In true Kyle fashion, he’s a big wuss. He’s known that his whole life, he’s an emo guy who looks hard to approach and then he hits you with anti-social anxiety disorder and before you can recover from that uppercut he hits you with with the gut punch to reveal that he’s a big pussy when it comes to authority.
Back when Kyle dicknotized Mason Mays—his flexing tightey-whitie clad coat rack of now two years, there was an investigation regarding the young man’s disappearance. The case came out unsolved much to the dismay of the Mays family, though that may be mislabeled since he wasn’t exactly someone people missed. Mason was homophobic. A short tempered, prejudiced young man who happened to be Kyle’s coworker at Boba and Poke in the Obscura Outlet. This was back when Kyle was still newly moved in to the town of Rat Hill. Kyle had come out to his workplace and to his surprise they were supportive, except for Mason Mays, who Kyle didn’t know at the time was plotting.
Later that night, Kyle was in his shower. Nothing unusual until he heard his restroom door open. He knew he was in trouble now, he lives alone. Before he could even think of calling the police, a hand reached thought the end of the shower curtain and pulled them open. Revealing himself to Kyle was Mason Mays, a face full of anger and prejudice. In his hands was a gun which he definitely would’ve used had he not seen a nude Kyle. His pupils moved to Kyle’s penis without even thinking about it, and then they never left.
Mason’s forehead was straining with effort to look away, to complete his job. He growled, “What the hell faggot? I can’t look away!” He started to tear up. This was the second time Kyle’s dicknosis was used in anger, and in both cases the person who got dicknotized started to cry. Grayson, his first, and now Mason.
Kyle saw the tears and the gun, but also an opportunity. He saw Mason in a state he could only have dreamed of. He had total control, an absolute authority over the man who wanted to kill him just seconds ago. “Mason,” Kyle started, “put the gun down.”
Mason’s hand trembled as he lowered the weapon, his face a mask of conflict. His eyes, still locked on Kyle’s crotch, were wide with a terror that was slowly being replaced by something else—a dawning, placid acceptance.
“Fuck,” Kyle said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the pounding of his own heart. “Now, I want you to strip. Everything off.”
Mason’s fingers fumbled with his belt, his movements clumsy and needy. His clothes fell to the wet bathroom floor with a fwump. He stood there, naked and vulnerable, his body a stark contrast to Kyle’s. Where Kyle was slender and pale, Mason was solid and muscular, a product of hours spent at the gym he’d often bragged about at work.
“Now,” Kyle continued, his mind racing with possibilities, “I want you to go into my bedroom. Stand against the far wall. The one with the window. Don’t move from that spot.”
Mason tore his gaze finally and turned and walked out of the bathroom, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. As Mason walked away, Kyle could hear his complaints and questioning growing ever distant until they were emitting from Kyle’s bedroom.
Kyle had to reassure himself it was safe to take a breath to let himself relax. He plopped down into the bathtub, hurting his back slightly with a loud thump. Having his life threatened by someone he knew brought Kyle back traumatic memories with his dad. He sat there in the empty tub, naked and wet, thinking about how his dad’s hateful words had hurt him more than a gun could.
He was a coward. He had always been a coward. He ran away from his problems, from his family, from himself. But here, in this house, in this town, he had found a way to fight back. A way to turn the tables on the people who hurt him. It wasn't heroic. It wasn't noble. It was cruel, and manipulative, and it felt better than anything he had ever felt before.
He stood up, water dripping from his body, and reached for a towel. As he dried himself off, he could hear Mason in the bedroom, a low, guttural sound emanating from the other room. Kyle wasn’t as thorough as he was with his ex-boyfriend, Grayson Pike, so Mason was still himself albeit doing whatever Kyle told him in the bathroom. Back then in high school, Kyle had dicknotized the jock in the locker rooms to be so in love with Kyle that he’d break up with his girlfriend later that day and start dating Kyle. It worked for a couple months but then Kyle got caught being gay by his dad and that was a crime worse than murder according to his dad, though it could’ve also been the fact that Kyle attempted to dicknotize his dad after the homophobic storm. He’d found out that day that his dicknosis doesn’t work on his own family, a truly awkward conversation ensued.
Kyle wrapped a towel around his waist and trepidatiously walked to his bedroom. He was greeted by the sight of Mason standing with his back to the wall by the window, clad in nothing but his underwear, a pair of tightey-whities, and regret. Kyle could tell the man wasn’t regretting his actions, he was regretful because of the paranormal situation he now ended up in.
Mason’s face turned red as Kyle entered,. He barked, “What are you doing to me, faggot? I swear, you’re dead when I break free of whatever the fuck you’ve done to me!” Despite the anger in his voice, Mason was still just a wall ornament for Kyle’s bedroom. Kyle walked over to Mason and put a hand on the man’s muscular chest. Kyle could feel the man’s heart racing, the muscles twitching beneath his skin. It was a strange kind of power, holding a life in his hands, the power to rewrite a man's very being.
“You’re not going to break free, Mason,” Kyle said, his voice low and steady. “You’re going to stay right here. Against this wall. Forever.”
Mason’s eyes widened in horror. “Forever? You can’t be serious.”
“You’ve gotta be fucking with me,” Kyle said. “You came into my house. You threatened me with a gun. You tried to kill me. Now, you’re going to pay the price. You’re going to be my coat rack. You’ll stand here, against this wall, and you’ll hold my coats. You’ll flex your muscles and you’ll keep your dick hard. And you’ll like it. Because that’s all you are now. A coat rack. An object. A thing.”
He felt a surge of something dark and exhilarating. It was the same feeling he'd had with Grayson. The feeling of being in control, of being the one with the power. It was a feeling he knew he could get used to.
Mason yelled back, “To hell I will. I’m not part of your gay shit! Let me go!”
Kyle rebutted, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.” With a shit-eating grin, Kyle dropped his towel. He looked at Mason and said, “You’ll like being a coat rack. You’ll love it. It’s the only thing that makes you feel whole.”
Mason’s resistance disappeared. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by a placid, glassy stare. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, his muscles no longer fighting against the invisible force that held him in place. Kyle watched the transformation, a slow, creeping process that was as fascinating as it was terrifying. Mason’s personality, his memories, his sense of self—it was all being rewritten, overwritten by Kyle’s will. It was a violation, a desecration of everything Mason was, but it was also a work of art, a masterpiece of manipulation.
“Good,” Kyle said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Now, flex. Show me what you’ve got.”
Mason’s muscles tensed, his biceps bulging, his chest puffing out. He was a statue of a man, a perfect, immobile object, forever frozen in a pose of masculine strength.
“You’ll stand there,” Kyle continued, his voice low and hypnotic. “Forever. You’ll only think of yourself as a coat rack. You won’t think about your family, or your friends, or your job. You won’t think about anything except being a coat rack. And you’ll keep your dick hard. All the time. Because that’s what coat racks do.”
Mason’s dick, already semi-erect from the initial shock of the dicknosis, grew to its full length, straining against the thin fabric of his tightey-whities. It was a strange, surreal sight—a man, a living, breathing man, turning into a living inanimate object, his body a testament to Kyle’s power.
Kyle stood back and admired his work, watching as Mason’s mind crumbled. Mason was still there, somewhere deep inside, but his personality, his memories, his sense of self—they were all being erased, replaced by a single, all-consuming thought: I am a coat rack. The tears in his eyes had stopped, replaced by a vacant, placid stare. He was no longer a threat. He was no longer a person. He was a thing. Kyle’s thing. Mason’s body remained flexed, a monument to Kyle’s will. The tears that had streamed down his face had dried, leaving faint tracks on his cheeks. His eyes, once full of hate and fear, were now empty, glassy pools, reflecting the moonlight from the window.
Kyle walked over to the closet and pulled out a black leather jacket he rarely wore. He draped it over Mason’s outstretched arm, the weight of the leather settling onto Mason’s bicep. The sight of it, the sheer, audacious reality of it, sent a jolt of electricity through Kyle. He had done it. He had turned a man into an object.
He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Mason to his new existence. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, his hand shaking slightly. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, a potent cocktail of fear and triumph. He looked at his reflection in the kitchen window, his face pale and ghostly in the dim light. Who was he? What was he becoming?
The questions hung in the air, unanswered. He didn’t have the answers. All he had was the power, the raw, intoxicating power to bend others to his will. And that was enough for now.
He walked back to his bedroom, his steps slow and deliberate. He looked at Mason, at the man who was now a coat rack, and felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. He had created something new, something that was uniquely his.
A couple days later, Kyle received a visit from two police officers, both investigating the unexplained disappearance of a Mason Mays in town. They wanted to look inside and investigate, and Kyle, folding immediately with any form of authority, dicknotized the officers to make sure they wouldn’t report their findings. He made them believe Kyle was forgettable and nothing to look into.
Mason Mays is a cold case, and that’s Kyle’s doing. It was self defense, but Kyle won’t deny he got carried away, and now that he’s sat on it for so long, he's become used to the feeling of guilt. What was new was the good feelings he got from dicknotizing others. From dicknotizing Wolf Jacobs, Walter Henderson, and Cole Smith. And soon, he’ll get everyone who’s here at tonight’s guys’ night. Those who remained normal are Chase Adams and Dominic, and they won’t be normal much longer. Kyle controls the majority now, should something go south then there’s always a plan B now.
Thinking about helping to masturbate a boy into trance. Particularly with how sensitive tcocks are, it’s so easy for repetitive rubbing to become hypnotic, moving fingers round and round. Making spirals around the bottom growth that play on all the sensitive nerves.
Making pleasure the only thing a boy can think about until he’s dumb and drooling and completely hypnotized by his cock. Eyes glazed and empty when he’s ready to nod along and agree with whatever you tell him because it feels too good to question what’s happening 😵💫🥺
Chapter 1: Welcome To The Neighborhood of Wolfhornet
Today’s the day Kyle might actually die. Not because his life is in danger but because he’s finally accepted his invitation to Guys’ Nights. Weeks of his neighbor Wolf—whom Kyle doesn’t know, inviting him to Guys’ Nights to try and be friendly and Kyle finally caved in. Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was to finally give it a try, or maybe Kyle was about to tell Wolf in person to stop sending the invitations. Not that Kyle ever would but the thought crossed his mind. At best, he’ll go and maybe get some good food or drinks and then come back and never go again. That’s what he thinks at least.
After checking himself out in the mirror, he grabs a thin black leather vest from the ever flexing muscular arm of Mason Mays, who was standing in Kyle’s bedroom flexing his arms and wearing nothing but a pair of white briefs slightly worn with age. Kyle puts on the vest. He pulls up black jeans, they hug his slim frame with practiced ease. A silver wallet chain taps against denim as he secures it. He pauses at the shoe rack, selects his beat-up red Converse high tops, tying them with an odd kind of reverence. His long black hair falls into his eyes as he bends down. A wolf cut, the stylist had called it, though to Kyle it just looked like him. The final touch is a plain white tee beneath the vest, the simplicity of it a stark canvas for the complexity underneath.
The walk to Wolf's house takes seven minutes. Seven minutes of evening air, of crickets beginning their nightly chorus, of the subtle hum of a neighborhood settling down. Wolf's house is two blocks away, a suburban ranch-style home with an American flag hanging limply from its porch. The door is already open, spilling light and sound onto the lawn.
Wolf himself stands there, a beacon of forced casualness in cargo shorts and a polo shirt that strains across his broad shoulders. His name is literal—a barrel-chested man with a silver beard and a laugh that could shake rafters. He's been Kyle's most persistent neighbor, always asking about Kyle's day, always offering help with things Kyle doesn't need help with, the man is sociable to a point that was breaching Kyle’s bubble.
“Hey,” Wolf said with raised arms. “You came after all. Finally get to put a face to the name. Come on in, there’s more of us inside.” Wolf stepped aside to allow Kyle in, forcing the young man in through obligation by putting his hand behind Kyle.
This was the trap and he took the bait. Kyle can’t leave now, he’d look like an asshole.
Kyle asked whilst he was being guided in through the front hall. “How many more?”
Wolf answered, “About five. Uh, actually let me think. Me, Walter, Chase, Cole, Dominic, and now you. So there’s six of us in total counting you.”
Kyle hid his displeasure with a half smile. “Great,” he mumbled.
Stepping into Wolf’s living room, Kyle saw four other men sitting around a poker table. A man with short, nearly bald buzzed hair raised his brow at Kyle. “Who’s your shrimp, mate,” the man asked Wolf.
Wolf slapped Kyle’s back and smiled earnestly. “Dominic, this is Kyle,” Wolf said. “He’s new to Wolfhornet—Well actually he’s been here for maybe two-ish years but he hasn’t come to a Guys’ Night yet.”
Another one of the men around the poker table, who was wearing a black button up polo and had a far less intimidating vibe than Dominic spoke up, “I can attest to that, I’m a normal at Guys’ Nights. Thanks for hosting by the way, Wolf.”
“You’re welcome Cole,” Wolf acknowledged. “Now come sit with us, Kyle. We were just about to get a game of poker started.”
The game is a disaster. Kyle knows nothing about poker beyond what movies have taught him and that’s not much. He fumbles with chips, mismanages his cards, and eventually gets called out for peeking at other people’s hands. The laughter from the other men doesn't feel malicious, exactly, but it's the kind of laughter that leaves marks. Each chip he clumsily drops feels like a stone on his chest.
After an hour of this, Wolf claps him on the shoulder. “Hey, no worries, man. Maybe cards aren’t your thing. Go grab us some drinks from the kitchen?” Wolf suggests. It’s an out, a gentle dismissal disguised as a helpful task.
In the kitchen, Kyle leans against the counter, the coolness of the granite seeping through the thin fabric of his white tee. The sound of male laughter filters in from the living room—deep, easy, the kind that belongs to men who've never had to question their place in the world. He looks at himself in the microwave door: pale, slender, a shadow among giants. A surge of something hot and bitter rises in his throat. Not just embarrassment. Kyle lets out a deep breath.
From behind him, Kyle hears Wolf’s voice, “Are you okay kid?” Kyle turns around to see the man standing right there with his arms crossed.
Kyle nervously chuckled and said, “Am I that obvious?”
“No, Dominic and Chase wanted to bet real money so they’re having their own match. I take it you don’t like socializing that much?”
“Jesus Christ, am I actually that obvious?”
Wolf laughed heartily. “No kid, it’s just that I’ve had two children a while back so I’m used to it.” Wolf uncrossed his arms to put a large hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “No one expects you to be a social butterfly, we’re just happy you showed up.” Wolf’s grip was strong but gentle, a paternal pressure that made Kyle’s shoulders tense.
In that moment, looking at Wolf's earnest face, at the concern etched around his eyes, something in Kyle snaps. Or perhaps it doesn't snap but rather it dissolves. The humiliation of the poker game, the casual dominance of these men, the years of hiding who he is, it all converges into a single, crystalline thought: I can make them understand.
He thinks of his ex boyfriend Grayson, of his coat rack Mason, of the cops whose minds he'd rewritten to ensure Mason’s disappearance wouldn’t lead to Kyle. The memory doesn't bring guilt anymore. It brings possibility. Here in Wolf's kitchen, surrounded by the scent of beer and masculinity, Kyle makes a decision.
“Hey Wolf,” Kyle says, his voice surprisingly steady. “I’ve got something to show you. A, uh, birth defect. Kinda weird, but I trust you.”
Wolf raises an eyebrow but doesn't remove his hand. “Birth defect? You okay, Kyle?”
“I’m fine. Just… Come closer and look down.”
Hesitantly, Wolf leans in, expecting maybe Kyle’s phone showing a photo of some sort of his body or something normal. He wasn’t expecting for Kyle to unzip his pants and flash his dick to Wolf.
… His beautiful dick. Kyle had a dick, but not just any dick Wolf thought. Something about it, though Wolf couldn’t quite place his hand on what it was though, but he knew he couldn’t stop looking. Not that he wanted to, it’s just something he wanted to stare at, and think about, and listen.
Kyle knew he had Wolf dicknotized, he’s done this before, though this is his first time willingly doing it. Kyle said, “Wolf, thank you. You’ve been so nice to me, you’re like a father.” Kyle got an idea. “Do you mind if I call you daddy? In private, obviously.”
Wolf answered honestly, “Yes, despite that nice dick of yours. I’m straight as an arrow, and I’m not really comfortable with it, I just met you and you’re way younger than me, kid.”
Kyle knew he meant it, but Kyle also knew how hot it would be if he did this, but he’d really have to keep it on the down low so he doesn’t get caught. If the police showed up again, Kyle’s not sure if he’d have the instinct to dicknotize them again. Kyle told Wolf, “You like when I call you daddy.” It wasn’t a question like earlier, it was a statement. Because it was a statement that Wolf had heard while staring at Kyle’s dick, it was now fact to Wolf. Pure indisputable fact.
Wolf replied honestly, eyes still glued to Kyle’s dick like he was staring at a million dollars, “Yeah, I love it. It doesn’t bother me.” Wolf then realized what he said. He looked up at Kyle, still keeping the dick in view though, but now it was like Wolf was watching a documentary about something fascinating. The confusion on Wolf's face was plain as day, yet he couldn't look away. His face returned back to staring point blank at Kyle’s penis.
Wolf’s confusion delighted Kyle. The slight panic in Wolf’s eyes, the way he swallowed hard, the way he tried to reconcile what he’d just said with who he thought he was, that was the sweet spot. That was the power Kyle craved.
“Don't worry about it, daddy,” Kyle said, the word tasting strange but wonderful on his tongue. “You’ll get used to it. Actually, from now on, during Guys’ Nights, you’ll dress in a leather harness and other leather daddy clothing, I’m sure you’ll know what’ll look hot. That’s your favorite type of stuff to wear for Guys’ Nights.”
Wolf blinked. “A leather harness? I... I don't own one.”
“Then you’ll buy one,” Kyle said firmly. “And you’ll wear it every Friday. Because you love it. It makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it? Being the host, being in charge of everyone’s comfort. You love it. Don’t you, Leather Daddy?” Kyle’s dick hardened at the idea. He pressed further, “Yeah, that’s what you are during Guys’ Nights. If you want me to keep coming back then you’ll be Leather Daddy during Guys’ Nights. And you’ll be such a gay pervert. Fucking me, fucking the other guys, being fucked, being all kinky and sexy like a leather dom. But you’re also a kind and caring daddy for me. Unlike my actual dad who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about me, you’re gonna see me like one of your own kids.”
The ideas were taking root in Wolf’s mind as Kyle spoke them. He couldn’t deny them, they’re just fact to him while he stares at what he believes is the world’s best penis. As the brain reliably does, it adapts. It believes. Kyle’s dick wouldn’t lie to him. His boy wouldn’t lie to him. Wolf nods and says, “Leather, gay pervert, dominant daddy. Leather Daddy, that’s me.”
Kyle places his hand on Wolf’s chest and bites his lip. “Yeah,” Kyle says while sizing up Wolf, taking a moment to appreciate the man’s gut. “That’s you. But you know you have to keep that a secret between us. No one else would understand.” Kyle paused. He remembered the other guys here right now. Handsome, all of them Kyle thought. It was so easy making Wolf understand. “Actually,” Kyle said, “you know you can be real around other dicknotized men like yourself. They’ll understand, they’re in the same situation you are. Not that you dislike being dicknotized. You love it.”
Wolf wholeheartedly believed it. “I love being dicknotized, especially by you. I’ll keep it a secret from anyone who isn’t dicknotized though.” Wolf’s gaze remained fixed on Kyle’s dick, but a slow smile spread across his face, a genuine one, but one that seemed to come from a place deep inside him that he didn’t know existed until this moment. His mind was racing, but it wasn't panicking anymore. It was organizing, filing, and cross-referencing. Leather Daddy. Daddy to Kyle. Gay pervert. The words weren't just being accepted; they were becoming part of the architecture of who he was.
“Good,” Kyle said. “Now get your ass back in there and act natural. I’ll join you in a minute. And don’t you dare mention what happened here.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid,” Wolf said, and Kyle detected something new in Wolf's tone. It was playfulness. It was a note of warmth that hadn't been there before, a subtle shift from neighborly obligation to genuine affection.
Wolf turned and walked back into the living room. Kyle watched him go, a thrill running down his spine. He quickly zipped up, the metal teeth catching with a satisfying zip. He took a deep breath. The air, to Kyle suddenly felt clearer, more charged with possibility.
