Red Wave Solutions: Spread The Word II
To read part one, click here.
The door clicked shut behind Jackson and his escort, leaving Mason alone with the two guards restraining him and the older man who now regarded him with a devilish smirk. The mysterious man clasped his hands behind his back, his demeanor calm and assured, as if he were savoring the moment.
“You know, Mr. Samsen,” the man began, his voice smooth like honey laced with poison, “you’re quite the lucky fellow. Few people ever get the privilege of witnessing the birth of such a marvelous creation.” He gestured toward the door, as though Jackson’s presence still lingered there. “By the time the sun rises tomorrow, that pitiful, flamboyant Cooper you knew will be nothing more than a distant memory. Forgotten and completely erased from existence.”
Mason seethed, but he stayed silent, his jaw clenched as the man’s words slithered into his ears.
The older man continued, his tone shifting to one of admiration, as if recounting a triumph. “In his place, Jackson will reign supreme – an ideal fraternity president, someone charismatic and commanding. He’ll inspire his brothers to follow him, molding them into men of virtue, strength, and conviction. By the end of the week, they’ll be chanting the creed of discipline and order under his lead while eagerly embracing the fraternity’s increasingly Conservative values. And his evenings?” He chuckled darkly. “Spent passionately embracing his girlfriend, who he’s already dreaming of marrying and impregnating. Such a fine trajectory, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mason strained against the guards’ iron grips, his frail muscles taut with anger, but the older man merely raised a hand to signal calm. “Remove your hands from his mouth,” he ordered the guards, his voice a command, not a suggestion.
The guards obeyed, and Mason wasted no time. “You sick bastard!” he screamed, his voice reverberating through the sterile room. “Someone help me! These psychos are–”
Before he could finish, one of the guards yanked his hair sharply, forcing his head back and silencing him with a firm pull. Mason winced in pain, gritting his teeth as he shot daggers at the older man.
The man tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “Now, now. Let’s not make this unpleasant, Mr. Samsen. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Surely you understand the value of conducting oneself with professionalism. Scream again, and I won’t hesitate to silence you in a far more... permanent manner.”
With the apparent threat of death now suddenly on the table, Mason took a moment to gather himself, forcing his breathing to steady even as adrenaline coursed through him. The guard released his grip, and Mason bit back his urge to retaliate, knowing that it would do him no good.
With barely concealed contempt, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Who the hell are you? And how is any of this possible?!” His eyes burned with fury. “Let me make one thing crystal clear – you can bet your ass that I’ll make sure everyone knows what you’re doing here. You won’t get away with this!”
The older man chuckled, a low, patronizing sound that made Mason’s blood boil. He clasped his hands behind his back again, his posture unshaken. “Ah, such spirit. It’s almost endearing, really.” He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes locking onto Mason’s. “But I think you’ll find, Mr. Samsen, that the more you learn about us, the more you’ll realize… we’ve already gotten away with it.”
He straightened and began pacing slowly, his tone turning colder, sharper. “As for who I am, you may call me Mr. Corbin. I’m the architect of conformity – the shepherd guiding lost, pathetic little sheep like Jackson into their rightful places in society.”
He stopped and faced Mason, his smirk widening. “And how is this possible, you ask? That’s the wrong question. The question you should be asking is why we do it. And the answer is simple: Order. Stability. Strength. Qualities your kind – weak-willed, rebellious, aimless – lacks entirely. We’re here to fix that.”
Mason’s jaw tightened, his mind racing as he searched for some way to counter the man’s rhetoric. “You think people will stand for this? You’re brainwashing them, turning them into…”
“Into better versions of themselves,” Corbin interrupted sharply. “Versions who can thrive in the world as it already is, not as your naive ideals imagine it should be.”
He motioned toward the guards. “Take him. It’s time for Mr. Samsen to begin his own journey toward understanding.”
The sharp, sterile room seemed to grow colder as Mr. Corbin’s voice filled the air, his words dripping with a chilling confidence.
“You see, Mr. Samsen,” Corbin began, pacing leisurely, “the intricacies of our process, the chemistry, the programming – all of it is irrelevant when compared to the bigger picture.” He stopped to face Mason directly, his smirk widening. “Our goal isn’t just to win elections. It’s to ensure that Conservative values never die, to create more virile men eager to impregnate women and indoctrinate the next generation of humanity. Permanence, Mr. Samsen. That’s the name of the game.”
Mason’s breath quickened, the weight of Corbin’s words settling over him like a suffocating blanket. He strained against the guards holding him, but their grip was immovable.
Corbin continued, his voice calm yet menacing. “The spiel we give our clients – temporary transformation, lasting only until the administration concludes – is a necessary fiction. A comforting lie. The truth, however…” He chuckled darkly. “The truth is that Conservatism will never end no matter who is in charge. As a result, neither will these transformations. Once someone joins us, they’re ours. Forever.”
Mason’s body surged with adrenaline. He twisted and jerked, attempting to break free from his captors, but the guards tightened their hold, rendering him powerless.
Corbin tilted his head, watching Mason’s futile struggle with mild amusement. “Ah, there it is. That spark of defiance. Admirable, if misguided.” He stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking softly against the floor. “You see, Mr. Samsen, you’ve played right into my hands. Your so-called journalistic curiosity, your relentless need to fight for what you think is ‘justice’ – all of it made you the perfect target. We knew you’d come snooping.”
Mason froze, his eyes narrowing. “You planned this?”
Corbin’s grin widened. “Of course. The flier placements across campus? Completely intentional. That background check? A pure fabrication meant only to encourage you to snoop. We knew exactly who you were and how to lure you in. You pride yourself on exposing the truth, don’t you? Well, congratulations, you’ve uncovered something extraordinary!”
Mason spat through gritted teeth, “I’ll never help you. No matter what you do, I’ll never spread your message. Never.”
Corbin laughed, a sound so rich with mockery it made Mason’s skin crawl. “Help us? Oh, Mr. Samsen, you misunderstand. You won’t have a choice. You’re going to become a face of our movement. A voice that guides the disillusioned masses to embracing the truth – our truth.”
Reaching into his suit pocket, Corbin pulled out a small vial of vivid red liquid. The substance seemed to shimmer ominously in the harsh fluorescent light. “This,” he said, holding it up between his fingers, “was made just for you. A special concoction tailored to transform you into one of the most trusted news anchors in the country. A paragon of rationality, dependability, and Conservative values. Believe me when I tell you, your viewers will gladly hang onto your every word and follow anything you tell them.”
Mason’s stomach churned, and his attempts to thrash free became more desperate. “You’re insane!” he barked.
Corbin ignored the insult, instead turning and gesturing to the guards. “Open his mouth.”
The guards obeyed without hesitation, prying Mason’s jaw open with brutal efficiency despite his muffled protests and frantic attempts to resist.
Corbin took a step closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “Don’t worry, Mr. Samsen. I’m granting your greatest wish – you’re becoming the loudest voice of truth.” He tilted the vial over Mason’s mouth, the red liquid pooling on his tongue.
Mason fought with everything he had, trying to spit the liquid out, but Corbin was ready. He clamped Mason’s mouth shut and pinched his nose, cutting off his air supply. Mason’s lungs screamed for oxygen as his vision blurred. For a moment, he weighed his options – wondering if death would be a better option than the alternative. Before he could make a decision though, desperation overtook him, and despite his resolve, his throat contracted. The liquid burned as it slid down, where the instant it hit his stomach, a strange heat began to spread through his body.
Corbin released Mason, stepping back to admire his work. “And now,” he said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “the transformation begins...”
Mason collapsed to his knees, coughing and gasping for air as his body began to tingle and shift. Panic surged through him, but deep down, he knew: there was no escaping what was coming next.
Mason gasped for air as the tingling sensation coursing through his body began to intensify, a strange warmth blooming from his core and spreading outward. Mr. Corbin stood a few feet away, watching with an infuriating air of calm amusement. “Ah, the calm before the storm,” Corbin said with a smirk. “This process is not only fascinating to behold but incredibly amusing as we watch our customers reckon with the path that led them here. But don’t worry, Mason. We’ll give you a little privacy to fully experience it and embrace what’s to come…”
Turning to the guards, Corbin gestured toward the door. “Come along, gentlemen. Let’s leave him to it.” He paused at the threshold, his piercing gaze locking onto Mason’s trembling frame. “I’m looking forward to seeing just how incredible and manly you turn out. I have no doubt you’ll do us proud.”
With that, the guards followed Corbin out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. Their absence left an oppressive silence in the room, broken only by the sound of Mason’s ragged breathing.
Mason staggered to his feet, his limbs feeling oddly stiff and heavy. He began pacing frantically, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Despite what he had already seen and experienced thus far, he refused to believe it now that he was on the precipice of the same type of transformation. “This has to be a joke,” he muttered to himself, his voice shaking. “A prank. Some kind of sick, twisted dream. That’s all this is.”
In a desperate bid to wake himself up, Mason pinched his arm until the skin turned red, then slapped his own face hard enough to leave a stinging mark. But nothing changed. The room remained solidly real, the warmth inside him growing more insistent by the second.
“No, no, no,” he whispered, backing into a corner and sliding down against the wall. “This can’t be happening. This isn’t real!”
But the evidence against him mounted as the heat inside his body shifted, pooling in his stomach. The ache began as a dull throb, but it quickly escalated to a violent twisting pain that made Mason double over. His hands instinctively clutched at his abdomen as if he could somehow stop the process.
The memory of Cooper’s transformation flashed through his mind, sending a wave of cold fear crashing over him. “Oh God,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “It’s really happening…”
Despite his mounting dread, Mason’s gaze was drawn toward the mirrored paneling on one side of the room. He hadn’t wanted to look, but some morbid curiosity overpowered him, compelling him to face the horrifying reality of his situation.
At first, there was nothing visibly different. He still looked like himself, albeit pale and drenched in sweat. But then, his legs buckled slightly, and he felt a strange pressure in his bones – a stretching sensation.
Mason’s eyes widened as his reflection began to shift. He watched in horror as his frame elongated inch by inch. His shoes grew tighter before the laces snapped, and the cuffs of his pants rose higher and higher, exposing his ankles and eventually leaving them as comically short as capris. His torso followed suit, broadening slightly as his spine straightened.
The dizzying growth finally stopped, and Mason stumbled backward, bracing himself against the wall. He stared at the mirror, his chest heaving. The man looking back at him was taller, much taller in fact. Where he had once been a respectable 5’10”, he now loomed at an imposing 6’4”.
The change wasn’t as drastic as Cooper’s transformation, but it was enough to leave Mason feeling completely unmoored. His center of gravity had shifted, making him feel awkward and clumsy in his own body even when just standing still. His reflection felt like he was looking into a funhouse mirror, like he was staring at a distorted, elongated image of himself.
“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispered, his voice trembling as he pressed his hands against the mirrored surface.
But even as he tried to ground himself, the warmth inside him surged again, a sign that this was only the beginning of his changes.
Mason staggered around the room, trying to adjust to his new height. Every step felt alien, his longer legs making his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. His side bumped against the mirrored wall countless times, his face wincing at the sudden impact. Eventually, the throb of his ongoing transformation and the soreness of his side caused him to momentarily steady himself against the wall. “This is so fucking insane,” he muttered under his breath, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of his situation.
His head grazed the overhead light fixture, making him flinch. “How do tall people deal with this?” he grumbled. But as he focused on his awkward gait and trying not to trip over himself, he remained oblivious to the quiet changes already taking place.
The intense heat radiating through his body, which had initially been a dull simmer, began to shift and ripple under his skin. Mason didn’t notice how the slight flab that had clung to him from years of late-night snacking was dissolving. The warmth was burning it away, leaving him leaner and more defined with each passing moment.
It wasn’t until his shirt began to feel noticeably looser that Mason frowned. He tugged at the hem of his baggy shirt, his confusion mounting. “What the…?” he muttered, pulling the fabric away from his body. When he lifted it up to inspect his torso, his breath caught in his throat.
Gone was the slight paunch that had accompanied him for as long as he could remember. His stomach was completely taut and flat, the skin smooth and firm. “No way,” he whispered, running a trembling hand over the newly chiseled surface.
The reprieve was short-lived. Without warning, a sharp, stinging sensation shot through his body, like being slapped repeatedly in different spots. Mason gasped, doubling over as the pain ricocheted across his limbs and chest.
He forced himself to look at his reflection, eyes darting to the areas where the pain struck. His jaw dropped as he watched his body suddenly begin to inflate with muscle.
His arms, once thin and unremarkable, began to thicken. Veins surfaced as his biceps grew, swelling outward into solid, rounded shapes. His shoulders broadened, creating an imposing, V-shaped silhouette. A modest pair of pecs jutted from his chest, pressing against the fabric of his shirt.
Mason instinctively pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling a flurry of movement beneath his skin. He looked down just in time to see the faint outlines of a six-pack emerging, each muscle sharply defined. His jeans grew tighter around his thighs and calves, the denim straining to contain his newly bulging legs.
“Am I… becoming muscular like Cooper?” Mason whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief and dread.
But the changes didn’t stop there. Another wave of stinging slaps spread across his body, stronger this time. Mason winced as his muscles continued to swell, growing well beyond the lean athleticism of a frat bro.
His biceps expanded into massive, soccer-ball-sized domes of power. His pecs grew heavier and squarer, jutting out so far that they created a noticeable shelf. His back widened, his lats flaring out like wings, while his traps rose to form thick ridges near his neck.
His thighs strained against the seams of his jeans, each leg packed with dense, corded muscle. Even his calves weren’t ignored by the potion, quickly growing into defined, diamond-shaped bulges. The sleeves of his shirt ripped as his arms outgrew them, leaving shreds of fabric hanging from his impossibly thick shoulders.
When the changes inflating his body finally subsided, Mason stood frozen in front of the mirror, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The man staring back at him was unrecognizable. His once-average frame had been replaced by the colossal, hulking physique of a professional bodybuilder.
He gingerly poked at one of his biceps, the sheer size and firmness of it sending a chill down his spine. His other hand examined his pecs, which felt like slabs of stone under his fingertips as he awkwardly squeezed them.
“Holy… holy fucking shit… H-how is this possible?” Mason stammered, his voice cracking as he struggled to process what he was seeing.
He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the immense power coursing through his body. The strength was intoxicating but also deeply unsettling. This was not him. This was a stranger – a body far removed from who he had ever been or wanted to be. And yet, the mirror offered no denial. This was Mason now. And he had no idea what to do.
Mason barely had time to process the muscular bulk he now inhabited before a strange tingling sensation spread across his skin. His initial thought was that it might be sweat from the intense heat of his transformation, but the feeling was different – even deeper within him than before, almost as if it were coming from within his very cells. He watched in growing horror as his reflection in the mirror began to change once more.
His hands were the first to catch his attention. The skin on them, once smooth and youthful, began to grow slightly weathered. Fine lines crept across his knuckles and the backs of his hands, and faint wrinkles etched themselves into the creases of his fingers. His nails, which he rarely paid attention to, became neatly trimmed and pristine, as though they had been professionally manicured.
He looked back up at the mirror just in time to see his face start to morph. His youthful, unassuming visage shifted and contorted, as if clay being sculpted by invisible hands. His once-average features began to sharpen. Prominent brow bones jutted forward, giving him a commanding and intense gaze. His cheekbones rose and became more sculpted, lending an aristocratic air to his face, while his jawline squared into a picture-perfect angle that looked chiseled from marble.
His nose subtly reshaped itself into a straight, perfectly proportioned feature that seemed almost too flawless to be natural. The transformation left Mason staring at a face that, despite its changes, was undeniably his – yet now carried an unnerving, almost predatory attractiveness.
But the alterations didn’t stop there. As he stared, his shaggy hair began to retract into his scalp, the strands shortening visibly before his eyes. His heart sank as his hairline crept upward, a clear sign of his apparent aging. Within seconds, his once-casual and messy hairstyle had been replaced with a short, cropped look that exuded professionalism and control.
What disturbed him even more was the sudden darkening of his hair. The strands deepened into an unnaturally dark shade, hovering near black but tinged with a glossy sheen that further indicated its artificial origins. Along his temples, hints of grey emerged, lending him a distinguished, older appearance.
“Is, is this fucking hair dye?” Mason muttered to himself, his voice shaky. He reached up and touched his hair, feeling its styled, slightly stiff texture. The realization that his hairstyle was a perfect description for his new appearance hit him like a punch to the gut. He had been reimagined, reshaped into a figure that exuded dominance, age, and authority – but with a still-stylish edge.
The worst part was that he couldn’t deny the appeal of his new visage. He looked like someone who commanded attention, a man who could walk into a room and have every head turn. And yet, while thinking about the things this new self would say and the type of values he was becoming an unintentional mascot for, the thought now revolted him.
His thin, yet masculine lips, now perfectly balanced and tinged with a faint rosy hue, curled in disdain as he thought about what they would soon be used for. They weren’t his anymore – not truly. Those lips would soon spew lies, distort facts, and manipulate the masses with confidence and charm – just as Red Wave Solutions had designed them to.
Mason clenched his fists, his knuckles white against his weathered hands. He glared at the man in the mirror, wishing he could shatter the glass and erase the image forever. But no matter how much he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. This was who he had become, and deep deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before he forgot about who he once was.
Mason’s breath hitched as he continued staring into the mirror, his emotions a chaotic mess of revulsion, fear, and, despite everything, a twinge of morbid fascination. The man reflected back at him was undeniably magnetic. Mason hated the thought of what this form represented, but even he couldn’t ignore the undeniable allure it carried. A small, intrusive part of him whispered that he could use this body to his advantage.
He let his imagination wander, picturing himself walking into a gay club, towering over the dance floor with his imposing height and rippling physique. He imagined catching the eye of a younger, nervous but intrigued man who would be drawn to his aged confidence and charm. He pictured the heat of the music, the press of sweaty bodies, the flirtatious exchanges, and the way his strong, calloused hands might guide the man closer as they danced.
But before the fantasy could grow, a wave of something foreign rippled through his mind. A sharp pang of disgust shot through him – revolted by the imagined scenario. His stomach churned as his mind involuntarily recoiled at the thought of being intimate with a man. It was like someone had flipped a switch, flooding his thoughts with an inexplicable sense of wrongness.
“No,” he whispered, his voice shaky as his fists clenched against the edge of the sink. “That isn’t me. It’s just the potion. I like men, it’s just the…”
He tried to ground himself, closing his eyes tightly as he forced himself to think about the men he had dated throughout college. He thought of Ethan’s confident smile and his broad shoulders. He thought of the softness of Mark’s lips, the way they brushed against his own during their first kiss. He remembered the thrill of running his hands over a man’s hairy chest, the firmness of their bodies pressed together, and the comforting scratch of stubble against his cheek.
But the images began to shift. Ethan’s confident smile warped into a shy, feminine giggle. Mark’s lips thickened and became painted with glossy lipstick. Instead of the sharp, masculine planes of a man’s chest, Mason’s mind began to envision soft curves. His memories of perky butts in fitted jeans were overwritten by the image of plump, rounded hips in a skintight dress. The scratch of stubble on his cheek was replaced with the sensation of smooth, freshly shaved skin against his own.
“No!” Mason shouted, slamming his beefy hands against the mirrored glass in anguish. He stared at his reflection, wide-eyed and trembling. His mind was no longer his own – it was forcibly being overwritten, piece by piece, by something unknown and turning it into something incredibly wrong and utterly opposite of his innermost values.
He tried again, desperately clinging to memories of past kisses and the thrill of attraction to a man. But every attempt was corrupted, replaced with images of soft, feminine hands trailing down his chest, the warmth of a woman’s body pressed against his. A rogue thought emerged, unbidden and unwanted: the fantasy of cradling a woman’s delicate face in his strong hands and leaning down to kiss her full, pouty lips.
“No, no, no!” Mason muttered, pacing the room as he gripped his temples, trying to shove the thoughts away. But the more he fought, the more vivid the images became.
He stopped pacing and looked at himself in the mirror again, breathing heavily. His reflection looked so calm and naturally composed, even as his inner world crumbled. The man staring back at him didn’t seem like someone who had ever kissed another man, much less desired to.
Faint tears pricked Mason’s eyes as he whispered to himself, “I have to fight this. I have to hold on to who I am.”
But deep down, he feared it was already too late. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth in a desperate attempt to resist a series of rogue thoughts that began to emerge throughout his mind.
One voice, low and smooth, slid through his mind like a serpent. “You’ve never had power like this before,” it purred. “Look at yourself. Who could resist you? Women crave a man like you. They’d do anything… anything to please you.”
“No,” Mason hissed, shaking his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the voice. “That’s not me. That’s not what I want.”
But the voice continued, unrelenting, dripping with smug certainty. “Oh, but it is now. Think about it. Think about how good it feels to have someone submit to you, to have them worship every inch of this handsome, powerful body. Imagine their eyes lighting up with desire, their voices trembling as they beg to make you happy in any way you want.”
Mason pressed his hands to his ears, his heart pounding as he tried to drown it out. “Shut up! Shut up!” he shouted, but his words fell flat against the weight of the seductive voice.
“You deserve this,” it crooned, each word pressing deeper into his psyche. “This body, this face, this strength – it’s what you’ve always been meant to have. And women? You’re only meant to have them as well.They’re your playthings – there to entertain you, to serve you. Hook up with them. Take what you want from them. That’s what a real man like you is meant to do. Why would you waste time respecting them when they’re so eager to submit to a man like you?”
“No, no, no!” Mason’s voice cracked, his breathing ragged as he stumbled back from the mirrors. His reflection blurred in his vision, tears welling in his eyes as he fought against the intrusive words. But even as he resisted, the voice began to root itself deeper.
He looked around in anguish, but found that his reflection offered no comfort. Instead, it seemed to mock him, standing there tall and perfect, the embodiment of everything the voice was describing. His mind began to falter, the line between his real thoughts and the implanted ones blurring.
Against his will, images began flashing through his mind. Women, beautiful and eager, surrounded him. They touched him with reverence, their eyes wide with adoration, their smiles promising pleasure. He envisioned their soft hands trailing down his muscular chest, their soft, dainty bodies pressing against his, their voices pleading for his attention.
And what terrified him most of all was the pull he felt toward those thoughts. It wasn’t just the voice anymore. Deep inside, a part of him – a seemingly small yet traitorous part – was beginning to quickly find the idea appealing. The concept of being desired so deeply and desperately by women who would do anything to make him happy sent an involuntary thrill coursing through him. Before he knew it, Mason could feel his cock beginning to thicken in his skintight pants.
“No!” he cried out again, though this time the word sounded weaker, less certain. He stumbled back to the sink, gripping it as he stared at his reflection. His lips trembled as he whispered, “This isn’t me. This can’t be me.”
“You know it’s true, this is who you’re meant to be” the voice interrupted, softer now, but no less insidious. “You’ve been given the ultimate gift. Why fight it? Just accept who you’re becoming. You’re not weak anymore. You’re not invisible. You’re a man now – a real man.”
Overwhelmed with everything going on, Mason began to pace around the room, each step heavy with frustration and fear while his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. The mocking voice inside his head didn’t falter, growing bolder with every moment. Its tone oozed confidence, a sinister undercurrent of triumph humming through each word.
"Take a real good look at yourself," the voice purred, a smirk practically audible. "You’re the perfect male specimen now. Tall, muscular, confident. A total alpha. Men will envy you, Mason. They’ll look up to you, want to be you. Women? They can’t help but fantasize about being with you. And even if they can’t, they’ll still eagerly listen to everything you say and accept it if it means possibly getting the attention of other men like you. You’re everything that anyone would desire, in one way or another.”
“Shut up,” Mason growled, his voice trembling as he pressed his hands to his temples, trying to block out the insidious whispers. But the voice ignored his protests, unfazed.
"You know I’m right," it continued smugly. "Especially with your career – imagine it. Every evening, people turn on their TVs just to see you. Their lives might be falling apart, but all they care about is catching a glimpse of you. The country’s favorite news anchor, the face they trust. You’re not just handsome – you’re a god to them, Mason. An alpha god sent from above to help mold the world in your image."
The words twisted in his mind, and Mason clung to the memories of his real career as an investigative journalist. He tried to picture himself standing at a podium, holding up an award for his hard-hitting exposés, the occasional flashes of cameras not hindering him from displaying his proudest smile. But the memories began to blur, fragments slipping through his grasp despite his best attempts to hold on.
Instead, new images forced their way in: the glaring brightness of stage lights washing over him, assistants swarming around him with powder brushes and combs, their soft touches ensuring he was flawless for the camera. He saw himself sitting at a news desk, posture perfect, a designer suit clinging to his impossibly broad shoulders. He could hear the countdown from the producer in his earpiece, the hum of the camera as it zoomed in on his chiseled face.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the Mason in his mind said, his voice deep and commanding, effortlessly capturing attention.
“No,” Mason whispered aloud, shaking his head. “That’s not real. That’s not me.”
But the voice pressed on. "Oh, it’s you, all right. Picture it, Mason. The power you hold when you speak. Every word you say – people hang on it. They believe you, they admire you, they trust you. You’re not some invisible journalist typing out words behind a keyboard. You’re seen. Respected. Adored."
Mason tried to resist, but his mind betrayed him, lingering on the imagined scene. He pictured himself leaning back in his chair during commercial breaks, assistants fussing over him, the camera crew nodding with approval as they reviewed footage of his perfect delivery. He saw the way his reflection looked in the teleprompter: sharp, polished, magnetic.
The warmth in his body flared again, and Mason stopped pacing, placing his hands on his hips to steady himself. Upon looking up and getting another look at his transformed reflection, his breathing grew shallow as a strange sensation overtook him. He felt an unwelcome smile tugging at his lips, while his hips began to buck softly, the motion subtle but rhythmic.
“No,” he murmured again, but his voice was weaker now, his resolve fraying as the images in his mind grew more vivid.
He saw himself adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit, flashing a confident smirk that could disarm anyone. He imagined the eyes of the crew following his every move, the palpable awe they felt as they worked in his presence. The thought of commanding such attention, such reverence, sent a shiver through him.
His lips curled further into a smirk as he caught his reflection again, the older yet impeccably handsome face staring back at him. It wasn’t his reflection – it couldn’t be. But as his gaze lingered, as his hips continued their subtle thrusting motion, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride.
He tried to think of the awards he’d earned, the articles he’d written, the causes he’d fought for. But those memories were hazy now, dimmed by the brightness of studio lights and the weight of the microphone clipped to his pristine tie.
“You belong here,” the voice whispered, dripping with satisfaction. “Accept it, Mason. This is who you are now.”
Mason’s thoughts continued to spiral as he stood frozen in front of the mirror, his reflection now fully the picture of an imposing, middle-aged news anchor. He flexed his square shoulders and ran a hand over his tightly cropped, dyed hair, his smirk widening as he imagined the commanding presence he would have on screen. The idea of his face beaming into countless homes every evening, his deep voice trusted by all who heard it, was growing quite intoxicating.
A spark of excitement ignited in his chest, fanned by the growing fire of his inflating ego. He imagined the headlines about his rise: “The Face of the Nation: Mason Samsen Leads the Evening News.” A sudden warmth spread across his body – not the unnatural heat from before, but a heady rush of pride and anticipation.
He thought about the newsroom, the bustling energy, the cameras trained on him, and, suddenly, a stray thought surfaced. He pictured his co-anchor, a sharp, intelligent woman who was respected for her wit and incisive reporting. But instead of admiration, another feeling crept into his mind.
Before he could fully process it, the voice in his head slithered into his thoughts, laced with venom. “She’s such a disappointment, isn’t she? A nasty little liberal. What a waste. Women making the same money as men despite all of our hard work, what could be more revolting?”
Mason recoiled inwardly. He didn’t believe that – he knew he didn’t. He’d spent years championing equality and defending people’s rights to love whoever they chose. But as he opened his mouth to protest, nothing came out. The words stuck in his throat, trapped by an invisible force.
The voice grew louder, more insistent. “Look at her. She could be on her knees under the newsdesk, begging for your attention, and yet she’d rather waste her time with another woman or a pathetic excuse of a man? What kind of sick joke is that?”
A sick feeling churned in Mason’s gut, but instead of pushing back, he found his thoughts being swept along with the voice’s hateful tirade. Against his will, his mind’s eye shifted, and he pictured her again – no longer as a colleague but as an object, someone he could have “had” if only she weren’t so bull-headed.
“She’s such a babe,” Mason muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with derision as though the words weren’t entirely his own. “And yet she wastes herself like that. What a man-hating prude.”
He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction as the words left his lips, despite the small, rational part of him screaming that this wasn’t who he was. The voice purred in approval, feeding off his growing disgust.
“That’s right,” it urged. “If she just stopped pretending to be some untouchable, real man-hating feminist, you’d show her what it’s like to be with a real man. She’d never look at another woman or man again after you’re done with her.”
Mason’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t want to think this way – he knew he didn’t – but the voice’s influence was like a tide, washing away his convictions and leaving behind something monstrous.
He tried to recall admirable aspects of the co-anchor’s actual personality: her sharp humor during commercial breaks, the way she stood her ground in editorial meetings, her passion for stories that made a difference. But just as quickly as he mentally found these things that he once would praise or respect, those sensations changed to feelings of annoyance and rage at her way of trying to turn the station “woke”.
Instead, all he could focus on now was an imagined scenario: her storming into his office to argue about a segment, her cheeks growing flushed as his imposing presence overwhelmed her, and her eventual “realization” that she couldn’t resist him. The thought sent a twisted thrill through him, one he hated himself for feeling even as the voice praised him.
“You’re a real man now, Mason,” it cooed. “And the world needs to see that. No more hiding, no more playing nice. You’re the alpha here, and everyone else – women like her included – needs to fall in line.”
As Mason stared at his reflection, he saw the smirk tugging at his lips again. It was crueler this time, more predatory. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could stop himself from believing the voice entirely.
Mason's mind swirled with the vivid clarity of a memory he hadn't lived yet now felt undeniably his own. He saw himself standing in the brightly lit newsroom, the buzz of post-election chaos filling the air. His freshly polished dress shoes echoed against the tiled floor as he crossed the room, exuding an aura of confidence that seemed to demand attention. Every gesture, every word, felt rehearsed to perfection – an embodiment of his calculated and commanding charisma.
His female co-anchor had just walked in, her expression an open book of grief and disdain. Her eyes, red and puffy, locked onto Mason’s. He could recall the way her shoulders sagged, her steps hesitant as if she were carrying the weight of a world that had just turned against her beliefs. In stark contrast, Mason stood tall, his broad chest puffed out with a sense of triumph that radiated from him like heat off asphalt on a summer day.
“You look like you could use a drink, Sarah,” he heard himself say in the memory, his voice dripping with smugness. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile that was as patronizing as it was confident. “But then again, I think it’s good for you to really reckon with the reality of the world and accept that your time of winning is finally over.”
Her response was a withering glare, her lips pressed into a thin line of contempt. But it wasn’t her silence that Mason remembered most vividly – it was his own voice, booming and unapologetic as he turned to the room of male colleagues.
“Gentlemen, let’s take a moment to celebrate,” he declared, raising an imaginary glass. “Finally, a real man is back in charge of the country! No more of this woke nonsense dragging the country down. We’re getting back to the basics – the way things should be.”
The memory felt intoxicating and foreign all at once. He could almost feel the collective laughter and cheers of agreement from the other men, the slap of hands on his back in camaraderie. Yet, in the pit of his stomach, a flicker of unease twisted.
In the present, Mason found himself nodding instinctively, the words spilling from his lips before he could stop them. “This country was going to hell, to be honest. Maybe things will finally get back on track…”
The stray voice in his mind cheered him on, reinforcing every sentiment. That’s right. It’s time for real leadership. Time for strength and order. You’re a part of that now.
For a moment, Mason tried to resist, to cling to the fading remnants of who he was. He thought of the co-anchor’s tear-streaked face, the silent despair in her eyes. But even that memory began to shift in his mind – her sadness no longer struck him as unjust, but as proof of her weakness. This is the natural order of things, the voice reminded him. She doesn’t belong at the table anymore.
Mason felt the words settle deep in his chest, his resistance ebbing further. The memory blurred as his present thoughts intertwined with it, leaving him with a growing sense of pride and belonging. His lips curled into a smirk as he whispered to himself, “We’re finally doing things the right way.”
Mason’s pulse thundered in his ears, his chest rising and falling as the inner voice grew louder, more assured. "That’s it, Mason," it purred. "You’re finally seeing the light. No more confusion. No more weakness. Just truth, strength, and common sense values. This is the life you were meant for."
The words reverberated in his head, filling every corner of his mind as though they were his own thoughts. He gripped the edge of the desk, his fingers trembling slightly, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. The voice surged forward, emboldened.
"Picture it: a wife who loves and obeys you, children who look up to you and carry your name with pride. That’s the purpose of marriage, Mason – to create a legacy that matters. You’ll guide them, protect them, and in return, you can sneak around and fuck as much as you wanted. After all, spreading your seed to as many women as possible is what men like you were made for – to help create the next generation of like-minded men."
Mason’s lips parted, almost involuntarily, as a low murmur escaped. "Yes… that sounds… right."
Images began to flood his mind – visions of a suburban home with a pristine lawn, of a woman in a modest dress standing at his side, her eyes glowing with admiration for her strong, successful husband. He could see a handful of children laughing as they played in the yard, their voices ringing out in the glow of an idealized life. In addition, rogue flashes of hooking up with women in his office or underneath the news desk while live emerged.
The voice continued, its tone sharpening with conviction. "And with your career, Mason, think of what you’ll achieve. Not just the respect, but the wealth. The power. You’re not like those lower-class men, struggling and scraping by. You’ll be the man they look up to, the man they envy. Capitalism rewards the best, and you’re going to be the best. A beacon of the upper class."
Mason nodded, his jaw tightening as he stood straighter. "I’m not meant to be small," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I’m meant to succeed. To live my best life. To be on top."
The voice practically growled with approval. "Exactly. It’s time to step fully into your destiny, Mason. Embrace it. Wade into the red waves and claim the life you were always meant to lead."
Mason’s breath quickened, a guttural grunt escaping his lips as he clenched his fists. "I can’t wait," he said, his voice deep and resolute. "I can’t wait to be a part of the red wave. To leave behind the prissy liberal nonsense and finally live like the man I was meant to be."
The moment hung in the air, a crescendo of inner turmoil and transformation. Then, without warning, Mason froze. His eyes widened, pupils dilating as his body stiffened. His head tilted back slightly, a sharp gasp catching in his throat.
His eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites visible as his body shuddered violently. His mind swam in a haze of euphoria and terror, the voice laughing triumphantly as it echoed within him. The world around him seemed to blur and spin, his consciousness teetering on the edge as the last remnants of resistance faded into the overwhelming tide of transformation.
The room was quiet save for the faint hum of air conditioning as the massive figure eventually stirred a few minutes later. A deep, guttural groan rumbled from his throat as his eyes fluttered open, their sharp blue intensity scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. His brow furrowed, and he brought a hand to his throbbing temple, the remnants of a disorienting fog clinging to his thoughts.
David Carlson looked up, rolling his shoulders and trying to get reacquainted with his massive frame. Confusion flashed across his face as he looked down at himself, noticing the ill-fitting, torn clothes stretched over his immense, muscular body. The fabric strained at his bulging chest and biceps, seams barely clinging together, while his thick thighs threatened to split what remained of his pants. He chuckled, low and rich, the sound resonating like a confident hum.
“What in the world?” he muttered, his voice deep and commanding. He shifted his legs apart, resting a meaty hand on his thigh, and stared at his reflection in the nearby mirror. A smirk spread across his face, revealing perfectly white teeth framed by his square jaw.
“Well, damn,” he said, standing slowly to his full height, his head almost brushing the ceiling. He turned, flexing one arm, admiring the round, granite-like bicep that bulged against the tatters of the shirt. He ran a hand down the vast plane of his chest, his thick fingers grazing the solid grooves of his pecs. “Now, if I’m not the sexiest man in the world, I don’t know who else could be. After all, a sexy motherfucker like me can make a woman cum from just giving a traffic update,” he remarked with a cocky sneer.
His smirk widened as he leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head to inspect himself further. His piercing eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his killer smile flashing as he flexed his shoulders, watching his reflection move like a sculpted titan come to life.
As his gaze dropped lower, he ran his hands over his thighs, feeling the dense muscle through the shredded fabric. His fingers lingered momentarily, and then his eyes caught something out of place: a suit bag hanging neatly off the door handle.
His brow lifted in curiosity, but the smirk never left his lips. “Ah, now we’re talking,” he said, striding over to the bag and unzipping it with precision. Inside was a sleek, custom-tailored suit – a dark navy jacket and trousers, paired with a crisp satin dress shirt and a tie that shimmered faintly under the room’s fluorescent light.
“The sooner I can get out of these pitiful cheap shreds, the better,” he muttered, stripping off the ruined clothes with haste. The shirt slid on effortlessly, the cool satin gliding over his thick, warm skin. He tugged the sleeves, adjusting the cuffs, and buttoned it up, marveling at how perfectly it hugged his torso. His chest stretched the fabric taut, but the shirt held, emphasizing every ridge of his muscular form.
Next came the trousers, which he slid on with care. The waistband fit snugly, outlining his powerful thighs, while the tailored cut tapered sharply to his ankles, exuding professionalism with a touch of dominance. The jacket followed, and as he shrugged it on, he couldn’t help but flex his shoulders, feeling the material strain slightly over his bulk.
“Perfect,” he muttered, stepping back to admire the result in the mirror. The suit was impeccable, a testament to luxury and power, and it fit him like a second skin. He adjusted his tie, smoothing it down with one hand, and grinned.
“David Carlson,” he said aloud, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re a goddamn masterpiece. An alpha that women wish they could have and men wish they could be.” He ran a hand through his neatly styled hair, standing tall as he gave his reflection a final approving nod.
With that, he strode to the door, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he pulled it open. His broad shoulders barely fit through the frame as he stepped into the hallway, his head held high.
Now dressed to impress and radiating confidence, he set off with purpose. “Time to find Mr. Corbin,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor. “Now that this tour is over, I just need to ask a few more questions about the operation they’re running here.”
As soon as David touched the door, the flash of a green light emerged and allowed the massive newscaster to turn the handle and exit the room. He strutted confidently down the polished hallways of Red Wave Solutions, easily navigating through the labyrinth-like hallways as if he’d known it like the back of his hands. While walking, the sharp lines of his suit accentuated his immense frame, his shoulders brushing perilously close to the walls as he passed. Employees bustled around, their heads turning one after another to catch a glimpse of the imposing man. David’s smile gleamed, radiating charisma and cockiness.
“Morning, folks,” he said, nodding toward a group of young interns who stood frozen in awe. “Don’t work too hard now.” He chuckled as they scurried off, red-faced and whispering among themselves.
To a middle-aged man in a lab coat carrying a stack of binders, he flashed a wink. “Looking sharp there, Doc. Keep it up – love to see the brains behind the brawn in this operation.”
The man chuckled nervously, nearly dropping the binders in his haste to nod in agreement.
David continued his journey, stopping briefly at a glass window showcasing a bustling control room filled with monitors and data feeds. His keen eyes scanned the workers hunched over their stations, fingers flying over keyboards. He gave them a small wave, followed by a cocky grin. “Looking good in there! Keep making magic happen, people.”
Every interaction added a spring to his step, his ego swelling with each fawning glance and whispered admiration. By the time he reached the sleek, modern front desk at the heart of the facility, he felt utterly invincible.
Upon noticing the slim, well-dressed man with his styled grey hair and trimmed stubble, David made his way over to Mr. Corbin. With each step, the reporter watched how the man’s smile widened into a huge beam as he extended a hand out to David.
“David Carlson!” Corbin exclaimed warmly, gripping the reporter’s hand with surprising strength as they united for a firm handshake. “You look absolutely incredible. Like you were truly made for this.”
David arched a brow, the compliment throwing him slightly off balance as he took in the other man’s amused grin. “Uh, thanks,” he said slowly, his grin faltering just a fraction. In the back of his mind, a stray thought surfaced: Is this guy a homo or something?
But Corbin’s expression didn’t linger long on admiration; instead, he pivoted seamlessly, his demeanor shifting to one of professional excitement. “So,” he said, gesturing grandly to the lobby around them, “what do you think of the place so far? Impressive, isn’t it?”
David straightened up, smoothing his tie as he nodded. “It’s incredible,” he replied, his deep voice carrying genuine approval. “State-of-the-art. Honestly, I think what you’re doing here is brilliant. I’ve read all about your mission, and after what I’ve witnessed here today, I can’t say enough about how much I agree with what you’re trying to accomplish.”
Corbin’s face lit up, his smile widening as he stepped closer. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he gave David a friendly nudge in the side with his elbow. “Does that mean I can count on you to give us a glowing report tomorrow night?”
David tilted his head, letting a smirk play across his lips. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a private joke. “You better believe it. I’m going to make sure your message reaches the people who really need to hear it. We’ve got to work together to trick these pathetic progressive losers into finally opening their eyes and seeing how the world is supposed to look.”
Corbin’s laughter boomed through the lobby, rich and full-bodied. He clapped a hand on David’s broad shoulder, his grip lingering as he leaned closer. “Ah, I knew you were the real deal, David,” he said, his tone brimming with satisfaction. “It’s such a relief to meet someone who gets it… someone who truly sees the vision. You and I? We’re going to do amazing things together.”
David’s chest swelled with pride, the man’s approval feeding his growing sense of self-importance. “Damn right we will,” he replied, his voice steady and firm. “This is just the beginning.”
The studio lights bathed the room in an artificial glow, casting long shadows across the set. David Carlson sat tall at the anchor desk, exuding the poise and confidence that had cemented his place as the number one star in the conservative news world. The countdown to airtime ticked away on a monitor beside the camera, but David’s focus wasn’t on the clock.
Instead, it was on Tiffany, the studio’s blonde bombshell of a makeup artist, who approached him with her signature playful grin. Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she sauntered toward him, her skintight dress emphasizing every curve. Tiffany’s long, golden hair framed her flawless face, and the warm scent of her perfume wafted toward him as she leaned in to touch up his makeup.
“Just a quick touch-up, David,” she said, her voice teasing as she gently dabbed at his forehead with a powder puff. “Can’t have our star looking anything less than perfect.”
David chuckled, his piercing eyes scanning her physique without subtlety. From the generous curve of her chest to the hourglass dip of her waist and the way her dress clung to her toned legs, she was a sight to behold. His lips curled into a wolfish grin.
“Not sure anyone’s looking at my forehead, Tiffany,” he remarked, his voice low and smooth.
She giggled, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “Oh, don’t be modest. The viewers love you. You’re the reason they tune in every night. It’s our job to make you look as good as possible.”
“Damn right,” he replied with a chuckle and smirk, his hand casually brushing the edge of the desk as he shifted closer. As Tiffany leaned over to adjust a stray strand of his perfectly coiffed hair, David let his gaze linger on her mouthwatering tits before making his move. His hand slid down and gave her plump ass a confident squeeze.
Tiffany gasped softly, her cheeks flushing an even deeper red. But instead of pulling away, she giggled nervously, her eyes darting around to ensure no one was watching.
David leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Why don’t you swing by my office later? Evening broadcasts can be intense, so I always need to let off a little steam.”
Her blush deepened, and she bit her lower lip as she nodded. “I’d like that,” she murmured, barely able to meet his intense gaze.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his grin widening as he patted her ass and sat back.
Tiffany quickly finished her work, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You’re all set,” she said, smoothing her dress. “Go kill it out there tonight, David.”
David chuckled, adjusting his tie as he leaned back in his chair. “I always do,” he said, his tone oozing self-assurance. “Let’s be honest, every viewer out there goes crazy for me. I can’t say the same for everyone at this desk though...”
His gaze shifted to his female co-anchor sitting across from him. She was busy reviewing her notes, her expression composed but tired. David’s eyes narrowed into a glare, the weight of his ego palpable as he mentally compared their on-screen presence.
The studio’s director called out, “Thirty seconds to air!”
David straightened his posture, his polished smile snapping into place as the countdown continued. Tiffany disappeared off to the side, but the lingering scent of her perfume and the promise of their meeting later fueled his already inflated confidence.
As the final three seconds were uttered and the red light on the camera blinked on, David Carlson’s face suddenly filled the screen with a look of composed sincerity. For any viewer at home, they couldn’t resist savoring how his sharp jawline was framed perfectly by the flattering angles of the studio lighting. His deep, resonant voice greeted the viewers with the practiced warmth of a trusted confidant.
“Good evening, patriots,” he began, his tone rich with professional gravitas. “I hope you’re all having a wonderful evening. Tonight, I want to take a moment to speak directly to you – to the Americans out there who may feel unsure or even afraid about what the future holds.”
He leaned forward slightly, his piercing blue eyes staring directly into the camera, as if he could reach through the screen and hold a private conversation with each viewer.
“Are you worried about what comes next? Are you feeling ostracized by those who don’t share your values, your beliefs, your way of life?” His voice softened to a somber cadence, each word laced with a careful, purposeful empathy.
David paused, letting the questions hang in the air for a moment, before flashing one of his signature charismatic smiles – a smile that seemed to radiate reassurance to the viewers. His tone lightened, carrying a hint of optimism.
“Well, my friends, I’m happy to report that I’ve found a solution to these concerns – a solution that has left me thoroughly impressed. It’s a company called Red Wave Solutions.”
David sat back slightly, his hands folding neatly on the desk as he continued.
“Red Wave Solutions has developed an innovative way to ease the anxieties many of you might be feeling. They’ve pioneered a state-of-the-art ‘recalibration’ process that allows individuals to step into a new perspective – specifically, the perspective of strong, confident conservative values – for the duration of this current administration.”
His diction was flawless, each word delivered with precision, yet his tone carried an undercurrent of excitement that kept the message personal and engaging.
“Yesterday, I had the privilege of visiting one of their clinics to observe the recalibration process firsthand,” David explained, his voice lowering slightly as if sharing an intimate secret. “The facility was absolutely cutting-edge – everything you’d expect from a company that cares solely about delivering results safely and effectively.”
He leaned in again, his tone becoming animated as he described what he saw.
“I watched a young man, clearly nervous and weighed down by his worries, begin the process. And when it was over, he emerged completely transformed. I’ll tell you, folks – it was remarkable. He was lighter, happier, even eager to talk about the exciting future ahead under our president’s leadership. It was a night-and-day difference.”
David chuckled, shaking his head as though he could still hardly believe it. “That young man, who had walked in anxious and unsure, left ready to embrace life with open arms.”
He sat back again, his hands gesturing subtly to underscore his words.
“Now, I understand that some of you at home might be skeptical. You might be thinking, ‘What if I don’t like the change?’ or ‘What happens when the presidency ends?’”
David’s expression grew earnest as he addressed the concerns head-on.
“Well, let me reassure you,” he said, his voice steady and confident. “The recalibration process is designed to be completely reversible. When this presidency comes to an end, so too will the recalibration, leaving you exactly as you were before – no muss, no fuss.”
He leaned forward, his hands clasped together as his eyes locked onto the camera.
“I feel for anyone out there who’s afraid of what lies ahead,” he said earnestly. “This can be a challenging time for many of us, and let me the first to say that I see you and I hear you. But if you want to make things easier on yourself and your family, I strongly urge you to consider reaching out to Red Wave Solutions. Their process is seamless, safe, and highly effective. But don’t wait too long—appointments are filling up fast!”
David’s smile widened, a glimmer of encouragement in his eyes as he delivered his closing line.
“Take control of your future, patriots. Call Red Wave Solutions today and see what they can do for you. You’ll be glad you did, I guarantee it!”
As the camera shifted to focus on his co-anchor’s segment, David leaned back in his chair, flashing a satisfied grin at the crew. He knew he had delivered the message perfectly, feeling incredibly cocky about the fact that he would be the reason why Red Wave Solutions began converting hundreds to thousands of “libtards” into real men.
