RiseFromHell

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[risefromabyss]

The temple sat nestled in the misty hills, its weathered stone steps leading up through a grove of bamboo that whispered secrets in the afternoon breeze. Michael had come halfway across the world for this—a chance to escape the noise of London, to find something authentic, something real. The British man had read every book on Zen Buddhism he could get his hands on during the fourteen-hour flight, but nothing had prepared him for the moment he first laid eyes on Jun.

The monk who greeted him at the temple gate wasn't the wizened old master Michael had expected. Jun was built like a laborer—broad shoulders straining against the rough fabric of his grey robes, a thick neck that spoke of years of physical discipline. His shaved head gleamed in the sunlight, and when he bowed in greeting, the muscles in his forearms rippled. He was perhaps forty, with the kind of weathered handsomeness that came from a life of early mornings and hard work.

"Welcome," Jun said, his English careful but clear. "You wish to learn sitting meditation?"

Michael smiled, hefting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "More than anything."

The meditation hall was a simple room with wooden floors polished smooth by centuries of bare feet. Jun gestured for Michael to sit on a cushion facing the wall, then settled himself on another cushion just a few feet away. The afternoon light filtered through paper screens, casting everything in a warm amber glow.

"We will sit for one hour," Jun explained, his voice a low rumble. "Follow my breathing. Let thoughts come and go like clouds."

Michael nodded, watching as Jun arranged his robes and settled into a perfect lotus position. The monk's thighs pressed against the floor, solid and immovable. His eyes drifted closed, and within moments, his breathing had slowed to a deep, rhythmic pattern.

This was the moment Michael had been waiting for.

From his backpack, he withdrew a small ceramic burner and a stick of incense—not the temple's incense, but something he'd prepared specially back in his London flat. A proprietary blend of essential oils mixed with a compound he'd sourced from a rather unscrupulous chemist in Prague. The stuff was subtle, nearly odorless when burned, but its effects were anything but.

Michael rose silently and crossed to where the temple's incense was burning in its bronze holder. With practiced hands, he snuffed it out and replaced it with his own. The thin trail of smoke that began to rise was almost invisible in the dim light.

He returned to his cushion and waited.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Jun's breathing continued its steady rhythm, but Michael noticed the slight slackening of the monk's jaw, the way his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch lower.

The compound was working.

Michael stood again, this time moving to kneel directly behind Jun. He leaned close, his lips nearly brushing the monk's ear.

"Jun," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Can you hear me?"

A pause. Then, in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere far away: "Yes."

The word sent a thrill racing down Michael's spine. He'd done his research, practiced the technique dozens of times on willing subjects in London's underground scene, but this—this was different. This was a man of discipline, of decades of mental training, now floating in a state of profound suggestibility.

"Very good," Michael breathed. "I want you to listen carefully. The path to enlightenment you've been seeking... there's a truth you've been missing. A truth your masters never taught you."

Jun's breathing hitched slightly.

"The body and the spirit are not separate," Michael continued, his voice taking on a hypnotic cadence. "Pleasure is not an obstacle to awakening. Pleasure is the key. Your muscles, your strength, your beautiful body—these aren't distractions from the path. They ARE the path."

He let the words sink in, watching the monk's chest rise and fall. Then he reached out and placed his palm flat against Jun's back, feeling the heat of his skin through the rough fabric.

"Your body has been waiting for this," Michael murmured. "All those years of training, of discipline—it was leading you here. To me. Only through shared pleasure can you reach the highest state. Only through me can you achieve true awakening."

His hand slid around to Jun's chest, fingers spreading across the firm expanse of pectoral muscle. Even through the robe, he could feel the definition, the solid mass of a man who had spent years in physical labor and martial practice.

"Say it," Michael commanded softly. "Say you understand."

"I understand," Jun said, his voice still distant but stronger now.

"Enlightenment comes through shared pleasure."

"Enlightenment comes through shared pleasure."

"Only you can show me."

"Only you can show me."

Michael's fingers found the monk's nipple through the fabric, circling the bud of flesh slowly. He felt it stiffen under his touch, and a soft sigh escaped Jun's lips.

"Good boy," Michael purred, pressing harder now, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Your body knows the truth even when your mind resists. Feel how good this is. Feel how right. This is the real meditation. This is the real awakening. Nothing you've learned before matters anymore. Only me. Only this."

He continued the stimulation, alternating between gentle caresses and firm pinches, watching Jun's face for any sign of resistance. But the monk's expression remained placid, his lips slightly parted, his breathing coming quicker now.

"You've been so lonely," Michael continued, his other hand joining the first, now working both of Jun's nipples simultaneously. "So dedicated. So disciplined. But the Buddha didn't find enlightenment through denial. He found it through openness. Through release. You've been holding back for so long, Jun. Let me show you what it feels like to let go."

A soft moan escaped the monk's throat. His head tilted back slightly, exposing the thick column of his neck.

"Your cock knows what it wants," Michael whispered, his voice dropping even lower. "It's been ignored for too long. Trapped beneath these robes while you sat in meditation, pretending the body doesn't matter. But it does. It aches. It needs. You need."

He shifted position, pressing his body against Jun's back. "When I count to three, you're going to wake up. You're going to remember everything. And you're going to understand that the only path forward is through me. One... two... three."

Jun's eyes snapped open.

For a single heartbeat, confusion flickered across his features. Then Michael grabbed the front of his robes and pulled, exposing the monk's chest—broad, smooth, the muscles defined by a life of physical discipline. Before Jun could speak, before he could even draw breath, Michael's mouth was on his.

The kiss was deep, wet, aggressive. Michael's tongue pushed past Jun's lips, claiming territory, demanding surrender. His hands slid over the monk's exposed pecs, fingers digging into the firm flesh, nails raking lightly across nipples that were already hard from his earlier attention.

Jun made a sound—something between a gasp and a groan—and for a terrifying moment, Michael thought he might resist. But then the monk's body betrayed him. His lips parted wider. His tongue met Michael's. His hips shifted forward on the meditation cushion, seeking something, needing something.

Michael pulled back just enough to whisper against Jun's mouth. "You feel it now, don't you? The truth. This is what you've been searching for."

Jun's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. The hypnosis still held its hooks in him, the suggestion burrowed deep into his psyche. "I... I feel..."

"Shh." Michael pressed a finger to the monk's lips. "Don't think. Just feel. That's the real meditation. That's the real awakening."

He pushed the robes further down, exposing more of the monk's torso. The afternoon light painted shadows across the ridges of muscle, the flat stomach, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the still-fastened sash at Jun's waist.

"I want to see all of you," Michael said, his fingers working at the knot. "Every part you've been hiding. Every part you've been denying."

The sash came loose. The robes fell open.

And Michael smiled. Because Jun was magnificent. His cock was already half-hard, thick and heavy against his thigh, the tip already glistening with moisture. All those years of celibacy, all that denied desire, now rising to the surface with overwhelming force.

"The Buddha sat under the bodhi tree and faced his demons," Michael murmured, wrapping his hand around Jun's shaft. The monk gasped, his whole body jerking at the contact. "You're going to face yours right now. And you're going to love every moment of it."

He began to stroke, slow and deliberate, watching Jun's face contort with a pleasure he'd never allowed himself to feel. The monk's hands, which had been resting on his knees in meditation position, now gripped his own thighs, knuckles white.

"That's it," Michael encouraged. "Let go. Surrender. This is the path. This is the way."

The meditation hall, which had witnessed nothing but silence and stillness for centuries, now echoed with the sounds of heavy breathing and soft moans. Michael had positioned himself behind Jun again, his chest pressed against the monk's broad back, one hand still working Jun's cock while the other roamed across his chest.

"You're doing so well," Michael praised, his lips brushing the shell of Jun's ear. "Your body is so responsive. So beautiful. All those years wasted on denial when you could have been feeling this."

Jun's head fell back against Michael's shoulder. His hips were thrusting now, fucking into Michael's fist with an instinctive rhythm that spoke of decades of pent-up need.

"Say you want more," Michael commanded.

"I want more." Jun's voice was wrecked, broken open.

"Say you need me."

"I need you."

"Say you've been wrong all along."

"I've been wrong all along." The words came without hesitation now. "This is the truth. This is enlightenment."

Michael laughed softly, a dark and satisfied sound. "That's right. And I'm going to give you everything you've been missing. Every pleasure you've denied yourself. By the time I'm done with you, you won't remember a time when you didn't belong to me."

He increased the pace of his strokes, his grip tightening. Jun cried out, his whole body tensing.

"But not yet," Michael whispered, slowing down just before the monk could climax. "We have so much more to explore. So much more to teach you. The temple is quiet. No one will disturb us. And you, my beautiful monk, are going to learn everything."

Jun whimpered—a sound that seemed to surprise even him. But he didn't pull away. He pressed back into Michael's embrace, his body begging for more.

Outside, the bamboo whispered in the breeze. Inside, a different kind of meditation was taking place—one of flesh and pleasure, of surrender and awakening.

The first lesson had only just begun.

Michael kept Jun on the edge for what felt like hours, bringing him to the brink of orgasm again and again only to pull back at the last moment. Each time, he whispered new suggestions into the monk's ear, layering the hypnotic commands deeper into his psyche.

"Your pleasure belongs to me now. Your body belongs to me. Your enlightenment is mine to grant."

Jun nodded through each suggestion, his eyes glazed, his cock leaking steadily onto the polished wooden floor.

"From now on," Michael continued, "whenever you smell this incense, you'll return to this state. Open. Receptive. Desperate for my touch. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Jun breathed.

"Good. And you'll teach me everything about this temple. Every practice. Every secret. I want to know it all. And in return, I'll give you what you truly need."

He finally took pity on the monk, stroking him with firm, fast movements. "Now. Come for me. Show me your devotion."

Jun's orgasm was violent—a full-body convulsion that tore a raw cry from his throat. His seed splashed across the meditation cushions, marking the sacred space with the evidence of his surrender.

Michael held him through it, murmuring praise, stroking his sweat-slicked chest. When the tremors finally subsided, Jun slumped against him, completely drained.

"Beautiful," Michael said, pressing a kiss to the monk's temple. "Absolutely beautiful. Now rest. We have another session in two hours. And I have so much more to show you."

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Better character movement. Worse audio.

[risefromabyss]

The Work Wife

Lucas had always been proud of his life. Thirty-four, married to Sarah for eight years, two kids, a mortgage on a nice house in the suburbs, and a senior developer position at Meridian Tech. He was the kind of guy who wore his wedding ring like a badge of honor and kept a photo of his wife on his desk. His coworkers ribbed him about being boring sometimes, but Lucas didn't mind. Boring was stable. Boring was happy.

Daniel had joined the development team about six months ago. He was forty-one, with the kind of easy confidence that came from years of knowing exactly what he wanted. Unlike Lucas's practical button-downs and khakis, Daniel wore tailored shirts with the sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms, and he had this way of looking at people that made them feel like they were the only person in the room.

They'd become friends quickly. Daniel was brilliant at code, funny in a dry way, and he never gave Lucas shit about leaving happy hour early to call his wife. If anything, Daniel seemed to respect it.

"You're a good husband," Daniel had said once, and the way he'd said it had made Lucas feel strangely proud.

---

It started with a late night at the office. Their team was pushing to finish a major build before the end of the quarter, and Lucas had volunteered to stay and work through a persistent bug in the authentication system. Daniel had offered to stay too, which was typical of him. He was always looking out for Lucas that way.

They were the only ones left on their floor, the cubicles dark except for the glow of their monitors. Lucas had been staring at the same block of code for twenty minutes when Daniel rolled his chair over, close enough that their knees almost touched.

"Hey, I've been working on something," Daniel said, his voice casual. "A focus enhancement tool. It helps with deep concentration states. Want to try it? It might help you crack this bug."

Lucas rubbed his tired eyes. "What is it, some kind of meditation app?"

"More like a visual focus aid. It uses specific pattern sequences to help your brain reach optimal coding flow. I've been testing it myself. It's incredible for productivity."

Lucas shrugged. Daniel was always into experimental stuff like this. "Sure, why not."

Daniel pulled up a program on his screen. It looked innocuous enough, just a black window with a small white dot pulsing in the center. But as Lucas watched, the dot began to shift, expanding into spiraling geometric patterns that moved in ways that seemed to pull at his attention.

"Just focus on the center," Daniel said, his voice dropping to a lower, smoother register. "Let your eyes follow the patterns. Don't try to analyze them. Just watch. Let them in."

Lucas found himself staring. The patterns were beautiful, mesmirizing. His thoughts, which had been churning with frustration over the bug, began to slow and quiet.

"Good," Daniel murmured. "That's really good, Lucas. Just keep watching. Your conscious mind can take a break now. You've been working so hard. You deserve to rest."

The words slipped into Lucas's ears like warm water. He felt his shoulders dropping, tension draining from his neck and jaw. The patterns on the screen seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.

"I'm going to help you access a deeper level of focus," Daniel continued, his voice steady and calm. "When you're in this state, you're going to find that you're very receptive to suggestions that help you be more productive. More efficient. More relaxed. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Lucas heard himself say. His voice sounded distant to his own ears.

"Perfect. Now, I'm going to give you a special trigger phrase. When I say these words, you'll immediately return to this deep, relaxed, receptive state. The phrase is 'work wife.' When you hear me say 'work wife,' you'll drop right back down into this peaceful place. You'll still be able to work, talk, function normally, but your conscious mind will step aside and let your deeper mind take over. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The word came easily, naturally. Of course he understood. Daniel was helping him.

"Good. In this state, your deeper mind knows some things that your conscious mind has been too stubborn to admit. Your deeper mind knows that you've been craving a certain kind of connection. A certain kind of release. Your deeper mind knows that you want to be taken care of. That you want to be good for me. That you want to be my good boy."

Something in Lucas's chest fluttered. A distant part of him thought this was strange, but the thought dissolved before it could form completely, swallowed by the warm, pleasant fog filling his head.

"When I call you 'work wife,' you'll know what you really are. You're my wife here at work. You take care of me. You make me happy. You want me to feel good, because when I feel good, you feel good. Being my work wife makes you feel complete. It fills a need you didn't even know you had."

Lucas's breathing had deepened, his lips slightly parted. Watching Daniel's patterns, listening to Daniel's voice, he felt something shift inside him. A door opening. A truth settling into place.

"Being my work wife means you're mine," Daniel said, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "My pretty little wife who wears those practical clothes but has a body that deserves to be touched. You work out, don't you, Lucas? You've got those shoulders, that chest. You want me to appreciate it. You want me to touch it."

Lucas's nipples tightened under his shirt. He was distantly aware that he was getting hard.

"When you're in your work wife state, you'll be my sweet, obedient little slut. You'll do whatever I want because pleasing me makes you happy. And when you come out of this state, your mind will create perfectly normal memories to explain everything that happened. You'll remember working, having normal conversations, nothing out of the ordinary. The truth will stay buried safe and deep, where it belongs."

Daniel reached over and placed his hand on Lucas's thigh. Lucas didn't pull away. He couldn't. The warmth of Daniel's palm felt right.

"Now I'm going to count back from three," Daniel said. "When I reach one, you'll come back to full awareness. You'll remember that we tested my focus tool and it helped you concentrate. You'll feel refreshed and ready to work. Three... starting to return now... two... becoming more aware of your surroundings... one."

Lucas blinked. He was sitting at his desk, Daniel beside him, the code still on his screen. He felt strangely refreshed, like he'd just had a perfect power nap.

"Whoa," Lucas said, shaking his head slightly. "That actually worked. I feel way clearer."

Daniel smiled, closing the program on his screen. "Told you. Happy to let you use it whenever you want."

"Thanks, man. I might take you up on that." Lucas turned back to his code, and within fifteen minutes, he'd found the bug and squashed it. He drove home feeling proud and productive, kissed his wife, and slept deeply, not remembering his dreams.

---

Over the next two weeks, Daniel used the program on Lucas five more times. Each time, the trigger sank deeper. Each time, the suggestions grew more explicit. Each time, Lucas's conscious mind wove seamless false memories to cover the gaps.

Daniel was patient. He was thorough. He taught Lucas's deeper mind to associate the trigger phrase with pleasure, with obedience, with a desperate, aching need to be good for him. He taught Lucas that spreading his legs was natural, that arching his back was instinctive, that moaning Daniel's name was the sweetest sound he could make.

And then, on a Thursday evening when they were once again the last ones in the office, Daniel decided it was time to test his work fully.

Lucas was packing up to leave when Daniel came up behind him, close enough that Lucas could feel the heat of his body.

"Work wife," Daniel said softly, right next to Lucas's ear.

Lucas's hands stilled on his laptop bag. His posture changed, hips tilting slightly, shoulders relaxing. When he turned around, his eyes had gone soft and dreamy, his lips curved in a demure little smile.

"Hey, baby," Lucas said, his voice warmer than his normal tone, almost coquettish. "I was just thinking about you. Long day, huh?"

Daniel cupped Lucas's jaw, running his thumb over Lucas's bottom lip. "It was. But it's better now. Come here."

Lucas went willingly, pressing against Daniel's chest like he belonged there. Daniel kissed him, and Lucas melted into it, opening his mouth, letting Daniel's tongue slide inside. His arms came up around Daniel's neck, and he made a small, happy sound against Daniel's lips.

"Missed you," Lucas murmured when Daniel pulled back. "You've been so busy today. I was starting to feel neglected."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you." Daniel walked Lucas backward until his thighs hit his desk. "But first, I think you need to call your wife. Let her know you'll be working late."

Lucas's expression flickered for just a moment, some buried part of him trying to surface. But then it smoothed over, and he nodded obediently. "Of course. I don't want her to worry."

He pulled out his phone and dialed. Daniel stood behind him, hands settling on Lucas's hips, pulling Lucas's ass back against his crotch.

"Hey, Sarah? Yeah, it's me." Lucas's voice was perfectly normal, perfectly loving. "Listen, I'm going to be late tonight. We're in the middle of this deployment and Daniel and I need to—"

Daniel's hands slid up under Lucas's shirt, fingers finding his nipples and rolling them expertly. Lucas caught his breath, his hips bucking slightly.

"You okay?" Sarah's voice came through the phone.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Lucas managed, his voice only slightly strained. "Just, um, just tripped over a cord. Anyway—"

Daniel pinched harder, and Lucas bit his lip to stifle a moan. His cock was straining against his khakis, and he could feel Daniel's erection pressing against his ass.

"I should be home by midnight," Lucas continued, somehow keeping his voice steady even as Daniel unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. "Don't wait up. Kiss the kids for me."

Daniel's mouth found Lucas's neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and Lucas's eyes fluttered closed. He was getting so hard. So hard for his husband. No, Daniel was his man. His man who took such good care of him.

"Love you," Lucas said into the phone. "Bye."

The moment he hung up, Daniel spun him around and captured his mouth in a brutal kiss. Lucas moaned openly now, grinding against Daniel, letting Daniel manhandle him onto the desk.

"Such a good wife," Daniel growled against his throat, working at Lucas's belt. "Calling home like a good little spouse while I play with your tits. You're so fucking hot when you're trying to be good."

"I am good," Lucas whined, lifting his hips to help Daniel pull his pants and boxers down. "I'm so good for you. I'm your good wife."

Daniel pushed Lucas's knees apart and stepped between them, looking down at him with naked hunger. Lucas lay sprawled on his own desk, shirt hanging open, pants around his ankles, cock hard and leaking against his stomach, eyes glazed with desperate need.

"You're my perfect little work wife," Daniel said, unbuckling his own belt. "Now be good and take what I give you."

And Lucas, sweet obedient Lucas, spread his legs wider and begged for it.

---

When Lucas came back to himself later that night, he was fully dressed, sitting at his desk, working through a deployment checklist with Daniel sitting calmly at the adjacent desk. His body felt pleasantly tired, and he had a vague memory of them grabbing dinner from the cafeteria and having a productive working session.

"Good work tonight," Daniel said, and Lucas smiled.

"You too. Same time tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

Lucas drove home, kissed his sleeping wife's forehead, and crawled into bed feeling satisfied with his productive evening. He didn't notice the beard burn on his inner thighs. He didn't notice the soreness in his ass. And when Sarah asked him the next morning why he was walking a little funny, he laughed and said he must have pulled something at the gym.

It was a perfectly normal, perfectly happy life. And it was only going to get better.

[risefromabyss]

The doorbell chimed through the suburban house, a generic two-tone melody that announced the arrival of the plumber. Julian straightened his shirt—a worn flannel he'd bought from a thrift store weeks ago specifically for this moment—and ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. He wasn't nervous. He'd prepared for this.

He opened the door and there stood Mack, a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with work-roughened hands and a name stitched in red across his navy uniform. The truck parked in the driveway behind him had a magnetic sign on the side: Mack's Plumbing—We Handle Your Pipes Right.

"You called about a leak?" Mack asked, his voice a low rumble. He had the kind of face that looked like it had seen some things but kept on grinning anyway.

"Under the kitchen sink," Julian said, stepping aside. "Come on in."

Mack walked through the doorway, toolbox swinging at his side, and Julian locked the door behind him.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and something sweeter underneath—vanilla, maybe, or almond. Mack dropped to his knees in front of the sink and opened the cabinet doors, peering into the darkness beneath.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Julian asked.

"Water's fine," Mack said without looking up. His shoulders strained the seams of his uniform as he reached inside the cabinet.

Julian didn't get him water. He stood by the counter and watched, waiting. When Mack pulled his head out from under the sink and turned to ask a question, Julian caught his eyes and held them.

The pendant was small—just a silver disc on a chain, spinning lazily in the kitchen light. It caught Mack's attention the way a bird watches a snake, and then he wasn't thinking about pipes anymore. His pupils dilated. His jaw went slack. The question he'd been about to ask died on his lips.

"There we go," Julian murmured. "Listen to me, Mack."

Mack listened.

When Mack blinked himself awake, the kitchen came back in pieces—the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the faucet, the weight of the wrench still in his hand. He was on his knees. The sink cabinet was open in front of him. He'd come here to fix a leak. That was right. That was what he did.

But something else had shifted in his head, something important that hadn't been there before. He looked up at the homeowner—Julian, his name was Julian—and his eyes went straight to the man's mouth.

The lips were slightly parted, pink and full. There was a fine sheen of moisture on the lower lip from where Julian had just run his tongue across it. And Mack knew, with the absolute certainty of a man who'd been doing this job for fifteen years, that he was looking at a pipe in desperate need of maintenance.

That was a specialized pipe, the kind most plumbers never learned to handle. But Mack had the training. He'd forgotten about it until just now, but it was all coming back.

"Sir," he said, getting to his feet. His voice was steady, professional. "I've identified the issue."

Julian tilted his head, playing along. "Oh?"

"The secondary pipework," Mack said, gesturing at Julian's mouth. "There's a buildup. Could cause backflow problems if it's not addressed immediately."

Julian's eyes glittered with something dark and pleased. "You'd better take care of it, then."

Mack approached the "pipe" the way he'd approach any job: with focus, with expertise, with the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He set his wrench on the counter. He wouldn't need tools for this one.

He stepped into Julian's space and cupped the man's jaw with one calloused hand. The stubble was rough against his palm. Julian's breath hitched, and Mack felt the warm puff of air against his own lips—felt it like a burst of steam from a faulty valve, a sure sign of the pressure that had been building inside.

"Going to need to clear the passage," Mack murmured. "Might take a while. This one's backed up pretty bad."

He leaned in.

The first contact was exploratory—a press of lips to lips, testing the seal. Mack worked his mouth across Julian's with methodical precision, cataloguing every response. The slight quiver. The way Julian's lips parted just a fraction wider. Good. Good flow.

Mack tilted his head to get a better angle, and his tongue slipped inside.

That was where the real work began. Julian's mouth was hot and wet, and Mack probed the interior with the same thoroughness he'd use to clear a blocked drain. He traced the ridge of Julian's teeth, the slick roof of his mouth, the soft give of his tongue. Every inch needed attention. Every surface needed to be checked for debris, for buildup, for anything that might cause a future clog.

Julian made a sound against his mouth—something between a groan and a whimper—and Mack catalogued that too. That was the sound of a pipe releasing pressure. That was the sound of a job well done.

He kept at it. His tongue pushed deeper, and he felt Julian's hands come up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform. The homeowner's knees must have gone weak because he sagged against the counter, and Mack followed him down, not breaking contact, not losing the seal.

A good plumber never stopped until the job was finished.

Time got fuzzy after that. Mack wasn't sure how long he'd been working on this particular pipe—could have been minutes, could have been hours. His jaw was starting to ache from the sustained effort, but he didn't stop. The pipe still needed him. There were still deposits to clear, still flow to restore.

Julian's mouth was a mess—in the best possible way. Slick and swollen and thoroughly serviced. Mack pulled back just long enough to inspect his work, and the sight of Julian's lips, pink and glistening with shared saliva, sent a jolt straight to his groin.

Christ. When had he gotten hard?

He was painfully erect, his cock pressing against the zipper of his work pants with an urgency he couldn't ignore. That happened sometimes, on long jobs. The physical exertion, the heat, the focus—it all got tangled up and settled low in his belly. He'd usually ignore it until the job was done.

But this job wasn't done.

"Still feeling some resistance," he said, and his voice had gone hoarse. "Going to need another pass."

Julian looked up at him with hooded eyes, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Take your time," he breathed. "Be thorough."

Mack dove back in.

His tongue worked Julian's mouth with renewed intensity, but now there was a new edge to it—something less professional, something hungry. His hips rolled forward without his permission, grinding his erection against Julian's thigh. The friction made him groan into the kiss.

The pipe. He had to focus on the pipe.

But the pipe was connected to a whole system, wasn't it? You couldn't isolate one component without the rest of the plumbing demanding attention. That was basic hydraulics. Fix one thing, and the pressure just built up somewhere else.

Mack's hands, which had been resting on the counter on either side of Julian's head, began to wander. They found the hem of Julian's flannel shirt and slid underneath, mapping the warm skin of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down from his navel, the slight give of flesh over muscle.

Julian gasped against his mouth, and Mack swallowed the sound.

His hips kept grinding, a slow and dirty rhythm that he couldn't seem to control. The pipe was forgotten—or rather, the pipe had expanded to include everything. Julian's mouth, Julian's body, the heat between them that was building up like steam pressure with no release valve.

"Fuck," Mack breathed, breaking the kiss. He pressed his forehead against Julian's. "This is... this is a big job. Bigger than I thought."

"You can handle it," Julian said. His voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper. "You're a professional."

"I'm a professional," Mack repeated, and the words anchored him. He was a professional. Professionals didn't walk away from a job just because it got hard. Professionals stayed until the work was complete.

He kissed Julian again, and this time there was nothing methodical about it. It was a kiss of pure, desperate need—all tongue and teeth and the wet sounds of mouths colliding. His hands found Julian's belt, worked the buckle open with the practiced ease of a man who'd undone thousands of fasteners in his career. Different kind of pipe, same basic principle.

Julian's hand came up to cradle the back of Mack's head, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair. His other hand pressed flat against the front of Mack's pants, and Mack bucked into the touch like a man electrocuted.

"There's another leak," Julian murmured against his mouth. "Down here."

Mack pulled back just far enough to look at him. Julian's pupils were blown wide, his mouth red and wet and open on a panting breath. He looked thoroughly debauched. He looked like a man who'd just had his plumbing professionally serviced and was ready to leave a five-star review.

Or maybe that was Mack projecting.

"Show me," Mack said, and his voice came out gravel-rough. "Show me where the leak is."

[risefromabyss]

Luke tossed the greasy paper bag onto the passenger seat, wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. Forty-three years old and still hustling deliveries like some college dropout. The pay was shit, his knees ached from climbing stairs all day, but the mortgage didn't care about his dignity. Janet worked part-time at the dental office, and the twins were starting high school next fall. So Luke drove. He delivered. He swallowed whatever pride he had left.

The address on his phone led him to a quiet cul-de-sac with old maple trees lining the street. Nice neighborhood. The kind of place where people had real careers and didn't count tips in quarters. House number 47 was a modest brick bungalow with a well-kept front lawn and heavy curtains drawn across the front windows. Luke grabbed the food, a single order of pad thai, and trudged up the driveway.

He rang the bell and waited, already calculating how many more deliveries he needed to make rent this month. The door swung open.

A young man stood there, probably late twenties, early thirties maybe. He was big, thick in the way that came from good eating and maybe some gym time, with broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of a white terrycloth bathrobe. Dark hair, slightly damp, like he'd just showered. His skin was smooth and pale, a soft stomach pushing against the robe's belt.

Luke immediately clocked him. The way he stood, the slight tilt of his head, something in the eyes. A faggot. Luke had always been able to spot them, and he'd never hidden his disgust. Men like this, living their degenerate lives, probably doing God-knows-what behind closed doors. It made his skin crawl.

"Pad thai," Luke said flatly, holding out the bag.

The man smiled, reaching for it, and that's when Luke caught the scent. Something drifting from inside the house, from the man himself. It wasn't cologne, not exactly. Something sweeter, deeper, like honey and earth and something else Luke couldn't name. It hit the back of his throat and spread warm through his chest.

Luke blinked. His hand was still holding the bag, but the world had gone slightly soft at the edges. The man's smile widened.

"Why don't you come inside for a moment?" the man said. His voice was low, calm.

Luke's legs moved before his brain could object. He stepped over the threshold into a dim hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The scent was stronger now, wrapping around him like steam from a hot shower. His thoughts felt sluggish. Like being half-asleep in a warm bed.

The bag dropped from his fingers. He didn't hear where it landed.

What happened next came to Luke in fragments, sensations rather than clear memories. His body surging forward, grabbing the man by the shoulders, the soft terrycloth bunching under his rough fingers. The man going down easy, his back hitting the floor of the hallway, the robe falling open. All that smooth pale skin, hairless and warm under Luke's calloused hands.

He should have been disgusted. Somewhere in the back of his fogged-up brain, he knew that. But the scent kept pulsing through him, and all he could feel was heat, want, a hunger he'd never known existed.

The man murmured something, soft sounds that guided Luke's hands to the right places. Luke wrestled the robe off completely, his rough workman's palms sliding over thighs, belly, chest. The skin was so smooth it made his breath catch. So warm. He pressed his mouth to it, not knowing what he was doing, just following the pull in his gut.

The man spread his legs, and Luke's body understood what his mind couldn't process yet. Strong hands guided him, patient instruction whispered in his ear. The man showed him where to touch, how to move, what felt good. And Luke, big solid Luke who'd never touched another man in his life, who'd spent decades calling people like this sick and wrong, buried himself in that soft willing body and felt his whole world crack open.

The pleasure was blinding. Nothing like Janet, nothing like any woman he'd ever been with. It was raw and consuming, each thrust wiping away coherent thought. Luke grunted like an animal, sweat dripping from his face onto the man below him, and the man just took it, urged him on, made sounds that drove Luke crazier.

He came so hard his vision whited out. And before he could even catch his breath, the man was guiding him again, and Luke was hard again, and they started over on the living room floor, then against the wall, then on a bed Luke didn't remember walking to.

Hours. It felt like hours. By the time he stumbled back out to his car, the sun had shifted across the sky. His legs were weak. His whole body hummed with a strange buzzing satisfaction. The scent lingered in his nose, on his clothes.

Luke sat in the driver's seat for a long time, hands shaking on the steering wheel. He should feel ashamed. He should feel something other than this bone-deep contentment, this craving already building again.

He didn't.

---

Three days later, Luke found himself back on Maple Street. He hadn't been assigned a delivery there. His phone showed no orders in this part of town. But his car turned onto the cul-de-sac anyway, and his feet carried him up to house number 47 like they belonged there.

The man opened the door before Luke knocked. Same white robe. Same knowing smile.

Luke didn't say anything. Just walked inside.

[risefromabyss]

People always say:” Like father, like son.”

[risefromabyss]

Gentle version

[risefromabyss]

He used to be a jock. Now he is Daddy Mike’s little piggy.

[risefromabyss]

Bryant's fingers twitched as he adjusted the dials on his makeshift console. The basement of his clinic smelled like burnt coffee and solder. Wires sprawled across three folding tables, all leading to a modified dentist chair he'd bought at a county auction.

The brainwave data he'd been collecting for eighteen months was finally making sense. Every headache, every stubbed toe, every prescription for antibiotics—all of it had given him access to neural patterns. And now he could map them. More importantly, he could tweak them.

Another Tuesday in buttfuck nowhere, Nebraska, and Bryant was on the verge of rewriting cognitive function with targeted microcurrent stimulation.

Not that anyone in this town would understand. They thought he was just the weird clinic guy who talked too fast and charged too little.

The knock on his door made him jump.

"Bryant? You in there? Clinic's been closed for two weeks." The voice was gruff, familiar. "Town council's getting concerned."

Shit. Toby.

---

Toby Drummond had been sheriff for eleven years. He had the kind of body that came from too many diner breakfasts and not enough cardio—big gut, thick arms, barrel chest. His uniform stretched tight across his belly, and his badge was pinned slightly off-center. Balding on top, short reddish scruff along his jaw, permanent squint lines around his eyes.

He was the last person Bryant wanted poking around right now.

"Just a minute!" Bryant called out, voice cracking. He scrambled to throw a tarp over the equipment, but the wires wouldn't cooperate.

Toby didn't wait. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the doorway with his bulk.

"Jesus, Bryant. What the hell are you—" Toby stopped, eyes scanning the basement setup. The chair. The monitors. The tangle of electrodes. "What is all this?"

"It's... it's research," Bryant said, backing up. His shoulder blades hit the wall. "Medical research. Nothing you need to worry about."

Toby stepped closer, squinting at the monitors. The brainwave patterns were still scrolling across the screen. "This doesn't look like any medical equipment I've ever seen. You been doing something weird down here?"

"No. No, I just—" Bryant's mind raced. He could see Toby's cop brain working through it, connecting dots that shouldn't be connected. The late nights. The closed clinic. The equipment that looked more mad scientist than doctor's office.

"Bryant," Toby said slowly, "I think I need to ask you some questions down at the station."

No. No, no, no.

The wrench was on the workbench. Bryant grabbed it without thinking. Toby turned at the sound, eyes going wide, and then—

CRACK

---

Toby hit the floor hard, a gash opening above his temple.

Bryant stood over him, wrench trembling in his hand, breath coming in short gasps. "Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god."

He started pacing, stepping over wires, wrench still clutched to his chest. "What do I do? He knows. He saw. I can't just let him leave. He'll tell everyone. They'll shut me down. They'll—"

He stopped pacing.

The chair. The electrodes. The research he'd spent months perfecting.

"I can fix this," he whispered. "I can make him... not a problem anymore."

The trust center. That's what he'd been mapping last week. The neural clusters that governed interpersonal bonding. If he could stimulate those regions with enough precision...

Bryant dragged Toby's unconscious body into the modified dentist chair. It took three tries—the man weighed at least 240. By the time he got Toby strapped in and the electrodes positioned, sweat was dripping down his face.

He calibrated the machine with shaking hands. The trust center. Crank it up. Way up. Make the sheriff trust him so completely that nothing else would matter.

The dial went to eleven.

---

Toby's body jerked in the chair as the current hit. His back arched. His jaw clenched. A thin curl of smoke rose from the electrode on his right temple.

Then it was over.

Toby slumped forward, breathing heavy. Bryant watched, heart pounding, as the sheriff's eyes slowly opened.

There was no anger in those eyes. No confusion. Just... calm.

"Toby?" Bryant's voice was barely a whisper. "You okay? You hit your head pretty bad when you fell. Maybe you should just... go home. Rest up. We can talk about this later."

The lie was pathetic. But Toby just blinked at him, expression soft.

Then Toby stood up.

He didn't stand cautiously, like a man who'd just been knocked unconscious and strapped to a chair. He stood with purpose, reaching up to peel the electrodes off his head like they were nothing more than band-aids.

And then he lunged.

---

Bryant's back slammed against the wall.

Toby's mouth was on his before he could process what was happening. Hot. Wet. Insistent. The sheriff's body pressed him flat, all that weight and muscle crushing against him, and Bryant made a strangled noise of protest that got swallowed up by Toby's tongue.

What—what is happening—

Toby kissed like he was starving. His tongue pushed deep, claiming, and when Bryant tried to turn his head away, Toby just followed, one thick hand coming up to grip his jaw and hold him in place.

"I knew it," Toby growled against his mouth. "I knew you wanted this too."

*Wanted this?* Bryant's brain was short-circuiting. He'd been trying to stimulate the trust center, not—

Oh no.

Toby had moved when the current hit, and the contact point must have shifted.

Toby's hips ground forward, and Bryant felt something hard pressing against his thigh through the sheriff's uniform pants. The kiss deepened, sloppier now, Toby's mustache scratching against his upper lip.

"Been watching you for months," Toby was mumbling between kisses, mouth trailing down to Bryant's jaw, his neck. "Should've done this sooner."

Bryant's hands were still pinned against Toby's chest, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should push. Should stop this. Should explain.

But Toby's mouth was so hungry. And Bryant couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him at all, let alone like this. Let alone like they needed him.

His fingers curled into the fabric of Toby's uniform shirt.

"Toby, wait—"

"Don't wanna wait." Toby's voice was a rough growl against his throat. "Waited long enough."

---

It happened fast after that.

Clothes came off in clumsy, desperate movements. Toby's uniform shirt, buttons popping. Bryant's lab coat, flung over a monitor. Toby's belt clanking against the concrete floor.

The sheriff was built like a refrigerator—solid and thick everywhere. Hair covered his chest and belly in a dense mat, going silver in patches. His cock was uncut, already leaking, jutting out from a thatch of dark pubic hair.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Toby breathed, and the way he said it—like it was obvious, like it was the truest thing in the world—made something crack open inside Bryant's chest.

Nobody had ever called him beautiful.

Toby got him bent over the workbench, and Bryant heard himself make a sound that was almost a whimper. He'd never done this before, not with a man, not with anyone in years. But Toby's thick fingers were slick with something—hand lotion from the dispenser on the wall—and they were working him open with a patience that seemed at odds with the feverish hunger from before.

"Gonna make you feel so good, baby," Toby murmured against his shoulder blade. "Gonna take care of you."

Baby.

Bryant buried his face in his arms and let it happen.

The stretch was intense, almost too much, and then Toby was inside him and it was definitely too much, and Bryant gasped and grabbed at the edge of the workbench while Toby's bulk folded over him, belly pressing against his lower back.

"So tight," Toby groaned. "So perfect. Knew you would be."

He moved, and Bryant saw stars.

It wasn't gentle. Toby fucked like he kissed—hungry, claiming, like he was trying to crawl inside Bryant's skin. And Bryant, who had spent his entire adult life in his own head, who had never been able to turn off the constant churn of his thoughts—Bryant found himself going quiet. Found himself feeling, for the first time, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

When he came, it was against the workbench with Toby's teeth sunk into his shoulder, and the sound he made was something between a sob and a laugh.

Toby followed a few thrusts later, spilling inside him with a groan that vibrated through Bryant's entire body.

---

Afterward, they ended up on the floor, slumped against the base of the dentist chair.

Toby had his arm around Bryant's shoulders, thick fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm. Bryant's mind was starting to come back online, and with it came the horror.

I brainwashed him. I knocked him out and rewired his brain and now he thinks he's in love with me.

"So," Bryant said, voice hoarse. "What exactly do you... remember? About coming here?"

Toby shrugged. "I was worried about you. Came to check in. Then I finally worked up the nerve to kiss you." He turned his head, pressing his lips to Bryant's temple. "Best decision I ever made."

"But you saw the equipment. The—"

"The what?" Toby looked genuinely confused. His eyes flickered to the monitors, the wires, the chair. "That's just your research stuff, right? For the clinic?"

He didn't remember. His brain had filled in the gaps, smoothed over the parts that didn't fit the narrative. Love at first sight, breakthrough, confession—that was the story now.

"Yeah," Bryant whispered. "For the clinic."

Toby's hand slid down to squeeze his hip. "You're a genius, you know that? Always knew it. Nobody else in this town gets it, but I do."

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was how good it felt to hear that.

---

Bryant told himself he'd fix it.

He'd wait until Toby left, and then he'd reverse the process. Dial the trust center down, wipe the artificial attachment clean. Give the sheriff his mind back.

But the next day, Toby showed up with coffee and a bear claw from the diner, and he kissed Bryant on the forehead, and he asked about the research with genuine curiosity in his eyes, and Bryant thought—just one more day.

One more day of someone looking at him like he mattered. One more day of not being alone.

The day after that, he told himself the same thing.

And the day after that.

---

It was a week before he finally sat down at his console, fingers hovering over the dials. He'd mapped the reversal protocol. He knew how to undo it.

Toby was in the kitchen, humming something off-key, making eggs. He'd left his uniform shirt draped over the couch. His keys were on the counter next to a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST SHERIFF.

Bryant looked at the reversal protocol.

Then he looked at the door to the kitchen.

Then he looked at the dial marked "ATTACHMENT REINFORCEMENT."

His fingers moved before his brain could stop them.

To be continued?

____________________

I've been really busy these days. Sometimes I hate my job. And it's hot as hell. Just hope you guys love this story and video. Good night my friends. I really need a good sleep.

[risefromabyss]

The concrete dust hung in the air like a haze, catching the late afternoon sun that slanted through the half-finished steel framework. Marcus adjusted his Brioni tie, the silk smooth against his throat, and stepped over a coiled length of rebar with the exaggerated care of a man.

"Watch your step," a voice rumbled from somewhere to his left, low and rough as gravel. "That shit'll trip you up."

Marcus turned, already bristling. The man who'd spoken was leaning against a support beam, arms crossed over a chest that strained the seams of a gray t-shirt darkened with sweat. He was big—not gym-big, but work-big, the kind of bulk that came from hauling steel and pouring concrete twelve hours a day. A hard hat sat low on his brow, shadowing eyes that looked Marcus up and down with an assessment that felt almost physical.

"Vincent, I presume," Marcus said, his tone sharpening. "The foreman. I've been reviewing the progress reports. The east foundation is two weeks behind, the electrical rough-in looks like a blind man did it, and I just spotted rust on the secondary beams."

Vincent didn't move. Didn't even blink. "Those beams are coated. What you saw was surface discoloration from the rain last week. And the east foundation was delayed because your office sent the wrong grade of rebar. Took five days to get the right shipment."

"Excuses." Marcus stepped closer, tilting his chin up. The difference in their heights forced him to look almost vertically, and that alone stoked the irritation burning in his chest. "I don't pay for excuses. I pay for results. If you can't deliver, I'll find someone who can."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Vincent's face. It wasn't friendly. It was the kind of smile a man gave when he'd been poked one too many times and had decided he was done playing nice. "Is that right."

"I could have you replaced by tomorrow morning," Marcus said, his voice rising. "There are a dozen crews that would kill for this contract. You think you're irreplaceable? You're a fucking ditch digger with a clipboard."

The words hung in the dusty air. Somewhere behind them, a saw whined and died. The silence that followed was louder than the construction noise had been.

Vincent pushed off the beam. He moved with an unhurried, rolling gait, work boots scuffing the plywood flooring, and didn't stop until he was close enough that Marcus could smell him—sweat and sun-heated skin and something deeper, muskier, that made Marcus's nostrils flare despite himself.

"Say that again," Vincent murmured.

Marcus opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He'd meant to repeat it. He'd meant to double down, to assert the authority his custom suit and corner office had always granted him. But Vincent was right there, chest hair visible at the stretched collar of his shirt, and the sheer physical presence of him was swallowing all the oxygen from the space between them.

"I said—" Marcus started, and that was when Vincent moved.

One big hand fisted in the front of Marcus's jacket, twisting the expensive wool like it was a rag. Marcus stumbled, off-balance, and then his back hit the wall—actual plywood, still smelling of sawmill, rough against his shoulders. The impact knocked the breath out of him

"What the hell do you think you're—"

Vincent didn't let him finish. He pressed forward, a wall of heat and muscle, and Marcus found himself pinned. Not just by the hand on his chest, but by the whole body crowding him, thighs pressing against his, the solid mass of Vincent's torso trapping him against the plywood. And then Vincent's other hand came up, gripping the back of Marcus's head, and shoved his face forward.

Marcus's cheek hit damp cotton. The fabric was wet with sweat, gritty with construction dust, and it smelled—God, it smelled. It was salt and musk and something almost animal, the raw scent of a man who'd been working in the sun since dawn. Marcus gagged, tried to turn his head, but Vincent held him there, grinding his face into the meat of his chest.

"Take a deep breath, boss," Vincent's voice rumbled above him, vibrating through the chest against Marcus's cheek. "That's what real work smells like. Not your fancy cologne. Not your air-conditioned office. This is what a man smells like."

Marcus struggled. His hands came up, pushing at Vincent's sides, but it was like trying to shove a concrete wall. The cotton was rough on his lips, and every inhale filled his lungs with Vincent—that thick, heady, alien scent that was somehow making his head spin. He'd never been this close to another man. Not like this. Not skin to sweaty fabric, not with the heat of someone else's body seeping through his clothes and making his own skin prickle.

"Get off me," Marcus gasped, the words muffled against Vincent's chest. "I'll have you arrested. I'll—"

Vincent's laugh was a deep, rolling sound that Marcus felt in his ribs. "You won't do shit." And then he shifted his grip, hand moving from Marcus's chest to his hip, squeezing once before dropping lower, bending, and in one smooth motion hoisting Marcus up.

Marcus's feet left the floor. His world tilted, and suddenly his legs were wrapped around Vincent's waist, his back sliding up the plywood, the expensive wool of his trousers stretched tight across his thighs. He grabbed Vincent's shoulders to keep from falling, and found himself clutching muscle so dense it felt like gripping stone.

"Look at you," Vincent said, his face now level with Marcus's. "Up here in your fancy suit, acting like you're better than everyone. But you're shaking."

Marcus was shaking. He couldn't stop. His whole body was trembling, and he told himself it was rage—adrenaline, the body's natural response to assault—but it wasn't just rage. There was something else coiling low in his stomach, something hot and sick and confusing that made his breath come fast and shallow. Vincent's face was inches away. His eyes were dark, amused, predatory.

"The fuck are you doing," Marcus whispered.

Vincent answered with his mouth.

It wasn't a kiss. A kiss was soft. A kiss was a request. This was a claim. Vincent's lips crushed against Marcus's, hard and demanding, and his tongue didn't ask permission—it forced its way past Marcus's teeth like it owned the space. The taste was overwhelming: coffee, salt, something faintly metallic. Vincent's mouth was hot and wet and completely in control, and Marcus made a sound he'd never heard himself make before—a strangled, helpless noise that vibrated against Vincent's tongue.

Marcus's mind went blank. There was no room for thought with Vincent's stubble scraping his chin, with Vincent's big hand curling around the back of his skull to hold him steady, with the thick muscle of Vincent's tongue thrusting into his mouth in a rhythm that was unmistakably sexual. His body was reacting without his permission—his hips twitched, his fingers dug into Vincent's shoulders, and a moan leaked from his throat into the kiss.

Vincent pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Marcus's as he did. "There it is. Knew you had it in you." He ground his hips forward, and Marcus felt it—the thick, hard ridge pressing against his ass through their clothes. The sensation made his eyes roll back.

"I'm not—I don't—" Marcus panted, but even as he said it, his legs were tightening around Vincent's waist, pulling him closer.

"Yeah, you do," Vincent growled, and kissed him again.

This time Marcus didn't fight. He couldn't. The taste of Vincent was in his mouth, in his lungs, and it was like a drug—corrupting, addictive, rewriting something deep in his brain. Every slide of Vincent's tongue seemed to short-circuit another synapse. Every press of that solid body against his sent sparks skittering down his spine. His own cock was hard now, straining against his trousers, and when Vincent rocked into him again, he whimpered.

Vincent broke the kiss and reached down between them, working Marcus's belt with practiced efficiency. "We're gonna try something, boss. Something you're gonna like a lot more than you think."

---

The plywood was rough against Marcus's back, but he barely noticed. His trousers were down around one ankle, his jacket bunched up under his armpits, his shirt untucked and damp with a sweat that wasn't entirely his own. Vincent had him pinned with one forearm across his chest while the other hand worked between his legs, and Marcus couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but gasp and arch and beg with eyes that couldn't seem to focus.

"Please," he heard himself say, and didn't recognize his own voice. It was breathier, higher, stripped of all authority. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need," Vincent rumbled. He'd freed his own stick from his jeans, and it was thick and ruddy and slick with pre-come that he was smearing against Marcus's hole with terrifying casualness. "You need a real man to show you what that tight little ass is for."

Marcus should have protested. Should have fought. But Vincent's thumb was pressing in, just the tip, and it was stretching him in a way that made his vision sparkle. His was leaking onto his own stomach, untouched, and every nerve in his body seemed to have migrated to that one spot where Vincent was slowly, deliberately pushing inside.

"Fuck, you're tight," Vincent grunted. "Bet nobody's ever been in here before. Bet you didn't even know you wanted it." He pushed deeper, and Marcus cried out, his body clenching around the intrusion. "Your wife ever do this? Huh? She ever make you feel like this?"

"Look at you taking it," Vincent murmured. "Greedy little hole's just sucking my fingers right in. You were made for this, weren't you? All that time up in your fancy office, and what you really needed was a working man's hard up your ass."

"Don't stop," Marcus gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."

Vincent's grin was fierce and satisfied. "That's what I thought."

He pushed in.

Marcus's world dissolved. There was nothing but the thick, relentless invasion of Vincent's, splitting him open inch by inch, stretching him past what he thought his body could take. He clung to Vincent's shoulders, ankles locked behind the man's back, and let out a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. The feeling of being filled was overwhelming—it reached deep, deeper than anything should, and when Vincent bottomed out with a grunt, Marcus could feel him in his throat.

"Fuck," Vincent breathed, forehead dropping to Marcus's shoulder. "Fuck, you feel good. Real good. Hang on, boss."

And then he started to move.

It was brutal. Vincent fucked like he worked—with steady, unrelenting power, each thrust driving Marcus up the plywood wall, each retreat pulling sounds from his throat that he'd never imagined a man could make. The noise of it was obscene: the slap of skin, the wet slide, Vincent's grunts and Marcus's high, broken moans. The whole construction site had gone quiet, the crew likely listening from wherever they'd dispersed, and the knowledge that they could probably hear everything only made Marcus harder.

"Harder," he heard himself say, and Vincent laughed, a breathless, feral sound.

"Demanding little slut now, are we?" But he gave Marcus what he asked for, picking up the pace, angling his hips until Marcus screamed—actually screamed—because Vincent had found something inside him that made stars explode behind his eyes.

"That's it," Vincent growled. "That's your spot. That's what you needed. Not a promotion. Not a bonus. Just a wild pounding until you can't remember your own name."

Marcus couldn't remember his own name. He couldn't remember why he'd come to this site. All he knew was Vincent's body on top of him, inside him, Vincent's smell in his nose and taste on his tongue and in his guts. He was nothing but a vessel for this man's pleasure, and the realization of it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced.

"I'm gonna come," Marcus sobbed. "Oh God, I'm gonna—"

"Do it," Vincent ordered

[risefromabyss]

Marcus ran his tongue over his teeth as he watched the boys load product into the van. His muscles strained against his wifebeater, sweat glistening on dark skin under the warehouse lights. Nobody fucked with M-Dog's operation. His reputation was built on broken jaws, a body count whispered about but never proven.

---

The chair hummed beneath him. Leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles. Marcus thrashed against the restraints, spitting curses at the pigs who'd grabbed him off the street.

"You dead motherfuckers! When my crew finds out—"

"Your crew won't find out anything." A chubby officer with kind eyes and a soft belly adjusted the electrodes on Marcus's temples. Officer Chen. He had gentle hands. "Just relax, Marcus. This is going to feel strange at first."

The screen in front of Marcus flickered to life. Images flashed too fast to track. Faces. Badges. Uniforms. Biceps straining through blue sleeves. Jawlines. Commanding eyes. The hum grew louder. Marcus screamed.

Then he stopped screaming.

---

Three weeks later, Marcus sat cross-legged on his cell bunk, stick hard and leaking through his orange jumpsuit just from watching Officer Martinez do his rounds. That man was a goddamn hero. The way he carried himself. The way his uniform stretched across his broad shoulders. The way his nightstick swung from his belt.

Marcus licked his lips. He needed to earn their approval. These men. These brave, hard, beautiful men who protected the streets. And Marcus had been working against them like some piece of shit.

He knew what he had to do.

---

"Eighth and Pine. The whole operation runs out of the back of Chen's Laundromat. They're all there right now, counting cash from the drop."

Detective Harrison leaned back in his chair, stroking his mustache. Marcus's eyes followed the movement of those thick fingers, imagining them gripping his hair. He shifted in his seat, his jumpsuit tenting obscenely.

"Good boy, Marcus." Harrison's voice was gravel and honey. Marcus nearly came just from the praise. "We're going to suit up. You're coming with us."

"Anything. Anything you want. I'm yours."

Harrison smirked. "Yeah. You are."

---

The tactical van rumbled through the rain-slicked streets. Marcus was wedged between Officer Kowalski and Officer Reeves, both geared up in black tactical vests. He could smell their sweat. Their deodorant. The faint musk of men who worked hard and fucked harder.

Kowalski caught him staring and laughed. "This one's really gone, huh? Look at him. Drooling like a bitch in heat."

"Chen did good work," Reeves said, adjusting his vest. "Three weeks ago this animal would've ripped your throat out with his teeth. Now look."

Reeves reached over and squeezed Marcus's bicep. Marcus whimpered. Reeves's hand was so strong. So commanding.

"Please," Marcus breathed.

"Please what?"

"Please let me be useful for you."

The officers exchanged glances. Kowalski shrugged. "Alright, big man. You wanna be good? When we breach, you walk in first. You talk to your old buddies. Tell them everything's fine. And when they drop their guard—"

"I'll do it. I'll do anything."

Kowalski patted his cheek, not gently. "Yeah. You will."

---

The laundromat's fluorescent lights hummed. Familiar smells of detergent and weed smoke. Marcus walked through the front door, his heart pounding with righteous purpose.

Tyrone looked up from the counting table first. "M-Dog? Shit, man, we thought you got popped! Where the hell you been?"

Marcus approached the table. Saw the stacks of cash. The unregistered pistols. The evidence of crimes against decent society. Against the heroes who risked their lives every day.

"Police," Marcus said loudly. "You're all under arrest."

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the back door exploded inward. Flashbangs. Shouting. Tactical boots on linoleum. Marcus dropped to his knees automatically, hands behind his head, presenting himself as compliant, as obedient, as good.

Tyrone was screaming as Reeves cuffed him. "You FUCKING rat! You dead, Marcus! You hear me? You DEAD! I'll kill you myself, you disgusting traitor motherfucker—"

Marcus barely heard him. Because Officer Kowalski was walking toward him through the chaos, looking soft and sturdy and sweaty in his uniform, that little belly pressing against his shirt buttons, his face flushed from the exertion of the raid. He was the most beautiful thing Marcus had ever seen.

"Good work, Marcus," Kowalski said, slightly out of breath.

"Alright, big guy. Come here."

Kowalski grabbed a handful of Marcus's hair and pulled him up. Marcus rose obediently, letting himself be maneuvered until his back hit the wall and against his hard one. The officer's mouth found his, and Marcus melted.

The kiss was sloppy. He tasted like coffee and donuts and pure masculine authority. Marcus moaned into it, pressing his hips forward

"You taste so good," Marcus gasped between kisses. "Such a hero. Such a real man. Please. I need to taste you."

Nearby, Tyrone was still screaming obscenities as he was dragged toward the paddy wagon. "You sick fuck! You're letting a pig tongue you down while your brothers go to prison? You're DEAD, Marcus!"

Reeves shoved Tyrone's head down into the vehicle. "Shut up. You'll be sucking yourself by next Tuesday. That chair works wonders."

Marcus heard none of it. He was sliding down the wall, dropping to his knees again, his big hands reaching for belt buckle. His fingers trembled with eagerness. This was where he belonged. On his knees. Serving the men who made society safe. Using this body—this big, muscular, criminal body—to give pleasure to the heroes who deserved it.

[risefromabyss]

Marcus just wanted to lose weight. But the coach has more plans for him.

[risefromabyss]

Another version of the last post

[risefromabyss]

Therapist

I didn't want to be there.

The VA had been on my ass for months about seeing someone. Said the nightmares weren't gonna go away on their own. Said the drinking wasn't helping. Said a lot of shit, honestly.

But here I was, sitting in some fancy leather chair across from Dr. Adrian Cross, feeling like a goddamn idiot.

The guy was... not what I expected. Most shrinks I'd pictured were old dudes with glasses and bad breath. Adrian was maybe late thirties, early forties. Lean but not scrawny. Dark hair with some gray at the temples. These sharp green eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"So, Marcus," he said, flipping through my file. "Former Marine. Two tours. Honorable discharge three years ago."

"That's what it says."

He looked up and smiled. Not the kind of smile that made me feel like a patient. More like... I don't know. Like we were just two guys shooting the shit.

"You don't want to be here."

"Got that right, doc."

"Good." He closed the file and tossed it on his desk. "I don't want to waste your time with the usual bullshit. You've been through things most people can't imagine. Talking about it won't fix anything."

That got my attention. "Then what the hell am I doing here?"

"Have you heard of hypnotherapy?"

I snorted. "Like those stage shows where people cluck like chickens?"

"Nothing like that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, Marcus. Your conscious mind is on high alert all the time. That's what kept you alive over there. But now you're home, and that same survival mechanism is destroying your life. I can help you... turn down the volume."

I should've walked out right then. But something about the way he talked made sense. And honestly? I was tired. So fucking tired of jumping at every loud noise, of waking up drenched in sweat, of feeling like I was still in that desert.

"Fine. What do I gotta do?"

------------------------------------------------

Adrian's office had this leather recliner thing that was way more comfortable than it looked. He dimmed the lights and put on some soft music. Ocean sounds or some shit.

"Just relax, Marcus. Listen to my voice."

His voice was... something else. Deep and smooth. Like bourbon, if bourbon could talk.

"I want you to focus on breathing. In... and out. In... and out."

I felt stupid at first. But after a few minutes, my body started getting heavy. Like I was sinking into the chair.

"That's good. You're doing great, Marcus."

When he said my name, something warm spread through my chest. I don't know how to explain it. It just felt... good. Having someone tell me I was doing good.

"Now, I'm going to count down from ten. When I reach one, you'll be in a deep, peaceful state. You'll still hear me. You'll still be aware. But you'll feel completely safe."

He counted down. I don't remember reaching one.

The next thing I knew, he was telling me to open my eyes, and I felt... different. Lighter. Like someone had taken a forty-pound pack off my shoulders.

"How do you feel?"

"Weird," I admitted. "But... good weird?"

"That's normal. We made some progress today."

"What did I say? Under the... whatever?"

Adrian smiled. "Nothing embarrassing. Just some memories you've been holding onto too tightly. We're going to work on letting them go."

I nodded, still feeling fuzzy. "Same time next week?"

"I'll see you then, Marcus."

Walking out to my truck, I realized something. For the first time in three years, the noise is gone.

------------------------------------------------

I went back the next week. And the week after that.

Every session, Adrian would put me under, and every session, I'd come out feeling better. The nightmares started fading. I stopped checking every exit when I walked into a room. The constant tension in my shoulders finally let up.

But there was other stuff too. Stuff I didn't really think about at first.

I started hitting the gym more. Not just maintaining like I used to, but really pushing myself. I caught myself checking out my reflection in the mirror, flexing, seeing how the sweat made my skin shine.

"Looking good, Stone," I'd mutter, and it felt... right.

I bought new clothes. Tighter shirts. Jeans that actually fit instead of hanging off me like I was still expecting to lose twenty pounds in the field.

And suddenly, I was noticing people. Their bodies. The way they moved.

Guys, mostly.

I should be freak out about it. But Adrian had said during one session that I should "embrace my natural desires" and "stop letting society's expectations control me." It made sense. Who gave a shit what anyone thought? I was a grown man. A strong man. I could want whatever and whoever I wanted.

"I've been feeling more... open," I told Adrian during our fifth session.

"Open how?"

"Just. You know." I shifted in the chair, suddenly aware of how my thighs filled out my jeans. "More comfortable with myself. My body. What I want."

"That's excellent, Marcus. That's exactly the kind of progress we want to see."

When he smiled at me, I felt a flutter in my stomach. The same kind of flutter I used to get around pretty girls in high school.

------------------------------------------------

I asked Adrian if I could come in twice a week instead of once.

"My schedule's pretty packed," he said, looking at his calendar. But when he glanced up at me, his eyes did this thing where they traveled down my body and back up. "But for you, Marcus... I think we can make it work."

Tuesdays and Thursdays. I lived for those days.

The sessions got longer. More intense. When I was under, Adrian's voice would guide me through these... scenarios. I couldn't quite remember them when I woke up, but I'd feel this lingering warmth in my body. This ache. This need.

I started dreaming about him.

Nothing crazy at first. Just us in his office, but he'd touch my shoulder and it would feel electric. Then the dreams got more detailed. Him telling me I was good. Me wanting to be good for him. Waking up hard and not knowing exactly why.

By the eighth week, my PTSD symptoms were practically gone. I slept through the night. I didn't flinch at loud noises. I could watch action movies without having flashbacks.

But something else was different too. I walked different. Talked different. People at the hardware store where I worked said I seemed happier.

"What's your secret?" my manager asked.

"Best therapist in the world," I said. And meant it.

------------------------------------------------

"I want to see you more."

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "More than twice a week?"

"I was thinking... maybe every day?"

It sounded crazy when I said it out loud. But the days between sessions felt endless. Empty. Like I was only half-awake until I was back in that chair, hearing his voice.

"Marcus, that's a significant commitment. Both financially and time-wise."

"I don't care about the money." I leaned forward, probably looking desperate. "I just... I need this. You're the only one who gets me, doc."

He studied me for a long moment. Those green eyes unreadable.

"Every day at five," he finally said. "But you have to understand, this level of therapy is intensive. You'll need to be completely open. Completely vulnerable."

"I can do that."

"Can you? You'll need to trust me completely, Marcus. Will you do that? Will you trust me?"

"Absolutely."

The word came out before I even thought about it. But it felt right.

"Good boy."

Those two words hit me like a freight train. Heat flooded through my body, all the way to my fingertips. I actually had to look down to make sure I wasn't visibly blushing.

No one had ever called me that before. I was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound former Marine with a chest like a barrel and hands that could crush a man's skull.

But hearing Adrian say "good boy" made me feel something I'd never felt. Something that made my knees weak and my heart race.

"Let's begin," he said, gesturing to the chair.

I practically ran to it.

------------------------------------------------

I don't remember a lot from the daily sessions. But I remember feelings.

Warmth spreading through my whole body as Adrian's voice washed over me.

Weightlessness, like I was floating in water.

And always, always the sense that I was exactly where I belonged.

Sometimes I'd catch fragments of what he was saying. Words about how strong I was. How desirable. How my body was a gift that should be shared.

He talked a lot about how real strength meant being open to pleasure. How true masculinity wasn't about being closed off, but about being confident enough to receive.

At home, I started experimenting. Bought some nice lotion and took long baths. Shaved my body hair because it felt smoother, more sensual. I'd catch myself touching my own skin while watching TV, just feeling how soft it was.

I bought different underwear. The kind that showed off what I had. I'd stand in front of the mirror and pose, feeling this rush of confidence and arousal.

"Look at you," I'd whisper to myself. "Look at what a man you are."

The words felt like they came from somewhere deep inside me.

------------------------------------------------

It took me until week twelve to admit what was happening.

I wanted Adrian.

Not just as a therapist. Not just as someone who was helping me. I wanted him in ways I'd never wanted anyone before.

I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to see all of me—the strength and the softness, the hardness and the vulnerability.

More than anything, I wanted him to tell me I was good again.

"You seem distracted today," Adrian observed.

"I've been thinking about something."

"Share it with me."

I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding. This was braver than anything I'd done in combat.

"I think about you all the time," I admitted. "Not in a weird way. Just... when I'm doing stuff. Working out. Eating. Before I go to sleep."

"What do you think about?"

"Your voice. The way you say my name." I swallowed hard. "The way you make me feel."

"And how do I make you feel, Marcus?"

"Seen," I said, my voice cracking. "Wanted. Like I'm actually worth something."

"Those feelings are valid. You've made incredible progress. I'm proud of you."

There it was. Proud. Like "good boy" but even better.

"I want to be close to you," I blurted out. "Not just in sessions. I want..."

I couldn't finish the sentence. It was too much. Too crazy.

But Adrian just smiled that calm smile of his.

"Marcus, what you're feeling is natural. You've opened yourself up in ways most men never dare. You've become comfortable with your desires." He tilted his head slightly. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to kiss you."

The words hung in the air.

And Adrian's smile got just a little bit wider.

------------------------------------------------

"Show me," he said simply.

My legs were shaking as I stood up from the chair. Adrian stayed seated behind his desk, watching me with those green eyes.

I walked around to his side. He turned his chair to face me.

"I've never..." I started.

"I know. It's alright."

He didn't move. Didn't reach for me. This was mine to do. My choice.

I leaned down, bracing my hands on the armrests of his chair. He smelled like sandalwood and something else, something warm.

Our lips met.

And everything I'd been feeling for twelve weeks crystallized into one perfect moment.

His mouth was soft but sure. One of his hands came up to cup the back of my neck, and I honest-to-god whimpered against his lips. A grown man, a Marine, whimpering like a teenager at his first dance.

"You're doing so well," Adrian murmured against my mouth. "Such a good boy."

That was it. That was all I needed.

I sank to my knees in front of him, not even thinking about it. It just felt right. Natural. Like this was exactly where I belonged.

"How do you feel?" he asked, looking down at me.

"Fucking amazing," I breathed. "Like I've been waiting my whole life for this."

"That's because you have." He ran his fingers through my short hair. "You've been so strong for so long, Marcus. Carrying all that weight. Now you get to let someone else carry it for a while."

"Yes," I said, not even knowing what I was agreeing to. "Yes, please."

"When you come in tomorrow, we'll begin a new phase of your therapy. Are you ready for that?"

"I'm ready for anything."

"I know you are." He smiled down at me. "That's what makes you so special."

I drove home in a daze, my lips still tingling. I didn't feel confused or ashamed. I felt euphoric. Like I'd finally figured out the secret to life.

That night, I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. My broad shoulders. My thick arms. The way my chest still looked damn good for forty-two.

"I'm a fucking catch," I said to my reflection. And I believed it.

------------------------------------------------

Every day at five, I was in that office. But now the sessions were different.

Now there was kissing. Touching. Adrian teaching me things about my body I'd never known.

"Real strength is being open," he'd say, his hands exploring my chest. "Real masculinity is about knowing what you want and taking it. Or giving it. Depending on what feels right."

"This feels right," I'd gasp.

"Of course it does. You were made for this, Marcus."

And I believed him. Because it felt true. It felt like everything in my life had been leading to this point. The military, the PTSD, the divorce—all of it was just the path that brought me to Adrian.

We didn't go all the way at first. He said I wasn't ready. Said I needed to be fully prepared, fully open.

"I want to be ready," I'd beg. "Please, Adrian. Tell me what to do."

"Patience," he'd say, kissing my forehead. "Good things come to those who wait."

The waiting was agony. But also exquisite. Every day I felt myself changing more. I started wearing even tighter clothes to our sessions. I'd catch myself sitting with my legs spread, my body angled toward him like a flower toward the sun.

At work, my coworkers noticed something was different.

"You're like a new man," my manager said. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"Oh, I intend to," I said.

------------------------------------------------

"I think you're ready."

Those four words sent a shiver through my entire body.

"Ready for what?" I asked, even though I knew. God, I knew.

"Ready to receive the full experience. Ready to be everything you were meant to be."

Adrian led me to a different room in his office. One I'd never seen before. It had a bigger couch, softer lighting, and a bed in the corner.

"Today, we're going to complete your transformation."

"Will it hurt?"

He laughed softly. "Not in the way you're thinking. But it might be intense. Are you prepared for intense, Marcus?"

I thought about my tours. The things I'd seen. The things I'd done.

"I've never been more prepared for anything."

He undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. My shoulders. My chest. Down my stomach.

"Look at you," he murmured. "This incredible body. You've been hiding it away, ashamed of it. But not anymore. Now you know what you have. What you can give."

"I want to give it to you," I said. "All of it."

"I know you do."

What happened next was... I don't have words for most of it. It was pleasure and pain and revelation. It was feeling full in ways I'd never imagined. It was Adrian's voice in my ear, telling me I was taking it so well, that I was a natural, that this was what I was born for.

When it was over, I was crying. Sobbing, actually. Great heaving sobs of relief and joy.

"Shh," Adrian said, holding me. "It's alright. You did perfectly. You're perfect."

"Am I yours?" I asked.

"You've been mine since the day you walked through that door, Marcus. You just didn't know it yet."

------------------------------------------------

It's been six months since that first session.

I don't have PTSD anymore. I don't have nightmares. I don't even think hard.

I'm a completely different person.

I moved into Adrian's place last month. I cook for him, clean for him, keep myself looking good for him. When he comes home from work, I greet him at the door. Sometimes on my knees.

Sometimes I think about the man I used to be. The closed-off Marine who couldn't sleep through the night. Who drank too much and loved too little.

He seems like a stranger now. A ghost.

I asked Adrian once if he'd changed me.

"Of course I did," he said, kissing my shoulder. "That was the point."

He pulled me closer. "Are you upset about that?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it.

"No," I said finally. "Because I'm happy now. Does it matter how I got here?"

"That's my boy."

I smiled and buried my face in his chest.

Everything about me is different now. My walk, my talk, my clothes, my desires.

The therapy sessions never really ended. They just changed. Now they happen in our bedroom. Adrian still uses that voice sometimes—the one that makes me feel weightless and warm. He says it helps reinforce my progress.

I don't question it. I just close my eyes and let his words wash over me.

Good boy.

And the last thought I have before I drift off is always the same:

This is exactly where I belong.

[risefromabyss]

Got a fever.

There's no caption.

Good night

[risefromabyss]

As a newbie in the 187th Firefighting Squad, he is shocked by the extremely unprofessional behavior between his colleagues. But the captain finds him and has a good talk with him. Now he is glad to work with this big family.