddenly, it hits you. This isn't just your friend anymore. This is Karen, your submissive, slutty girlfriend. A bimbo from California, living to serve you. Her body is toned, fit, ready to please you at a moment's notice.

"Spencer, I need you to fuck me, daddy," Karen whines, her voice dripping with desperation. She's the dumbest slut you've ever heard, but damn if she doesn't know how to push your buttons. Your dick springs to attention, straining against your pants.

You grab her roughly, spinning her around and bending her over the nearest surface. Her skirt rides up, revealing her bare ass. Of course she's not wearing any panties. That's just how she rolls - always ready for you. Your life with Karen is a never-ending cycle of debauchery. You're the king of the bro's, always out partying and picking fights. Karen's your queen, the ultimate trophy girlfriend. She spends her days tanning, shopping, and preparing herself for your arrival. Your apartment is filled with her lingerie, toys, and empty champagne bottles.

You grab Karen by the wrist, dragging her towards the bedroom. She stumbles along, giggling like the ditzy blonde she is. Once inside, you push her onto the bed, crawling on top of her."You're just a dumb slut, aren't you?" you sneer, gripping her chin roughly. "Born to serve my dick. Nothing more."

She nods eagerly, biting her lip. "Yes, Spencer. I'm your slut. Your bitch." You laugh cruelly. "Damn right you are. And you love it, don't you? Being used and degraded by a real man? "Mmm, yes,"she moans, arching her back. "I live for your touch, daddy. Please, use me."

You smirk, your ego inflated. You're the alpha male, the king of this little arrangement. King of the RedWaveRapture. And Karen? She's just a plaything, a vessel for your pleasure. You rip off Karen's top, exposing her large, fake breasts. You lean down, biting and sucking on her nipples roughly, leaving marks. She cries out, clawing at your back. You unbuckle your belt, pulling it off and wrapping it around her neck, pulling tight. "I own you, slut. Say it." "I'm yours, Spencer!" she gasps, tears in her eyes. "Your property." You grin, unfastening your pants and freeing your hard cock. You thrust into her roughly, not caring if she's ready. She screams, a mix of pain and pleasure. You start pounding into her, using her like a fuck doll. Your life is a parade of privilege and excess. You're a trust fund kid, never having to work a day in your life. Karen's just another accessory, like your expensive watch or sports car. You take what you want, when you want it. When you're not with Karen, you're out causing chaos. You crash your dad's expensive cars, just for fun.You get into bar fights, always walking away unscathed thanks to your family's connections.Y ou cheat on exams and steal from stores, never facing consequences. You're a textbook example of white male privilege, entitled and arrogant. You believe the world owes you everything, and you take what you want by force. Your moral compass is nonexistent. You've slept with countless women, using them and discarding them like trash. You have no respect for anyone or anything. You're a cancer on society, a parasite leeching off the system. But you don't care. You're untouchable, above the law. You're the worst kind of human being, and you know it. But you don't give a fuck. All you care about is spreading the Red Wave Rapture.

[transform4u]

I don't know how what you're doing is possible, but something really weird has been happening to me and I know you're responsible...

A few days ago, I woke up from a nap with a really bad migraine -- a migraine so intense that I apparently forgot that I had a roommate in the form of a 19-year-old straight white Conservative fuckboy. Although it was already strange that I would willingly share a space to someone I find so young and deplorable (especially since I'm a 28 year old chubby nerd), I'd also been having random dreams where instead of living with him, I was living with a boyfriend who was mixed-race. Ever since then, I had been unable to shake this feeling that something is up... so I decided to sneak into his bedroom one day while he's showering and check his phone. His search history was initially what I'd expect from a young Conservative, but I soon found that his history from a few days back had him searching up much nerdy things like Pokemon card supplies and gay animes. All of that seemed to change after he went to a website called Red Wave Rapture.

Although I don't know how it's possible, it's clear to me that this asshole was once my boyfriend and everyone except me has forgotten about it. The sadness and anger I've felt since has been so overwhelming, I don't think I can handle it anymore. Without any other options, I'm going to open up the site and just embrace whatever happens to me. At least then I'll forget about everything I lost...

Your migraine pulses harder as you step out of your roommate's room, the stench of stale sweat and sour musk clinging to you like a second skin. You make your way to the couch, the weight of your body sinking into the cushions, an anchor in the sea of rising tension and headache. As you sit on the couch, your headache pulses with a relentless, gnawing force. The pain creeps into your thoughts, scratching at your mind, clouding your clarity. The stench of your roommate's room clings to you, invasive and suffocating. You wrinkled your nose, trying to will it away, but it’s impossible. It mingles with the heat of your rising frustration as you scroll mindlessly, your finger flicking through the screen. Your finger taps the RedWave Rapture link, your eyes widening as the images flood your vision.

The images on Instagram mock you: men in nightclubs, their shirts unbuttoned just enough to show off their abs; Instagram models striking the same pose, their faces caught in that signature, cocky duck-face; gym rats flexing with their protein-shake smiles; rich kids at the bar, clinking glasses like it’s their birthright. The overload of superficiality makes your temples throb harder.

And yet... the more you scroll, the more the shift happens. The desire to be that... to have that... takes root inside you. The empathy you once had, the compassion, the ideals of a more enlightened version of yourself—all of it starts to fade. You feel your muscles tense, your jaw clenching. As you sit back, the shift inside you intensifies, taking form like molten gold spilling over your skin. Your once pale complexion begins to darken, deepening into a rich bronze as though the sun has kissed every inch of you, transforming you into a living sculpture of power. The change is rapid, consuming every part of your body as if you’ve been chiseled from stone—each muscle defined, refined, and perfectly sculpted.

Your thoughts drift from memories of your nerdy boyfriend, the remnants of empathy and compassion evaporating into the thickening air, replaced by a growing sense of superiority. You let out a low groan, and a crude fart slips out, your body’s pressure just too much to hold back. You feel the heat building within you, an almost animalistic transformation. The fat of your past begins to melt away, your skin tanning as your muscles swell, flexing with each passing moment. The pain in your head grows, and you feel your body burning, like you’ve just downed a shot of tequila. A shot meant for this. Your muscles pulse, aching but alive, as though they’ve been waiting for this moment. Slowly, the fat that once clung to your skin melts away, your body tightening, sculpting itself into something leaner, stronger.

Your arms, once chubby and fat, swell with strength. Biceps thicken, pulsing with life as if they're expanding beyond the limits of your skin. Each muscle seems to fight for space, veins crawling to the surface like intricate roadmaps—bright blue lines tracing the contours of your new form. The veins on your forearms and biceps are prominent, giving off the impression that your body itself is about to burst from the intensity of its own growth.

Your chest follows suit, puffing out with a deep, powerful force. The pecs that were once subtle now stand like twin mountains, their hard, curved surfaces demanding attention. They jut forward with such pride that every movement sends them rippling, flexing as though they exist solely to be noticed. The hard lines of your abdominal muscles become more pronounced, each individual ridge a testament to the hours of sweat and discipline you've put into perfecting your form. Your abs look like they’ve been carved from granite, their deep cuts visible from every angle, a flawless six-pack that could rival the sharpest of sculptors’ works.

Your shoulders broaden, stretching the fabric of your shirt until it looks too small, too tight to contain the raw force underneath. They extend outwards with an almost unnatural width, like the wings of an eagle poised to take flight. The deltoids curve with smooth precision, the traps lifting in sharp, defined angles, giving your neck a thick, powerful look. You feel them tense and relax with every subtle movement—each adjustment you make reminds you of the immense strength now flowing through your body.

Your posture straightens instinctively, shoulders back and chest forward. Every muscle is taut, filled with an energy that makes you feel like you're not just existing in the space, but owning it. The air around you seems to shift as your presence grows, a visible aura of dominance emanating from your every inch. The muscles in your legs have followed suit—your thighs are dense and solid, capable of moving with force and speed, while your calves have tightened into thick, sculpted columns of power. Every inch of your body now radiates strength, like a living, breathing monument to physical perfection.

The mirror image that reflects back at you is the embodiment of excess, of vanity, of every muscle built from hours at the gym, every ounce of protein consumed in pursuit of the perfect form. The chiseled abs, like stones stacked in a perfect line, gleam under the dim light. The sharp jawline that once seemed just a feature now feels like a weapon, carved to cut through everything in its path. And the arrogant smirk on your lips feels right, natural, as if it’s always been there.

But it’s not just the body. It’s the aura. The unshakable confidence, the belief that the world revolves around you. You could smell the designer cologne that now surrounds you, expensive and insistent, as if it defines your very essence. Your clothes are tailored perfectly to showcase your physique, tight enough to leave no room for doubt—you are better than everyone here.

Your thoughts grow colder, more calculated. The ideals that once seemed important—the compassion, the social justice, the activism—are replaced by a hunger for power. For control. You see the world through a different lens now. The notion of "woke" feels like a joke. Who has the time for that?

You remember living with your 19-year-old brother. He worshipped you, believed you were the older, wiser one. Despite the fact that two of you were dumb as shit. You feel it in your head, those boring nights studying or working on some lame college degree dissolve like it never happened. Because it never did. You too were complete fucking dumbasses. He looked up to you, not just because of the older sibling bond, but because you were the one who had the wrong answers. The one who understood how the world worked. His admiration was a constant reminder that you were the standard to live up to.

You laugh, remembering how he tried to copy you, how he’d watch the same movies, buy the same clothes, even adopt the same mannerisms. But he was always a step behind, still clinging to that naive view of the world—the world of the soft, the weak, the “snowflakes.” His version of what you had was never as good, never as real. You had been the conservative fuckboy first—the one who rejected anything that made him uncomfortable in favor of a harder, more aggressive view of the world.

You were the one who made the world your own, who got the attention, who said the things people were too afraid to say. He couldn’t keep up. He could never be the man you were.

You think back to the frat house—the prime of that era. You and him, walking in like you owned the place, a swagger that cut through the crowd. You'd crack open a beer with a loudpop, the cap flying off and clattering to the floor. You take a long swig, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, a smirk plays on your lips as you spot a cute little twink in the corner, and you begin to weave a tale of your sexual exploits. "You should've seen the look on his face when I walked in," you say, voice dripping with arrogance."Knew he was in for the ride of his life. I fucked him so hard, he was walking funny for days." But as the words leave your mouth, a wave of disgust washes over you. The idea of fucking another dude makes your stomach churn, your dick shrinking at the mere thought. Rage boils inside you, a fierce protectiveness of your masculinity. "What the fuck are you talking about?"you snap, slamming your beer down on the table. You lean back in your chair, a smug grin spreading across your face as you recall the events of last weekend. "Like I was saying, I made a girl cry last weekend," you say, your voice dripping with pride. "She was a real looker, too. Legs that went on for days, a rack that would make a porn star jealous." You take another swig of your beer, relishing the memory. "I took her back to my place, and let's just say I showed her what a real man can do." You chuckle, the sound low and menacing. "She was begging for more by the end of the night, but I'd already had my fill. I kicked her out, told her to never come back. She cried, pleaded with me, but I didn't care. I'm a real man, and real men don't keep sluts around." You slam your fist on the table for emphasis, the bottles rattling at the impact.

Your brother, the loyal echo, would chime in with his own tall tales, trying to match your energy, but he was always a step behind. Always needing validation from you, from everyone. He followed your lead, your every word, like a sheep in the wake of a wolf. The party was your stage, and you were the star. Every conversation was an opportunity to insert your opinions—loud, unrelenting, and uncaring of who it offended. “Equality? Nah, man, it’s all about who’s at the top,” you’d say, with your brother smirking next to you, agreeing with every word.

And even on Twitter, you’d tweet your thoughts to the world like you were sharing life-changing wisdom, watching as the responses flooded in. Every angry reply only fueled your ego. You were untouchable, invincible. Who could challenge you? Your fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out a provocative statement that's sure to stir up controversy. "Feminism is cancer. It's ruining society and turning women into man-hating bitches.#MenAreTheRealVictims" You hit send and lean back, waiting for the reactions to pour in. Within minutes, your notifications start blowing up. Angry replies flood your mentions, calling you out for your ignorant, alt-right rhetoric. But you just laugh it off, feeding off the negative attention. The more they hate, the more you post. You're untouchable, invincible. "You're only mad because you're jealous of my success. I'm living proof that rich, white men are the superior race. #FuckThePoor #RedWaveRapture"

As the night shifted to the VIP club, you were the one who belonged there. The girls came for you, the drinks came for you. You were in control of everything, and anyone who doubted it was just beneath you. You and your brother, in your own world, dominating every space you entered, knowing the universe revolved around you both.

And you realized then, the way you both existed—unstoppable, entitled, unbothered—was the way the world should be. The world had softened, it had bent, but you? You were the force it would never break. You stand up, the weight of your new body—a body of strength, power, and arrogance—settling over you. This is who you are now. And the world? It’s going to have to adjust.

As the clock strikes midnight, you and your brother, the epitome of alt-right douchebaggery fuckboies, stumble into the packed club. The bass thumps, lights flash, and the air is thick with the stench of desperation and cheap perfume. You scan the room, your eyes locking onto a group of giggling, drunk girls in barely-there dresses. "Bro, check out those hotties," you sneer, elbowing your brother. "They're practically begging for it." He smirks, running a hand through his gelled hair. "No challenge there. Let's go work our magic."

You approach the group, your chest puffed out, exuding an aura of exaggerated confidence. "Hey ladies, looking for a good time?" you slur, slinging an arm around the nearest blonde. Your brother chimes in, "We've got more money than brains, and we're not afraid to use it."

You lean in closer to the blonde, your breath reeking of whiskey and arrogance. "You know, I could buy and sell this whole club," you boast, flashing a wad of cash. "And my brother here, he's got a trust fund bigger than your entire town. We're untouchable." Your brother grabs another girl's waist, pulling her onto his lap. "I bet you're just dying to know what it's like with a real man," he growls, his hand sliding up her thigh.

You turn to the remaining girls, your eyes glazed over with lust and alcohol. "You two look like you're in need of some attention.How about we ditch this lame club and have a private party at our place? I promise, it'll be a night you'll never forget." As the girls hesitate, you and your brother exchange a look, a silent agreement to push the boundaries even further.

You pull the blonde closer, your hands roaming her body with reckless abandon. Her dress rides up as you grope her ass, your fingers digging into her flesh. "Fuck, you've got a great rack," you mutter, squeezing her breasts roughly. Your mind is a whirlwind of depraved thoughts. "She's probably a slut, just like all the rest. Probably fucks anything with a pulse. I'll bet she's wet for me already." You lean in, your lips brushing against her ear. "You like that, don't you? You like it when a real man handles you."

Meanwhile, your brother is busy pawing at the other girl, his hand disappearing under her skirt. "God, you're so fucking hot," he pants, biting her neck hard enough to leave a mark. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard tonight. You're gonna be screaming my name all night long." You fist bump your brother, a smug grin spreading across your face. "Dylan bro, she's fucking hot. But did you see that sexy Mexican chick at the bar?" you joke, your eyes scanning the crowd. He fist bumps you back, his laughter echoing through the club. "Yeah, but Dalton, you always have a thing for dumb blondes," he retorts, his hand squeezing the girl's ass possessively. You and your brother continue to manhandle your respective bimbos for the rest of the night, your actions growing increasingly inappropriate and disrespectful. You pull the blonde onto your lap, grinding against her as you whisper filthy nothings into her ear. Your brother is busy groping his girl, his fingers slipping beneath her dress to tease her mercilessly. As the night wears on, you and Dylan exchange knowing glances, your silent communication speaking volumes.

[transform4u]

My boyfriend is acting weird and honestly, our relationship has been a bit rocky lately. Truth is, I don't think either of us want to break up. At least, we don't know how to discuss it. I'm thinking of talking it out with him later today. But he just sent me a weird link to some conservative site. Is this a joke?

As you read the text from your boyfriend—"U OPN LINK YET BRO?"—your thumb hovers over the reply for a moment. The strange spelling, the unusual choice of "bro" instead of the usual sweet, affectionate words, sets something off in your brain. Before you can catch yourself, your hand slips, and the rhythm of your fingers tapping out a response feels different somehow.

Suddenly, everything around you slows down. The room blurs, and a series of football plays rushes through your mind, complete with the grunts and roars of stadium crowds. You see yourself on the field—clashing with opponents, powering through defenses. It's like you're back in a time you’ve never experienced before, where you’re not the nerdy, lanky guy you always thought you were, but a bro. A frat bro, no less.

A hot, sun-kissed, gym-bred monster of muscle.

You blink and feel a strange heat pulse through your body. At first, it's subtle—a slow warming beneath your skin that gradually spreads, like your blood is being replaced with molten lava. Your hand clenches as the familiar chill of your pale, nerdy skin begins to evaporate, replaced by a golden, bronzed hue. It starts at your fingertips, then races up your arms, as they begin to swell, the veins popping out like you’re about to crush a watermelon. The soft, milky white of your skin is replaced with a deep, burnished glow, each new shade of bronze accentuating your swelling muscles.

Muscles. Everywhere.

Your arms stretch and expand, thickening with a tangible power. Biceps curve upward, each flex revealing a fierce set of veins that snake up your forearms like tiny rivers of strength. They bulge with pride, dominating your reflection in the mirror in front of you. Your shoulders broaden, straining the fabric of your shirt as your traps bulge, like a set of thick cables anchoring you to the earth. The wrinkles on your face, previously the telltale signs of late-night study sessions and endless gaming, vanish in a blink, smoothed out by the growth surging through your body.

Your chest, oh God, your chest. It starts to stretch, firming up into two hard slabs of muscle that practically pop out of your shirt. Each breath feels like it's expanding your ribs as your pecs puff up, growing into the kind of chest you used to only dream about seeing on those Instagram fitness models. There's a satisfying tension beneath your skin as your entire torso fills out—your abs rippling with tight, sculpted lines that would make any gym bro proud.

And then there's your ass. The deep, firm shape of it is undeniable, pressing against your pants like it’s been chiseled out of stone, perfectly round, tight from squats and deadlifts, and everything a guy would be envious of. You realize that your own confidence is slowly catching up with the body—your posture straightens as your glutes flex involuntarily, and you catch yourself strutting with that cocky "I own this" swagger, just like that frat guy you thought you'd never be.

You feel your skin radiate heat as your muscles hum, getting warmer and warmer, making you feel like a furnace built from pure strength and ego. You’re not just walking anymore; you’re stomping—each step like a declaration of dominance, like you own the entire gym. You blink. The moment you blink, the air around you seems to grow heavier. You inhale deeply, but before you know it, a huge, thunderous burp erupts from your chest, echoing through the room like the sound of an air horn. It reverberates in the space, shaking your very core. The sound is so obnoxious, so loud, it feels like it’s practically shaking the walls. As the burp lingers, you can’t help but let out a deep, satisfied exhale as a strange mix of amusement and discomfort takes hold of you. But that’s when things start to shift. Your mind, once filled with those endless, nerdy facts and the complexities of your rocky relationship with your lame ass faggot boyfriend, seems to shrink under the sheer force of the burp. It's like your brain is being squeezed, each useless little fact being pushed out, one by one, until your thoughts are reduced to simpler, more primal things.

And then there's the smell—the thick, suffocating stench that builds in the room. It’s a combination of sweat, protein shakes, and the undeniable scent of being a guy. You can feel your seat, once comfortable, beginning to stick to your skin, the dampness spreading, and the discomfort making you cringe. The thought of your past—your old relationship with your boyfriend, with all its awkwardness and lingering doubts—makes you recoil. It feels gross, foreign, as if it wasn’t even your own experience anymore.

Suddenly, memories bubble up—your wild, carefree times with Chad, your best gringo bro, gring-bro hahaahaha. The football practices, the endless hours spent in the gym, flexing and lifting, pushing each other to be better. The bar-hopping nights, hitting on chicks, living life like every day was a competition to be the alpha. You think about how good it felt to prank people, to dominate the scene, to be the guy everyone looked at with envy and admiration. It all feels like it’s been buried under a mountain of protein and bro talk, but now, it's all coming back in vivid detail.

And then, like an inevitable flood, it hits. The shift in your mind, subtle but undeniable, as that familiar cocky, frat-bro personality floods your thoughts. The one that never apologizes, that always flexes, that laughs at the world’s rules because it’s too busy making its own. You feel a strange surge of confidence, no—dominance. Everything is about power now, about controlling the space around you, owning every moment. Your mind, once full of uncertainty and liberal ideals, suddenly feels heavy. That mindset—those boring, complicated thoughts—dissolve like a fart in the air.

You feel a sense of clarity, but it’s not the kind of clarity you used to have. It’s sharp, direct, no-nonsense. Life is simple now: it’s about muscle, fun, and control. Your politics, once open and progressive, are gone, replaced by a mindset that scoffs at weakness. The world is for the strong—those who make things happen, not wait for them. Your views have shifted; you see things in terms of success, power, and who’s got the balls to grab it. The names that flood your mind are familiar: successful, unfiltered men who say what they mean, who crush the rules and make their own.

And then another fart breaks through the stillness. It’s deep, resonant, and unmistakable. You hear the familiar voice of Chad, your bro, at the door. The sound of his laughter vibrates through the walls, and he calls out, “Sorrrrry bro. Manuel, bro, you stink worse than me. You ready for practice? Then we can hit the bars, bro. It’s gonna be epic.”

The words feel natural. You feel your body respond before your brain even processes it. Practice? Hitting the bars? It's exactly what you’ve been waiting for. The excitement builds as the thought of hitting the gym again, the rush of practice, and the thrill of the night out with Chad flood your thoughts.

You stand up, your muscles feeling tight, pumped, like they’re made for this exact moment. Everything is clicking into place. The man you were—those old insecurities, the nerdiness, the political beliefs—all of it feels like a distant memory. You’re a bro now. No more thinking. No more doubting. Just living for the next lift, the next laugh, the next domination.

And with that, you open the door, the scent of sweat and protein still thick in the air, but now, it’s you. The bro you’ve always been, just waiting for a moment like this to take full form.

As you slip on your football jersey, a surge of superiority rushes through you. The crisp fabric against your skin feels like a badge of dominance. You glance around the locker room, sneering at the other players who dare to share the same space as you. "Hey bro, you ready to crush some skulls out there?" Chad asks, cracking his knuckles.

"Fuck yeah," you reply, flexing your biceps. "And maybe crush some feminist bitches' spirits while we're at it."

Chad laughs, a cruel, barking sound. "Damn straight! You know what they say, 'Behind every successful man is a woman… passed out on the couch.'"

You both burst into obnoxious laughter, high-fiving each other. "And let's not forget, 'Women belong in the kitchen…and on their backs,'" you add, winking at Chad. Chad leans in, his elbow digging into your ribs as he nods towards the cheerleaders on the sidelines. "Manuel, bro, check out those tits on the blonde," he says, his voice dripping with disrespect. "I bet she's a virgin, too. Probably never even seen a real dick before."

You follow his gaze, your eyes locking onto the cheerleader's ample cleavage. Your mind races with dirty thoughts, imagining all the ways you could defile her innocence. You feel your cock twitch in your uniform pants. "That's fucking hot," you grunt, turning back to Chad. "We should totally tag team and fuck her after the game. Show her what real men are made of."

Chad grins, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Hell yeah, bro. And let's invite those loser nerds to watch. I bet they've never seen a real woman before. It'll be hilarious!" As you both head out to the field, you join the team in a chant, "We are the football gods, hear us roar! Women are inferior, that's what we're scoring for! Fuck the fags, fuck the dykes, We're gonna crush our enemies with Red Wave Might!" The team responds with a thunderous "Yeah!" as you all pump your fists in the air. You feel unstoppable, a god among men, ready to conquer the field and assert your dominance over everyone in your path. Especially those pathetic loser nerds and fags who dare to challenge your supremacy.

[transform4u]

please write more like the story you did on the 19th like the one where the guy bulked up into a chubby redneck. so many writers go for the chiseled jock look but I love when you bulk guys up :)

Why shouldn't we start with you? Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the vibrating sensation startling you from your lazy slump. You glance down at the screen, seeing a message from an unknown number with something called "RedWave" attached to it. Curiosity piqued, your hands, shaky and distracted, accidentally tap the notification. It opens, revealing a menu screen like a GrubHub knockoff, offering a mountain of food options. Your stomach growls lightly, not from hunger, but from something more primal—an insistent craving that rises from nowhere. You weren't hungry, but now... you are.

You start scrolling through the menus, cheeseburgers, fries, milkshakes, pizzas, tacos, and a ton of other greasy, comfort food. Your mouth waters, and without realizing it, you lick your lips. You don't notice your cheeks rounding, becoming a little fuller, a little softer. The pictures of food tempt you, and before long, your fingers are clicking through endless options. Every scroll, every tempting bite, seems to pull you deeper into some kind of trance.

Your stomach rumbles louder, and the next thing you know, you're clicking "Order Now." The screen flashes as your order is placed—more food than you could ever eat. But your body doesn’t seem to care. You barely remember what happened next, but the sound of your doorbell breaks through the haze. A shift in awareness, you stumble towards the door, your hands a little clumsier than usual. When you open it, the bags of food are waiting—tall stacks of takeout, stacked like an overflowing feast.

You haul the bags inside, your body feeling heavier somehow. You dig in, shoveling food into your mouth, barely tasting it. The flavors overwhelm you—rich, greasy, salty, sweet. It’s all you can do to stuff more in, not caring if you’re full or not. Your stomach churns and gurgles as it expands. With every bite, you feel yourself growing, shifting. Your once-skinny form begins to feel tight, stretched in all the wrong places. Your arms, which were once lean, begin to swell, thickening with soft, puffy fat. Your stomach bulges outward, pressing against the waistband of your jeans. Your chest becomes fuller, rounder, softer. The air in your lungs feels heavier, your movements slower.

You catch your reflection in the window—what you see is unrecognizable, but somehow familiar. A chubby, sunburned, a man who spent years in the rough outdoors, now taking up space in a way he never had before. Your face is full, the flesh soft and round. Your chin has doubled, the once sharp edges replaced by a fleshy roundness. Your eyes, bloodshot and squinty, still carry that glazed look, like you’ve been through just enough to know it’s time to relax. The thick, untamed beard, always scruffy, looks even more unruly as your cheeks puff out. The muscles in your arms and neck remain, but they’re softened by the layer of fat that’s replaced your former tone.

You exhale, letting out a loud fart, the sound echoing in the room. The scent of sweat, dirt, and cheap cologne clings to you, familiar, comforting. You reach for a beer on the counter, the cold bottle slipping easily into your grasp. You take a long swig, the bitter taste grounding you. A sense of satisfaction, laziness, and contentment fills you. The posture of someone who doesn’t care, who’s spent too many days lounging, drinking, and indulging.

Memories start to shift, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. Tumblr, Discord chats, hanging out with friends in the city? Those things fade away, becoming distant. Your mind starts to take on a different shape. It’s like stepping into a new pair of boots, worn and broken in. You think back to days spent fishing by the creek, to hunting with your old man, to the steady, slow life of the country. Your thoughts drift to things that matter here—fishing holes, beers with the guys, and the comfort of the land.

With every bite, the shift becomes more complete. You’re no longer the guy who cares about scrolling through the latest memes or checking on what your friends are up to. Your focus has narrowed—it's just you, the food, and the life you've come to live. The world outside your little bubble is irrelevant now. You’re content, relaxed, a little dumb maybe, but satisfied in your own way. And it feels good. The pounds keep piling on, and so does the comfort, the easy feeling of a life well lived in the slow lane.

You shuffle over to the couch, your body feeling heavier with each step, the fat steadily building, settling like a slow tide. As you sit down with a soft groan, your body sinks deeper into the cushions, the weight of your belly pressing against your thighs. You let out a loud, obnoxious fart as you get comfortable, the smell lingering in the air like the remnants of a long, heavy meal. Your hands, slick with grease from all the food, reach for the remote. You fumble with it for a second, finally managing to turn on the TV.

At first, you're greeted with RuPaul's Drag Race. The queens prance across the screen, their flamboyant outfits flashing with every exaggerated movement, their high-pitched cackles filling the air. It’s jarring, and you cringe, the whole thing just doesn’t sit right with you. You flip the channel quickly, eager for something else.

The screen shifts, and suddenly ESPN is showing a NASCAR race. Your mood immediately lightens. A smile spreads across your face as you sink deeper into the couch, your back rounded and shoulders slouched. This is it—the race. You’re hooked, your eyes glued to the screen as the cars zoom around the track. The crowd’s roar, the engines’ growls, the sharp turns, all of it feels like it’s exactly what you need right now. Your focus sharpens, like your life depends on it. You grab another handful of greasy snacks and shove them into your mouth, the salty, savory crunch filling your senses.

You let out a burp, deep and loud, the toxic smell of your stomach’s efforts filling the room. It lingers in the air, thick, almost pungent. The scent clings to the walls, suffocating the pristine vibe your apartment used to have. But as you sit there, you don’t care. The room around you begins to shift. The walls seem to close in a little, the space feeling smaller and more lived-in, the furniture older, mismatched. The once clean, modern apartment transforms into something like a run-down trailer, the floor cluttered with empty beer cans and fast food wrappers. The walls are decorated with faded pinup posters of scantily clad women, and the unmistakable scent of stale beer hangs in the air, blending with the smell of grease.

You lazily flip the channel again, and now Fox News is on. The anchor woman appears on the screen, her sharp features framed by a red dress that clings to her curves. You hear her voice, speaking confidently about politics, about the issues that matter. At first, you’re just listening, but soon the words start to resonate with you, clicking in your mind. Everything she says, you agree with. The opinions sound right, they feel like truth. As she goes on, your mind softens, growing slower, growing dumber, absorbing her words like they’re the gospel. You start nodding in agreement with everything she says, the way she speaks to you—so direct, so certain—filling your mind with a new clarity.

You notice the way her curves fill out the dress, the confident way she moves, and something about it stirs something in you. She’s powerful, assertive—her opinions clear, her body full and rounded, just like you’ve become. The shift is subtle at first, but it’s undeniable. You’re no longer questioning the things she says. You agree—with everything. Slowly, your own thoughts mirror hers. The opinions of the left seem distant, irrelevant, like a part of a world you don’t belong in. Everything she says feels so right to you now, so natural.

And as the hour ticks on, your mind shifts even further. Your thoughts tighten around a new sense of self. You start agreeing with more of the stuff she says, nodding, and feeling more and more like you belong in this world—this world of opinions that are straightforward, no-nonsense. You shift in your seat, a bit of pride welling up in your chest. The opinions start to feel like your own—your truth. You don’t just understand this way of thinking, you embrace it. Your body feels even more at home now, more grounded in this new, rough-and-tumble version of yourself. You’re no longer just watching; you're becoming part of it. This is your world now.

And as the night continues, it all feels clear: the food, the drink, the opinions—everything is a piece of the life you're now living. You sink back into the worn leather couch, the springs creaking softly beneath you as you get comfortable. Your eyes are glued to the TV screen, fixated on the stunning blonde newscaster, Tomi Lahren, gracing the FoxNews broadcast. She's a real looker, with curves in all the right places, accentuated perfectly by that tight, red dress that hugs her figure like a second skin.

As she rants passionately about those weak-willed liberal soy boys, you find yourself nodding along in agreement, a smirk spreading across your face. She gets it, she really gets it. You can't help but let your gaze drift down to her ample cleavage, barely contained by the plunging neckline of her dress. Your heart races as you imagine those perfect breasts bouncing in your face while you bury yourself between them. Your hand slowly drifts down to your crotch, palming the growing bulge in your pants. As you continue to rub yourself through your pants, you feel a sudden urge. Without hesitation, you let out a loud, wet fart, the smell filling the room. The pungent aroma makes you laugh out loud, a deep, guttural sound that echoes through the trailer. "Damn, that's the good stuff," you mutter to yourself, grinning ear to ear. Your mind wanders back to the Tomi Lahren, imagining all the filthy things you'd do to her. You picture her blonde hair splayed out on your pillow, her fake tits bouncing as you pound her from behind. In your fantasy, she's not just ranting about politics anymore - she's screaming your name, begging for more as you give her the fucking of a lifetime. You pull your pants down, your hard cock springing free. You wrap your hand around it, stroking slowly as you continue to fantasize about the slutty little news anchor.

The Tami's voice grows more passionate, her eyes blazing with conviction as she rails against the "woke liberal agenda." "It's time for real Americans to stand up and embrace the Red Wave Rapture!" she declares, her voice dripping with fervor. "Every patriotic citizen has a duty to spread the Red Wave, to reclaim our great nation and restore it to its former glory!"

With each utterance of "American," you pump your fist harder, your hand moving faster along your throbbing shaft. The woman on the screen locks eyes with you, as if she can see directly into your soul. "You are an American," she says softly, a seductive smile playing on her lips. "Embrace your heritage, embrace the American way. The straight American family is the backbone of this country." Her words send you over the edge. With a grunt, you erupt, thick ropes of cum splattering across your chubby stomach. You let out a satisfied sigh, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. With a lazy grin, you grab one of the crumpled cheeseburger wrappers littering the coffee table and wipe the sticky cum from your stomach. The cheap paper absorbs the mess easily, leaving your skin slightly sticky but clean.

[transform4u]

I’m a reporter who can best be described as someone who is willing to go the extra mile in order to get the scoop. My editor assigned me a piece trying to do research about learning why polling in this election indicated a shift towards Conservative values amongst minority voters. Most of the people in these groups I interact with refuse to talk to me as they say I’m part of the “woke fake news media”. I’m running out of options and here and my deadline is coming up, so I’m thinking about trying to infiltrate these groups by opening up the website and taking part in the RedWaveRapture. Although I know such minority supporters are rare, the website will still turn me into someone that these voters will feel comfortable around and be willing to talk to, right?

You're staring at your computer screen, looking over your books of research, feeling the kind of confusion that comes from trying to understand something you just can't wrap your head around. How could so many minorities—so many people from communities you thought would never align—support the Republican Party? You're a journalist, you've been trained to look beyond the surface, to dig into the facts without bias, but this? This has you baffled.

You sigh, clicking through article after article, trying to find a source, someone who could explain this. But then you come across something you never expected—the Redwave Rapture site. The words “American values” flash across the screen, and your stomach tightens. All that MAGA nonsense. You hate it. You’re supposed to stay objective, but it’s hard when it feels like you're watching the world fall apart.

You click on a video, hoping to find some angle, some justification for what you’ve been seeing. But as it plays, your eyes widen. There, in front of you, is a group of brown and black men, cheering for Trump. Your breath catches, and something shifts inside you. What the hell? You’re transfixed. Hypnotized, even. Your thoughts scramble. You should be taking notes, mentally preparing for the next angle of your story, but instead, you're fixated. There’s something about the scene—the enthusiasm, the conviction in their faces—that hypnotizes you. You can't tear your eyes away.

Then, without even realizing it, a strange warmth begins to creep across your body, a slow, creeping shift that has you blinking in confusion. You sniff the air and notice the deep, earthy smell of Oud mixed with sweat. It clings to the air, familiar yet foreign, like something you should know but can’t place. Your fingers start typing furiously, trying to get something—anything—down, but it’s like your body doesn’t want to cooperate. The words start to blur together. You make mistake after mistake. You can feel the shift, feel your fingers on the keyboard starting to fumble, every keystroke a challenge as the letters blur and your fingers grow thick, swollen with... muscle? The thought barely crosses your mind, but you can’t deny what’s happening. Slowly, like a fever dream. Your skin darkens, takes on a deeper, richer hue, a tan that feels both foreign and right. Your veins pulse beneath your skin, like they’ve been carved into the surface, defining the new you that's emerging. The words you’re typing on the screen are starting to make less and less sense as your fingers swell into thick, muscular digits. You try to focus, try to regain control, but the sense of power—the strength—that is growing within you is almost overwhelming.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat as your clothes feel tighter, the seams of your shirt straining against new muscles that you can feel rippling beneath the fabric. You flex without meaning to—your biceps bulge, roiding out, stretching the sleeves of your shirt to their limit.

The fabric of your shirt stretches against your growing muscles, the seams threatening to split as they try to contain the newfound strength underneath. You can feel the weight of each muscle as it expands, pressing out against the fabric, straining it, pulling it tighter across your chest, arms, and shoulders. Without even trying, you flex instinctively—your biceps swell, stretching the sleeves to their limit, threatening to tear as your forearms thicken with definition. Each movement feels like it’s being powered by pure, raw muscle, every fiber of your body growing harder, stronger. Your chest pulses with each breath, the tension building as your pecs expand, firming up, rounding into sculpted perfection. They feel solid, dense, almost unyielding. It’s as if they were chiselled from stone, each curve and line sharp, defined, powerful. Every time you move, every small shift, your pecs seem to flex on their own, accentuating the deep cuts between them. Your body is no longer just a body—it’s an instrument of pure power.

You feel it in your core too—the tightening of your abs. What was once soft and unremarkable has now become a hardened wall of muscle, an 8-pack that stretches across your stomach with sharp, defined lines that stand out against the taut skin. You lean forward slightly, and you can feel your abs flex, each one as solid as marble, the sharp edges pressing against your shirt as though they’re trying to break free. You can practically see the light glinting off the ridges, each angle a sharp, sculpted edge.

And then, there’s the feeling—your jeans are tightening uncomfortably, not because they’re too small, but because your body is expanding, filling the space in a way that makes them seem almost inadequate. Your legs grow thicker with muscle, calves bulging, thighs tight and defined, all of it coming together to form the kind of body that exudes power, confidence, dominance.

You sit up straighter, your posture changing with every passing moment. Your spine feels longer, more confident, as if it’s been infused with the arrogance of someone who’s walked through life with no doubt that the world belongs to them. You can almost feel the swagger growing inside you—each breath a reminder that you are something… more. You are someone. Someone whose gaze commands the room.

And when you finally glance at yourself in the reflection of the screen, it's not just the change in your body. It’s the way your face—your features—have altered, too. You look… different. Stronger. More intense. Your jawline sharpens, deepens. Your eyes, once soft, are now dark and piercing, a gaze that could cut through anyone in its path. And there’s a smugness about you now, a quiet confidence, a smirk that tells you everything you need to know: You’ve arrived.

Your skin is bronzed, glowing under the harsh office light, reminding you of the afterglow of a perfect summer night. The spray tan might be a little too obvious, but it only adds to the image. Your hair, thick and dark, is perfectly styled—effortlessly messy, but still undeniably polished. You can’t help but run a hand through it, knowing how it looks, how it feels.

The words on the screen are becoming harder to grasp, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. You try to string together a sentence, but the thoughts feel like they’re slipping through your fingers, evaporating before you can even think to grasp them. Your mind is foggy, a cloud of confusion settling over you. What was it again? You squint at the screen, your fingers stumbling on the keys, pressing the wrong letters over and over. The letters don’t form words anymore—they just blur into nonsense.

"Local... Gay... Politician...Pete Buttigieg Hopes... To... Make... His... Mark..." You can barely sound it out. You mutter under your breath, trying to make sense of it, but the words feel alien now. College? Journalism? The work you put into understanding the world of politics? It all seems so... far away. Like some other life, some distant memory that doesn't really matter anymore.

Your thoughts begin to shift, turning darker, easier to accept. You’ve been duped, haven’t you? You feel it now, deep in your gut. All that liberal talk? It’s nonsense. Woke nonsense. And those so-called journalists—they're just pushing an agenda, trying to keep real men like you from rising up. All that talk of fairness and equality—it’s a lie. The only thing that matters is power, raw power. You’ve always known it, deep down.

You read the headline again, your lips curling in disgust. "Local Gay Politician Pete Butt-Gay, haha, Hopes to Make his Mark in Michigan." Your eyes widen, a spark of irritation flashing across your face. Really? That’s the kind of thing they think is important now? Your hands grip the edge of the desk, fingers tightening, nails digging into the wood. You hate it, every part of it. The idea of that kind of politician rising up. They’re soft, weak, full of ideas that will just get people like you trampled. You don't need to listen to them, to their fancy words and “equality” nonsense. No. You’ve learned what’s real, what’s true. The only one you can trust is Trump, and the only ones who will stand with you are the Republicans. They’re the ones who get it. They’re the ones who understand what this country needs.

Your gaze flicks around the room. The sterile, carefully curated workspace you’d spent years building—the trophies, the awards, the framed journalism degree, the proof of your success—it’s gone. It’s all fading, disintegrating, as though the very air is erasing it. Instead, the room around you transforms, slipping into something darker, louder. The furniture is mismatched, cluttered with empty beer bottles and pizza boxes. A stench of stale alcohol and old takeout fills the air. It’s a trashy bachelor pad now—your bachelor pad.

You get up, stumbling a little as you trip over the mess, a few beer cans rolling underfoot. You don’t care. It feels good. It feels right. This is you, now. You open the fridge, crack a beer, the cold can pressing into your hand like it’s an old friend. You take a long swig, feeling the bitter taste slide down your throat, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you relax.

As you lean against the fridge, your eyes fall to your phone. A text buzzes in, breaking the silence. You glance at it, and your lips curl into a smirk. It's your bro, sending you some nonsense about how the world is “soft” now, about how you’ve got to take what’s yours, never apologize, never back down. The words, they're music to your ears. It’s what you’ve been thinking, too—this whole world has become a place for weakness, a place for the “woke” to run things. You don’t buy it. You won’t. You’ve learned how to play the game.

You read the message again, and with every word, your mindset solidifies. It’s almost like a switch flips in your brain—what’s real, what’s valuable, what’s worth your time. Your politics click into place. You know what it’s about now. The world isn’t about “community” or “equality” or “love” anymore. It’s about domination, winning—and you know exactly how to win. You are the alpha. You see the world as it truly is: a competition, a battle. If you want to stay at the top, you’ve got to fight for it. Anything else? Weakness. Weakness is a trap, and you’ll never fall for it. Your phone buzzes again, pulling you out of your thoughts for just a second. You glance down at the screen, and it’s a text from your bro. You read it with a smirk, already feeling that familiar shift in your chest—the kind of confidence that comes from knowing you’re above it all.

"Amir, bro, you've got to get down to the Redwave Oasis, these chicks are wild, bro."

For a brief moment, you cringe, thinking you were into dudes. But the thought of two guys making out fills you with disgust. Gay men are scum, weak sissies beneath you, nothing like the alpha you are. You quickly push the thought aside and refocus on the text. "Fuck yeah," you think to yourself, already imagining sinking your dick into some hot, willing pussy tonight. You can't wait to get to the Redwave Oasis and claim your prize. You chuckle low, the sound deepening in your chest, a low, almost predatory rumble. The more you read it, the more you feel it—the promise of freedom, of power, of no rules. You toss the phone onto the counter, your gaze sharpening as your posture straightens. You’re slipping into that mindset, the one that never questions, never apologizes—just dominates.

Your hand automatically reaches for the bottle of sharp, citrusy cologne on the counter. The spray hits the air—lemon, bergamot—fresh, almost aggressive, like you. It fills your lungs, burns into your senses as it settles on your skin. You breathe it in, a man in control, a man who knows exactly who he is and what he wants.

You take a moment to let the thoughts marinate, reflecting on your upbringing, how your father’s empire—his vast wealth, his real estate mogul status—was a roadmap for everything you knew you could achieve. Growing up in the high-rises of New York, the city that never stopped moving, never stopped hustling, you understood what it took to get to the top. Your father, a self-made man just like Trump, a real estate tycoon, a force of nature. Your father's success was your blueprint, the right kind of immigrant success story that didn’t need the “woke” world to approve, the kind of man who did what he wanted without apologizing for it. You get it now, don’t you?

You weren’t like the others—those who came in looking for handouts or the “American Dream” with a soft, needy hand outstretched. No. You were the right kind of immigrant, the one who played the game the way it was meant to be played. You never needed the approval of the left, of the media, of anyone else who told you to shrink. You were here to take what’s yours. And you’re not about to let some “woke” agenda tell you otherwise.

You glance up at the TV, your eyes catching a glimpse of Fox News blaring in the background. It’s all noise, of course—the kind of political babble that used to annoy you, but now? It just feels like confirmation. You’re right. You know you’re right. The headlines flash by, but they don’t matter, because you’ve already figured it out. You’ve got the edge. You’ve always had it. No one’s going to stop you from claiming what’s yours.

You let out a low laugh as you finish buttoning your shirt. Your muscles stretch, flexing with every movement, every inch of you now a display of dominance. It feels like the air around you has shifted. The world is yours for the taking. And as you grab your keys, the weight of them feels more like a symbol of power than just an accessory. You don’t need to think about it—you know what’s coming.

Your phone buzzes again, but you don’t need to look. The message is clear. Tonight, you’re headed to the Redwave Oasis. And those chicks? They don’t even know what’s coming for them. You’re stepping into the world where you belong—the world of power, control, and absolute confidence. You give yourself one last look in the mirror, a cocky grin pulling at the corner of your lips. This is your world now. You’re the one calling the shots. And everyone else? They’re just living in it.

As you push through the crowded entrance of the pulsing nightclub, the bass thumps through your chest, the air thick with sweat and desperation. Malik spots you and rushes over, his gold chains bouncing off his pecs. "Amir, bro! Didn't I tell you, these chicks are fucking crazy!" he yells in your ear, his grin wide and predatory.

You flex your biceps, your tight shirt straining against your muscles as you survey the room. The strobe lights flicker across the sea of gyrating bodies, most of them white girls in tight dresses, their curves on full display. Your eyes lock onto a blonde in a barely-there mini skirt, her tits practically spilling out of her top.

Malik leans in, his breath hot on your neck. "Let's show these bitches what real men look like, yeah?" He grabs your shoulder, steering you towards the bar. As you approach the bar, you scan the room, your gaze lingering on every pair of legs and cleavage. You lean against the counter, your muscles on full display, and snap your fingers at the bartender. "A bottle of your most expensive champagne, and make it quick," you bark, not even glancing at the menu. Malik laughs, high-fiving you. "Fuck yeah, Amir! Let's get these hoes drunk and take them back to the crib."

You spot a group of giggling girls nearby and turn on your charm, or what you think is charm. "Hey there, ladies. I'm Amir, and this is my boy Malik. You girls look like you could use some real men in your lives." You smirk, flexing your pecs.

One of the girls rolls her eyes, but her friend leans in, biting her lip. "I'm Jessica," she says, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

You grab Jessica's hand, pulling her closer as you pour champagne into her glass, the bubbles spilling over. "Jessica, huh? Pretty name for a pretty girl," you say, your voice dripping with insincere flattery. Malik's already moved on to another girl, his hand resting on her lower back. "You know, Jessica," you continue, leaning in so close she can smell the champagne on your breath,"I don'tusually fuck girls who look like they're trying too hard. But I might make an exception for you." You wink, as if you've just paid her the biggest compliment.

Jessica blushes, clearly torn between offense and attraction. You take a sip of your drink, your eyes roaming over her body. "So, Jessica, what do you do for a living? Besides looking hot, I mean." You laugh at your own joke, expecting her to be impressed by your wit. Jessica hesitates, then smiles weakly. "I'm a student. I'm studying… political science." She says it like it's a dirty word.You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Political science? Fuck, that's boring. You know what's not boring? Making money." You pull out your phone, showing her a picture of your luxury apartment. "Malik and I work at Red Wave Capital. Ever heard of it? We're making serious bank, investing in the right people, the right ideas." You wink, as if sharing a secret. "We believe in traditional values, you know? Family, hard work, American exceptionalism. Shit like that." You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper ."Between you and me, sweetheart, this country needs more guys like us. Strong, smart, successful" As you talk, your hand "accidentally" brushes against Jessica's thigh, then stays there, your fingers slowly inching upwards. She stiffens, but you just smile, thinking she's playing hard to get. "You know, Jessica," you say, your voice low and condescending, "you're a pretty little thing. I bet you're used to guys falling all over themselves for you." You smirk, your ego inflating with each word. "But you've never met guys like Malik and me. We're not just any guys. We're fucking kings." Your hand moves higher, squeezing her leg possessively. You lean in, your lips brushing against her ear. "I could treat you so good, baby. Show you what a real man feels like." You pull back, grinning arrogantly, expecting her to swoon at your feet.

Jessica's face turns pale, but you just laugh, thinking she's just being shy. You lean in closer, your hand sliding up to cup her ass. "You know, Jessica," you whisper, your breath hot on her neck, "I've got a feeling you and I are going to have a lot of fun tonight." You grin, thinking of all the ways you're going to make America great again with her. The night wears on, and you and Malik become more and more obnoxious, shouting Trump slogans and grabbing any girl within reach. You buy expensive drinks for anyone who'll listen to your conservative rants, feeling like a god among men. Eventually, you drag Jessica and another girl back to your penthouse, your hands groping them the whole way. Back at the apartment, you'll push Jessica onto the couch, your hands already reaching for her zipper. "You're going to love this, sweetheart,"