#gay brainwash

[sportsentranced]

the obedient champion

The celebration was over. The echoes of champagne-soaked cheers still rang in the back of Max’s mind as he trudged through the paddock, exhaustion pressing down on him like the weight of his drenched racing suit. His Red Bull overalls clung to him, sticky with sweat and victory. The collar was unzipped, exposing the tight, soaked Nomex shirt underneath. His cap sat low over his forehead, shielding his damp, disheveled hair from view.

All he wanted was to strip out of this suffocating gear, shower, and sink into his hotel bed. But Christian had summoned him. “Just a quick meeting,” he���d said, offering nothing more. Max didn’t have the energy to argue.

He pushed the door to Horner’s office open, already itching to leave. The air inside was cool, a stark contrast to the humid, alcohol-laced atmosphere of the garage. Christian stood near his desk, but Max’s eyes were drawn to the stranger beside him.

Richard.

The man was older, sharp in a tailored suit that suggested influence. His gaze settled on Max with an unnerving familiarity. Max stiffened as Richard took a step forward, his presence carrying an ease that didn’t match the tension curling in Max’s gut.

“Long day,” Richard murmured, his voice smooth, practiced. His hand landed on Max’s shoulder, kneading gently, expertly. “You should relax.”

Max’s muscles twitched under the touch, but his body didn’t pull away. A strange warmth spread through him, dulling his immediate desire to leave.

Richard’s voice softened further. “You remember, don’t you? The sessions. The spiral.”

A pulse of unease flickered in Max’s mind, but it was sluggish, distant, like trying to grab something through water. His breaths shallowed.

“The warmth,” Richard continued, his fingers pressing just so against the knot in Max’s shoulder. “The focus. The surrender.”

Something deep within Max stirred—recognition, an understanding he hadn’t chosen but was still there, waiting beneath the surface. His eyelids fluttered, his vision swayed. The exhaustion he carried wasn’t just from the race—it was deeper, buried in his subconscious, woven into him over endless sim sessions, hidden within the spirals that had drawn him in, over and over again.

At the end of every sim session, they played the spiral. The audio tape, prepared carefully by Richard, whispering commands, reinforcing the lessons. And now, as Richard watched Max closely, he knew it had worked. The sim sessions had been successful.

Richard snapped his fingers.

Max sighed as he went under. His head swayed slightly, his vision swam. And then—

His eyes rolled back, his body slackening under Richard’s touch. His mind slipped, the tension in his frame unraveling, surrendering. Heat spread through his limbs, slow and liquid, drowning any impulse to resist.

Somewhere in the periphery, Christian watched. Silent. Satisfied.

Richard kneaded Max’s shoulder as he brought him deeper under, his grip firm yet reassuring. “You will obey Horner,” he whispered, the words curling into Max’s pliant mind.

“Yes,” Max murmured, his voice distant but sure.

“Lift your arms and flex,” Richard instructed.

Max obeyed without hesitation, his muscles tensing, his body moving effortlessly under command. Horner’s smirk deepened as he watched, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. His star driver, once so stubborn, now fully obedient.

“Speak,” Richard prompted.

“I will obey,” Max murmured, the words slipping from his lips as naturally as breath.

Richard studied him for a moment longer, intrigued by the progress. He straightened the fabric of Max’s suit, smoothing out the creases as if resetting him.

He leaned into the driver, his voice dropping to a mere whisper.

“Go to your motorhome,” he said, the command laced with quiet authority, meant only for him. “Wait for me.”

There was no answer, not that he needed one. Max was ready, too far gone to question that simple command.

Richard turned to Christian, who smirked, satisfied.

"You're remarkable." He shook his head in disbelief. "He's like a different person."

Richard shrugged confidently.

"Everyone has their buttons. You just need to know how to push them."

Richard turned to Max again, snapping his fingers.

Max’s eyelids fluttered, his body tensed, and his awareness slowly resurfaced. He blinked, disoriented, glancing at Christian.

“Are we done?” he asked, none the wiser.

He ran a hand across his chest absentmindedly, feeling the warmth linger beneath the surface.

Something felt off, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Christian simply gestured toward the door. “You’re free to go.”

Without a word, Max turned and left, his steps sure, his destination already set.

The race had been won.

But Max Verstappen had lost.

The hum of the air conditioning was the only sound inside Max’s motorhome. He sat on the couch, his leg bouncing restlessly, arms crossed over his still-damp racing suit. His body was tense, his mind clouded with frustration. He had no idea why he was waiting. No explanation, no instructions—just a strange compulsion to be here.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. He should be at the hotel by now, showering off the remnants of champagne and sweat. Instead, he was stuck here, lingering in his own discomfort. Something wasn’t right.

Before he could push himself up to leave, the door clicked open.

Max’s head snapped up, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as Richard stepped inside, closing the door behind him."

You—"

A snap of fingers cut through the air.

Max’s protest died in his throat. His body shuddered once, muscles going lax as his mind plunged into stillness. The tension melted from his face, his lips parting slightly, breath slowing. His gaze, once piercing and alert, dulled into an unfocused haze.

Richard smiled.

He took his time crossing the space between them, watching the way Max remained perfectly still, his obedience absolute. The golden boy of Formula 1, the unstoppable champion—reduced to this.

Richard knelt in front of him, reaching out to trace his fingertips along Max’s sharp jawline. His touch was slow, deliberate, almost reverent. Max didn’t flinch. His skin was warm beneath Richard’s fingers, his pulse steady, completely surrendered.

"Max Verstappen," Richard murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "The champion. The golden boy." He brushed a stray damp curl away from Max’s forehead, admiring the way his expression remained slack and pliant. "Now, finally mine."

There had been no hesitation when Horner reached out to him. The moment he learned what they had planned for Max—the conditioning, the slow rewiring of his mind, to make him more obedient —he couldn’t resist.

Richard ran his thumb over Max’s cheek, drinking in the sight before him. The strongest driver on the grid, the fiercest competitor, now utterly docile under his control.

"Good boy," he praised, his voice low, possessive. "You don’t even know how perfect you are like this."

Max didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Richard tilted Max’s face up, his fingers firm against his jaw. "How do you feel, boy?"

For a moment, Max hesitated. His brows twitched slightly, as if struggling to think through the thick fog in his mind. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and groggy.

"Tired… warm… confused…"

Richard’s lips curled into a smirk. He patted Max’s cheek, a patronizing touch that made Max’s eyelids flutter slightly. "Good."

He let his fingers trail down, tracing the damp skin of Max’s throat, feeling the slow, steady pulse beneath his fingertips. "You watched that spiral for so long," Richard murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction. "It’s deep inside you now. My golden boy. My champion."

With a firm tug, he pulled Max up from the sofa. Max stumbled slightly, his body slow to respond, his limbs loose and compliant. Richard took a step back, letting his eyes roam over him like a prized possession on display.

His hands followed, brushing over Max’s arms, feeling the firm muscle beneath sweat-slicked skin. He gripped his biceps, testing their strength, then slid down to his forearms, his fingers pressing into the toned sinew. He hummed in approval.

From there, his touch wandered—over Max’s chest, the damp Nomex clinging to the hard lines of his pecs. Richard’s fingers flexed against the soaked fabric, playing with the material, relishing in the way it stuck to Max’s skin. He let his palm press against his abdomen, feeling the heat radiating from his body, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

He reached the zipper of Max’s racing suit, tugging it down just a little further, exposing more of the drenched white undershirt stretched taut across his body.

Richard exhaled slowly, savoring the sight, the sensation, the absolute control."Perfect," he murmured, almost to himself.

Richard let his palm slide firmly over Max’s chest, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the heat of his skin underneath. He could feel the slow, steady thud of Max’s heart, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly at the touch.

"Good boy," he murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction. His fingers flexed, kneading the hard muscle beneath his hand. "You worked so hard today. Pushing yourself. Fighting. Winning." His touch drifted lower, dragging over Max’s abs, feeling the way his body responded, even in trance.

"It must be exhausting," Richard continued, his tone almost sympathetic. "To think. To act like you’re actually a person."Max’s lips parted slightly, his dazed blue eyes blinking slowly, his body instinctively leaning into the touch."

You don’t need that anymore." Richard’s hand traveled back up, fingertips grazing Max’s collarbone before settling over his racing suit again. "No fears, no worries, no thoughts."

Max exhaled, shuddering under the weight of the words. The edges of his mind, already blurred from conditioning, softened even further.

"No thoughts?" he echoed, his voice distant, hollow.

Richard cupped his cheek, his thumb stroking over damp skin. "Yeah. Just feel. Just obedience."

A slow exhale left Max’s lips. His body melted into Richard’s grip, his tension completely gone. No resistance, no hesitation. Just soft, pliant submission.

Richard’s fingers found the zipper of Max’s racing suit again, tugging it down further, exposing more of the sweat-drenched Nomex beneath. The damp fabric clung to his skin, highlighting every defined muscle, every subtle movement of his breath.

Slowly, deliberately, Richard slid his hand inside the open suit, pressing his palm against Max’s chest. The heat of his skin radiated through the fabric, his heartbeat steady yet unguarded. He let his hand roam, feeling the slick material move under his fingertips, teasing out every sensation buried deep inside Max’s conditioned mind.

"No thoughts," Richard reminded him, his voice low, coaxing.

Max sighed, his head tilting slightly as his body responded to the warmth, the pressure. "No… thoughts…" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"That’s right." Richard took Max’s wrist, guiding his limp hand upward, pressing it against his own chest. "Feel. Just feel."

Max hesitated for a fraction of a second—but hesitation had no place here. Obedience always won. His fingers twitched, then moved, stroking over the damp Nomex, following the path Richard had set for him.

His fingers curled into the fabric and into his chest, then further down to his waistline.

And then he felt it.

A strain.

The familiar, undeniable pull of fabric tightening against his body. His breathing hitched as awareness seeped in, but his mind was too fogged, too deep in the spiral’s grip to process it fully. Instinct told him to hide it. To suppress it. But it was already too late.

Richard’s knowing smile was almost lazy as he leaned in. "Ah," he murmured, his touch never ceasing. "You feel it, don’t you?"

Max’s lips parted, but no words came. His body betrayed him, the reaction buried deep, embedded into him through every sim session, every whispered command that had shaped him.

Richard chuckled, brushing his fingers over the taut fabric. "Good boy," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Richard’s fingers barely ghosted over the fabric, tracing the subtle outline of the strain beneath Max’s suit. He didn’t push, didn’t rush—just let the sensation sink into Max’s fogged mind, letting him feel every deliberate touch.

"See?" Richard murmured, his voice smooth, coaxing. "Your body knows before your mind does."

Max let out a slow, unsteady breath. His muscles twitched, as if caught between instinct and the deep-seated obedience buried within him. He wanted to move, to shift away from the overwhelming awareness building inside him—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Richard’s fingers teased along the outlines of his cock again, barely a brush, watching with satisfaction as Max’s breath hitched.

"Good boy," he praised, letting the words settle into Max’s subconscious, reinforcing the programming that had already taken root.

Then, ever so slowly, he took Max’s wrist and guided his hand downward.

"Feel," Richard whispered.

Max hesitated. Even in his trance, something deep inside flickered—an old, fading instinct to resist. But it was fleeting. He obeyed, because that was what he had been trained to do.

His fingers pressed against the fabric, against the source of his own betrayal. A shudder ran through him as the realization fully took hold.

His fingers dragged along his hard cock, the sensation causing him to furrow his brows.

Why did his body betray him like that?

His cheeks flushed a crimson red as he exhaled deeply.

"That’s it," Richard encouraged, watching him squirm. "No thoughts. No worries. Just feel."

Max let out a quiet, helpless sound, his body fully melting into the sensation, into the words, into the control that had already consumed him.

Richard’s voice was steady, coaxing, pulling Max deeper. "Feel the heat," he murmured. "Let it build. Let it pool."

Max’s breathing was uneven now, his body caught in the throes of something he barely understood. His fingers twitched against his suit, the conditioned response overriding logic. Every session, every spiral, every whispered command had led him to this moment.

And yet—somewhere, buried beneath the haze, the fighter in him stirred.

He was Max Verstappen. The champion. The unstoppable force on the track. His mind was sharp, his will unbreakable. He wasn’t supposed to bend, to be led, to submit.

A flicker of resistance sparked within him, his muscles tensing. His jaw clenched as if some distant part of himself was trying to claw back control.

But then he felt it.

The warmth. The undeniable pull of his own body betraying him.

The dampness of surrender.

His cock was puldating beneath the fabric, so close to releasing all that pressure that he was leaking.

Max gripped his cock, as if sheer willpower alone would hold it in. Hold him back. But it was futile.

His eyes fluttered, the last threads of resistance fraying at the edges. The programming was too deep, the conditioning too absolute. His mind had been shaped, molded, rewritten into something pliant, something obedient.

At the end, his body gave way.

His body twitched, his hips buckling as he came into his suit. Feeling the wetness slowly soak through his suit against his hand.

Max’s fingers lingered, tracing over the dampness that had seeped through his suit. His breath was slow, unsteady, as he registered the sensation—the proof of his own surrender. His mind, thick with the fog of obedience, barely grasped the weight of it. He just… felt.

Richard watched with quiet satisfaction as Max’s movements grew sluggish. His body, once taut with resistance, had gone loose, pliant. The last traces of tension melted away as a dreamy, unfocused expression crossed his face. His eyelids rolled back, his body swayed—then, without warning, he slumped forward.

Richard caught him effortlessly, arms steady as he pulled Max into his hold. His cap fell to the floor with a low thud, max resting his head against Richard's frame.

"Shhh," he murmured, cradling him close, one hand splayed across the damp fabric of his back. "There you go."

Max moaned against his shoulder, the warmth of his breath uneven but content.

Richard ran a hand through Max’s damp curls, fingers threading through the soft strands. "Good boy," he praised, his voice smooth, possessive.

A hazy, drowsy smile tugged at Max’s lips. The words settled into him, blooming in the depths of his conditioned mind like a seed taking root. He didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to fight.

Just feel. Just obey.

Richard tightened his grip slightly, holding the weight of the champion in his arms. Max had been unstoppable on the track, a force no one could tame.

But here—here, he was something else entirely.

Richard held Max close, his grip firm yet soothing, as if cradling something both powerful and fragile. His hand traced slow, deliberate patterns over Max’s back, feeling the heat radiating through the damp fabric.

"Good boy," he murmured against Max’s ear, his voice rich with approval.

Max shuddered at the words, his body pressing unconsciously into the touch. The praise settled deep in his mind, reinforcing everything that had been planted there—every command, every instinct, every response carefully conditioned into him.

Richard’s hand drifted lower, fingertips grazing the dampness that had seeped through the fabric. He pressed gently, not to push, not to demand, but to remind.

"Let it all out," he whispered.

Max let out a slow, shaky breath. The last remnants of tension unraveled inside him, his mind slipping fully into the warmth of surrender. He barely registered the way his body reacted—he only knew the feeling of release, of letting go, of floating in the certainty that he didn’t need to think, only obey.

Max kept cumming, again and again. He didn"t register how much—he just felt the wet stickiness spread everywhere, thin streaks running down his thighs.

He moaned again, softer this time.

Richard tightened his hold, his other hand threading through Max’s damp curls, grounding him. "That’s it," he murmured, voice soothing, possessive. "Just like that."

A dreamy, contented sigh left Max’s lips. His body was spent, weightless, completely given over.

Max trembled, the sensation of surrender pulsing through him like a slow, spreading warmth. His breath was shallow, his body slack, yet his fingers twitched—grasping, searching—until they found Richard’s shirt. His grip was weak but desperate, digging into the fabric as if he needed something to hold onto, something solid in the midst of his unraveling.

Richard steadied him with ease, one hand firm against Max’s back, the other reaching up to wipe away a stray line of drool at the corner of his lips. The action was slow, deliberate—an unspoken reminder of how far he had fallen, how deep he had gone.

"Look," Richard murmured, voice smooth, coaxing. His fingers trailed down, guiding Max’s chin lower. "See what you’ve done."

Max’s half-lidded eyes followed the movement, hazy and unfocused until they landed on himself—on the darkened fabric of his suit, soaked through, the evidence of his surrender unmistakable.

A slow, shuddering breath escaped him. The realization flickered through his mind, but there was no shame, no resistance—only acceptance.

Richard hummed in satisfaction, fingers brushing through Max’s damp curls. "Good boy," he praised, his tone rich with approval. "No thoughts. No control. Just this."

Max sighed, his grip on Richard’s shirt loosening as the last remnants of tension drained from his body. He had no fight left. No need for it. He was weightless, adrift in the certainty of obedience.

Max stared at himself, at the darkened fabric of his suit, his breath still uneven as the last ripples of sensation coursed through him. His fingers twitched against Richard’s shirt, his grip weak but lingering, as if seeking reassurance.

His lips parted, voice soft, dazed. "Did I… do well?"

Richard’s smirk was slow, satisfied. His hand skimmed over Max’s back, grounding him, keeping him steady. He let the question hang for a moment, watching the way Max’s unfocused blue eyes searched for approval, for validation.

Then, he leaned in.

"You did perfectly," he murmured against Max’s temple, the warmth of his breath sending a fresh shiver down Max’s spine. His lips pressed gently against damp skin, a slow, deliberate kiss—sealing his praise, his satisfaction, into Max’s mind.

Max exhaled, his body melting completely into Richard’s hold, the tension gone, the need to fight long forgotten. His eyelids fluttered shut, his grip on Richard’s shirt finally releasing as his body surrendered fully to the safety of obedience.

Richard smirked, holding the champion in his arms, knowing—without a doubt—Max Verstappen was his—his champion. His golden boy. Exactly as he should be.

[archer-vale]

Don't look away. Slow, deep breaths... The air is thick with his scent. You've always loved the smell of men. The heavy odor forces you to relax. Your thoughts slow. Accept the natural pull. Sink to your knees...you know where you belong.

[footaddiction]

You did say you'd do anything for @qsworship and her feet loser.

[stomdomjock]

Collin was out for a jog on his usual route. He had been trying to get back into a routine and start running again to lose a few pounds before summer. Another runner caught up to him and stopped him.

"I think you dropped your sunglasses!" He held out a pair of dark blue aviators.

"What? No, I didn't bring any sunglasses."

"Maybe just try them on?" he said.

*snap*

The runner snapped his fingers and in a flash the glasses vanished from his hand and it seemed like the lighting changed.

"Sorry, man, but these aren't my glasses. You can have them."

Collin took the sunglasses off his head, but when he did everything went completely dark, like he was blind.

"What the fuck, dude!" said Collin.

"Don't worry ... as long as you wear the sunglasses everything will be fine. Oh, and I think you forgot your shirt at home."

*snap*

Collin's shirt vanished.

"And are you wearing anything under those short shorts?"

*snap* and *snap*

Collin's underwear disappeared and his shorts squeezed his thighs.

"Damn, you're one fine looking piece of meat. You can run past my neighborhood anytime, dude!"

*snap*

Collin's body started to change into a lean, muscular, toned body with a thick layer of hair and tanned skin.

After a few moments of being stunned, he started running again. He wasn't sure what had just happened, just that he wanted to keep up appearances and work on his body.

[slut4spirals]

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

[wakeup01]

From Behind

(A horror themed butt growth story.)

Why do you keep doing this to yourself? It’s like you set yourself up for disaster. You are travelling home alone from a rather productive session at the gym. That is the good news, the bad news is you have just entered what is known as a run down area of town affectionately referred to as ‘The Crack’, everyone tends to avoid it if possible. There have been recent reports of missing people in the area too, but no one is very surprised, or seems to care. But today you were in a rush and despite your reservations, this was the quickest route back. At least, in theory.

Passing down a street of derelict warehouses you notice a side passage that appeared to lead down an alleyway. That was odd. You’ve been down here before, but had never noticed this back-alley before. Paths don’t tend to spring up out of thin air. You try and calculate where it should lead and come to the conclusion that it would let you save some time, maybe? Look, it’s extremely unlikely anything bad could happen within the minute it would take to make it through to the other side. Yes, that is what everyone says before things go horribly wrong but that was absolutely, definitely not going to happen here.

You step into a puddle that splashes an unidentifiable liquid up your bare leg. Mental note: never wear shorts in ‘The Crack’ again. Trash was piled up high on either side, it was obvious these buildings didn’t get a huge amount of use anymore. You always thought horror movies had done a real disservice to alleyways, but this one certainly wouldn’t be changing anyones mind. In the distance you see the silhouette of someone standing in the middle of the alley. From their stature it seems to be man, but something about them throws you off. You feel a pang of trepidation, a chill runs down your back. It’s only just occurred to you how deafly quiet the passage is, the sounds of the street feel like miles away. You turn around and the uneven pavement seems to impossibly stretch away from your feet. You hear a dull droning, fizzling just within your hearing range. Looking back and the man appears closer than before, you swear he hasn’t moved and yet…

“Uh hello?” You call out, to no response. Strange. But then, you see it. The most beautiful sight your eyes have been graced with. His butt.

Butt.

His grey joggers are having a hard time trying to contain what he’s packing, not that you’re complaining. It’s bigger than what you thought possible, it’s captivating. And now you’re just staring. Staring at another dudes gigantic butt in the middle of an alley, try not to overthink it. You see it jiggle just slightly and your eyes follow it’s repetitive movement hypnotically. What doesn’t occur to you is how your body is starting to….adjust. There’s a barely perceptible malicious force entering your form, you welcomed it in the second you laid eyes on the perfectly sculpted ass. Not a wholly bad trade off.

It wastes no time in making itself at home. Assessing the prey that wandered into it’s lair, before going to work on you.

The energy is gathering in your nethers, passing down your head and pulling through your torso. It seems to be taking something with it as your rear begins to heat up. You feel a light throb. It starts slow but soon increases in intensity. Your modest stature is being ‘enhanced’, your average ass cheeks piling on pounds as the rest of your body flattens out. Muscle and tissue is consumed, just food to bolster your hindquarters. All your body fat melts away until you have a tight slim chest. Your arms thinning out into effeminate twigs, hands slender. And through it all you continue to watch the rotund cheeks in front of you, not daring to take your eyes off them. Wouldn’t it be nice to have that too? Any sacrifice would be worth it, no? You want that, that -

Butt.

The thin polyester fabric of your shorts is pulled taut across your enlarging rear. Straining as it struggles to cage the hungry beast within it’s confines. Today was perhaps not the best day to decide on going without underwear. But lets be honest, underwear isn’t going to have much prominence in your future.

With your body adequately slimmed down, the insatiable parasitic-like force begins to target any identifying features you have left. It focuses on your head, a couple of twitches and it’s done. Nose itches, eyes water. It leaves your face with an uncanny quality, like it was unsettlingly sent though a algorithmic generator. It’s you, but an eerie idealised version of you. Plasticised perfection. Your skin is now unnaturally even, without a single speck or blemish. Anything that could distract from your main asset is smoothed clean. Absorbed by the mound of flesh expanding in your pants. There’s only one thing people should be paying attention to. That’s quickly becoming less of an issue. The inevitable missing poster they put up will only vaguely resemble you.

“Guh.” You hear yourself pant.

The low droning of the alleyway grows more prominent, pulsing rhythmically, akin to the low bass of a dance track. Your buttocks instinctually vibrate to the beat.

It’s increasingly hard to ignore the obvious changes happening to you. Your rotund behind is becoming so heavy. And while, yes, it is slightly concerning - can the issue wait just a little bit longer? You’ll deal with it later, after fully grasping the scope of this dude’s bountiful booty. For a second you wonder what the mans face looks like but then you think better of it. His face isn’t important, in the same way that yours isn’t.

You shift your feet apart, trying to balance out your rear heavy centre of gravity. The slight movement sends your round cheeks wobbling comically like a bowl of jelly. They bounce together, creating a wet slapping sound in your tight shorts. Your lower half is at risk of putting fuck toys out of business.

You’ve never had the word ‘butt’ enter your mind with such frequency in your entire life, it begins to loose all meaning. A collection of random letters.

Butt.

Are you perhaps forgetting something? That 4 letter word isn’t about to share a space with that bump between your legs. At some point you may have believed your cock was of some importance. All those times it had made you feel good, where for a second your concerns would fade from view. But things change. You are changing. Sometimes you have no choice but to embrace it. You start to feel a light tugging at your crotch. It’s slightly uncomfortable but there’s a pleasant tingle too. You reach down and feel it’s length diminish within your hand, sucked up like a vacuum by your ever thickening arse. It doesn’t stop until a mere nub protrudes from your groin. It dribbles the smallest amount of pre down your leg and spreads across the cracked concrete of the alley. No amount of stimulation is going to produce much down there. Your pleasure centre realigns a little further back. A deep itch that requires constant attention. A cock is something that other people have, you instead have an open socket for them to plug into.

Your shapely bum must almost rival that of the one your eyes are glued to. Not much further to go. Other people will stare at yours in the same way. You didn’t know you were so jealous of it but who wouldn’t want THAT?

You’re not sure how long you’ve been watching his rear end, or how long you plan to continue doing so. No better ideas come to mind right now. That might be because with your body and cock sucked dry, your brain is the next best source of fuel. So much useless power being used up there, where it can serve a much better purpose. It’s like a battery being drained, squeezed right into your juicy fat ass. Churned away just to add another inch of thickness.

You don’t think you really want this to happen, maybe you’re big enough back there? But what you want and what it wants are two very different things. Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t appear to be up for debate.

If you round up all those little idiosyncrasies of your personality, you might even squeeze another few millimetres into your hips. There’s only one thing around here with much substance anymore, and it certainly isn’t your brain. You can admit it, not much of value has been lost. It’s not like you were getting around to solving world hunger. At least now you have the opportunity to solve a different kind of hunger.

Your thoughts provided a decent amount of sustenance as they were sucked out of your brain through a figurative straw. You feel the benefit push out. Your hips flaring out instantaneously while your globes inflate to the size of footballs. With your brain emptied out of anything complex, thoughts and instructions to your body start to arrive from the new master of the domain. Neurones rewired, your butt was now command central, your head was just the go between, mostly irrelevant. Simple instructions and desires like ‘bend’, ‘twerk’ and ‘facesit’ overwhelm you. But -butt- right now the main one was ‘stare’; you weren’t done yet after all.

Your cheeks moisten as they rub together, their new sensitivity firing bolts up your spine. Your shorts grow damp as the leaking fluid soaks into the polyester and clings tightly to your skin. It only helps to make your arse seem bigger, the fabric bunching up between your crack, creating a noticeable crease down the centre that leaves nothing to the imagination.

Once again you feel your ass throb and shudder, each jiggle pushing it just a little bit further from your body. Just when you think you couldn’t get any bigger back there, it keeps going, inflating to cartoonish proportions. Sticking out like a depraved shelf. Your waist thins out and your hips expand to accommodate your new form. Women would be jealous of what you’re packing, and men will be queuing up to test it’s suspension.

It’s okay to smile. Happy people smile. Aren’t you happy? You must be, everything else in your head was consumed. The entity did you a favour in that regard. Think of the words ‘bouncing booty’. Go on, give it a try.

Your lip quivers in a last ditch effort of restraint. Don’t let ‘it’ win. The defiance is vaguely amusing in a pitiful way but your face muscles start to give way. Your mouth stretches wide into a broad, earnest grin. The most sincere display of joy you’ve ever shown, who cares if it makes you look ‘dumb’? It doesn’t bother you at all that people can take one look at you and accurately guess, that not a single word of value will exit your mouth. Dumb people are happy. Why worry? You had different priorities now. You can feel safe knowing that your most prominent feature is taking the lead, that it knows what’s best for you. Give it the keys and good things are bound to happen.

See, and doesn’t smiling feel good? Doesn’t it feel right to smile as your hole is used like a cum receptacle? Or when your cheeks are surrounding a mans face? People don’t want to see their toy sad.

A lone giggle falls out between your pursed lips.

You reach back around and place your hands on your two buttocks, your palm is dwarfed in size. It no longer stretches across its surface. Like palming a basketball. You can feel it push against your fingers with immense pressure as it expands within your grasp. Just another centimetre, and another. It’s curvature widens, expanding out from your hips. You press your finger into the skin and rub. The surface is completely smooth and the texture has a slight friction to it, creating a light satisfying sqk. No one for a second will believe that it’s real, it’s obvious fake-ness is by design. Authenticity is so overrated, nothing real would bounce so tightly back to position, would shine so brightly in the light. Would be able to withstand so much pounding… People don’t actually want real, they want a fetish image come to life, they want no maintenance, no downsides. They want someone to just nod and agree while they fuck them without concern; they want a rubber butt like yours. You’re not about to question it, and neither will anyone else.

They won’t question it while they undress you, or while they find relief inside of you, or even when their own butt begins to expand. And still, when they are reduced to just another butt boy, they won’t question it.

Butt.

That’s right, you’re a carrier. You have been entrusted with a important task, to leave a string of giant asses in your wake. You need to spread it, like a computer virus. Once they ‘plug in’ there’s no going back. Whoever they were, they’ll all end up the same.

You are finished. Your glutes tighten into place. And your hole opens for frequent visitors. Stretching wide as if it had just been treated to a rigorous fuck machine session. You’re just a butt with a body attached. It’s how you view yourself, above all is tending to the needs of your ever hungry rear. The rest of your body is just a mode of transport, a means to an end. A rear end.

It feels like you’ve stood here for hours, but in reality it’s been no more than a minute. A minute was all it took for you to be repurposed as a literal butt boy. A mere sixty seconds for all your thoughts to be hollowed out; maybe you weren’t as smart as you thought, or maybe you secretly wanted this all along. Either way your head is now just a pretty picture to smile at before spinning you around.

The space in your head is about as empty as the hole between your pillowy cheeks, although only one has any hope of being filled up.

“Butt!” You hear yourself blurt out, like a child saying a naughty word. The sound echos down the dank alley.

Suddenly the butt opposite you turns away, his legs moving him towards you. A wordless instruction reaches your body to kneel and so you do, obediently. He turns back away, his beautiful ass only a few inches apart from your face. His joggers lower and his prize springs forth from it’s prison. He slowly backs his cheeks into your face until they eclipse your entire view. He continues until your head is pushed between his round globes with a blomf, encasing you, muffling the sound in your ears. There’s a mild tingle across your forehead/face.

You feel the pressure push against your sides. It makes sure your head is an appropriately vacuous vessel, squeezing out anything left. That little remnant that didn’t want to be butt brained drips away in no time, turned to drool and absorbed into the guys ass crack. This would be good for you; You needed to be made perfect, so you let the butt finish it’s work. A new set of instructions flow into you, into your ass. You feel your consciousness connect to the butt burying your face, assimilating and adding you as one of it’s own, making you part of something bigger. One of many.

The pressure on your head leaves your emptied mind subservient to the mass of tissue straining under you. It gives you a new identity.

I gave you a new identity.

BUTT BOY.

And you’re now ready for service. Butt. Boy. Ready to spread joy. To put it in the nicest way possible, you have a butt for a brain. It has been given full control, and it has one singular goal. You need to make more Butt Boys. It is that simple. It’s not a desire, it’s just something you have to do.

The cheeks spread open again and are unseated from your encased head, your broad smile still unflinching.

Something else is different though. A cold breeze brushes over your forehead. The hair on your head is nothing but a light dusting of what was there before, at most 1mm in length. It was one less thing to worry about, and one less thing to identify you with. It’s unsettling how much of your personality seemed to be stripped with it gone. The buzzed look certainly makes you appear more anonymous. Like a default custom character in a video game. Nothing made you stand out… well, aside from the obvious.

The ass in front of you is satisfied with your ‘adjustment’ and leads it’s body from the spot it once stood so patiently in. You continue to stare as the buttocks juggle erratically in the grey joggers as they leave the alleyway.

Your feet begin to move of their own volition. Movement is awkward, each step your balance is pulling you backward. You’re like a dumptruck trying to make a tight turn.

You are left in silence, aside from the clapping of your bouncy cheeks as you stumble forward to replace the previous occupant. You stand in the exact same spot, thighs pushed together, back straight. Now it is your turn to wait - like an animal for it’s prey, knowing that you cannot leave until you have passed on the gift to another man; ensuring that the cycle continues. The idea of causing someone else to go through the same process fills you with such pride.

It’s unclear how long you stand there, time in the alley doesn’t appear to operate within normal parameters. Like a crack in the world. You see your shadow projected onto a nearby wall, a straight line interrupted by an obscene vibrating speed bump. Doorframes could be your new biggest enemy.

You were desperate to see your reflection, from behind obviously. Most people take selfies of their face, the subject of your attention would be much further down.

You hear a voice echo from behind.

“Excuse me sir.”

One week later:

“Man, how much work did you have done on this, femboy? Unff. You make even my girlfriend look flat.” A towering voice booms down at you.

You’d picked up the jock in a club. He was relatively easy, it didn’t take much to end up back at his place. You stared at him with that horny, open mouthed duck face. But he wasn’t interested in what you had going on up there. It was remarkable how little men cared about how flagrantly airheaded you were once you flash your rear at them. It didn’t matter how ‘plastic’ or fake you so obviously were. The eye see’s what it wants.

He was clearly in the mood to let off steam, and one look of what you had on offer was all it took. You didn’t even need to say anything, which was good, as words were so hard to get right. For tonight, you were his; a light tap of your butt and he owned your body. A breathy ‘mhm’ confirming your obedience to him and his sizeable bulge. Your ass begins to moisten in preparation - it wanted him, in more ways than one.

He had told you his name, but you already forgot it; he soon would too. ‘Jocky’ was good enough for now.

Jocky was obnoxious in all the right ways, wearing his masculinity on his sleeve. That type made for the best, most severe adjustment.

“Love the buzzcut by the way femmy. Yeah…mhm. Very basic, it suits you.” He rubs a hand over the top of your head before running his fingers through his curly hair. It was a good thing he already liked the look.

*plap plap*

The strong man’s 7 inch cock thrusts in and out of your well used hole, pulling between your lubricated cheeks. Your buttocks squished against his member tightly, every bump rubbing across your hypersensitive skin. You were so hungry. He wasn’t the longest but he definitely had thickness on his side. You pant heavily as he has his way with you. Bent over his bed, facing away from him at a wall. He wasn’t as good at this as he thought, you would know, but it wouldn’t matter for long.

“Mmf. You’re a quiet one. Ah… I- I like that in a bottom. Makes a nice change from…hff. Always whining. Know your place. Fuck.” He continues to drunkenly rant into your ear. His deep, self-aggrandising voice quickly grating on you.

“Uuh. Take it all dumb slut.” You let him have his petty insults, it seemed to make him feel bigger, more in control. Evidently, he was obviously very self obsessed, dumb as you may be, even you could tell that much. The constant glances at his own muscles were enough of a giveaway. Eh. You’d seen better; the change will be a improvement.

He speeds up, sending shockwaves up your body and making your butt bounce enthusiastically.

“H…hey it’s real hot in here.” His voice shakes. “Umf. Maybe we should stop?” He puts his hand on your hip in an attempt to steady himself as he continues pumping you. You begin to push back into him, his dick pushing all the way in.

“Wh… what the fuck. My ass feels…mmm.” He groans loudly. You know how it feels. You can hear them rubbing together already.

His grip on your back weakens, the weight crashing into you softens. His body is like a deflating balloon, his diminishing height bringing him closer to the floor. The girth inside of you shrinks.

“Ahh. So heavy…damn. My-“

“Butt.” You tell him. A slight hint of boredom in your tone.

“Oh god, why does my head… so hard to think.” Right on cue, his smarts were being cleared out, in preparation for his ass to take over thinking duties. This part was your favourite; it wasn’t fair he had all that stuff while you felt so…blank. “Feels so good. Unnf.” It was too late for him to stop it, he’d soon be very happy. Happy, eager and ready to comply. “Shouldn’t though…” You take the lead, rocking back and forth along what’s left of his dwindling shaft. Your buttocks slap against his tightened chest.

*plap plap*

“Bouncy…hehe.” He laughs dimly. You can’t help but echo his giggle, it WAS a funny word. One of your favourites - top 5 at least, right after ‘jiggle’.

“Don’t wanna…fuck…b…but I can’t…but…but.” He stutters, like a scratched record.

“B…bu…Butt. Buuuutt.” His voice moans in realisation, mumbling the word over and over to himself. He shudders, squirting inside of you. It’s okay. It’s never enough to satisfy you.

His tiny cock slips out of your hole, dragging a small string of cum across your sensitive rear. That familiar feeling of emptiness sets back in. You get out from under him and assess your work. Turning to face him, you’re greeted by his broad smile and blank, lust-filled stare. His jockish face and body now heavily twinkified; those boorish muscles, gone. His cocky attitude, subdued. The bed creaks. You check on his oversized ass splayed beneath him, a rather drastic change from his previously flat posterior. Looking even more ridiculous with his shortened stature. The slight rubbery sheen was the cherry on top. Those plastic beach balls were made to twerk and put on a show. A vast improvement, he seems pleased by it too. His left hand is loosely fondling his new selling point.

“O…ohh.” A surprised squeak slips out from his mouth. It’s always a shock when they see where everything has gone.

You’re pretty sure he didn’t have much experience back there, if any at all. He’ll soon get the hang of it.

You know what comes next, what’s required of you - it’s instinctual at this point. You push him onto the bed and position yourself on top of him. You gradually begin to lower your huge rear over his head. You sit snugly down on his blushing face, shifting your weight a bit to get into a comfortable position. His gelled hair tickles against your skin, until it doesn’t…

He’ll make a cute Butt Boy.

[stonedstr8]

TOKE 'N STROKE

"Ads are getting so damn invasive." Lucas thought to himself, clicking skip on yet another pointless car commercial interrupting the video essay he was watching. "You think the algorithm would know its audience by now, I'm too gay to drive!"

He laughed a little bit at the joke, running a hand through his soft, bleached blonde hair. He was the epitome of a high-maintenance twink, with his smooth, hairless body and perfect sense of style. He was smart too and liked to boast about it, with a scholarship for his English Lit degree and being made President of his university's LGBT Chapter, which he was hoping to use as a stepping stone to become Student Body President next year.

Leaning back again in his chair he reached for his cellphone, seeing a text from his boyfriend Alex.

Alex: "Hey cutie, still busy with finals this weekend, but have time for a dinner date Sunday night?"

He smiled to himself, giving an eager text back to set it up, and to wish him well on his upcoming exams. "Ugh, I need to start studying too, Monday's going to be one hell of a final... I'll focus on it and head to the library after this video and-"

Just like that, his train of thought was interrupted again by a stupid ad, this time some obnoxious psychedelic visuals and a bad electric guitar riff blared out of his monitor. It startled him so badly that he seized up for a second, accidentally clicking the ad and being brought to their store page. "Broski's Bud's, one stop ship and shop for weed strains to fix your brain..." He rolled his eyes at the cringe marketing, getting ready to close the tab when a pop-up opened trying to tell him all about a deal he 'wouldn't want to miss out on'. "No thanks, stupid site, you can keep your Bro Buds or whatever to yourself." but every time he hit X on the popup another would open, being more and more insistent each time about new deals, until finally a desperate '90% OFF AND SPECIAL STARTER KIT AS A BONUS WITH YOUR FIRST PURCHASE' filled his screen. "FINE," he scoffed at his computer, "I'll take a look at the stupid site. My therapist suggested I try out weed to help lessen my anxiety anyways, so might as well get a good deal on it..."

Clicking the pop-up added the 'starter kit' to his cart, it was a pack of pre-rolled blunts and some sort of mystery box, but the description didn't help him understand it much either. "Get ready to step into the zone and open ur mind with this one bros, Broski's Buds bestselling strain, Toke 'n Stroke, is sure to change your life by stimulating a high never felt before! This isn't your sissy uncle's strain, this shit puts hair on your chest like a real man!"

"God this is so cringe, I bet they get all kinds of business marketing to the dumb jocks in town, no wonder their brains are mush. Still, it's just weed and for $20 I might as well give it a try, I probably won't find it cheaper anywhere else..." sitting in thought about it for a few seconds, Lucas finally filled in his payment info and placed his order, getting a free upgrade to same-day delivery since they seem to have a storefront a few miles from his apartment.

"Well, there goes my library plans I guess, I'll have to wait around for delivery since my package will probably get swiped otherwise..." Lucas sighed, turning off his computer and plopping down onto the couch, picking up his Switch to play Animal Crossing and kill time.

A few hours passed and the sky got dark before finally a long buzz came from his intercom. "Took them long enough, it's nearly 9pm!" he complained, putting his jacket on to head downstairs. When he got down there the delivery guy had already gotten into his car again, driving away and leaving Lucas to carry the package back upstairs all on his own. It was bigger than he expected, taking both hands to lift it and keep it stable. "Jesus, this thing must weight like 40 pounds! What did they put in here?"

After a bit of struggling and the occasional break to catch his breath, Lucas pushed his package into the living room, collapsing on the floor next to it for a while. "After that workout I'm surprised I don't look like the douchebags around campus." he laughed to himself, bouncing up to get a box cutter and pry his package open. After taking the carton of pre-rolled blunts out, he started into the box with a bit of confusion and disgust, pulling things out one after the other.

"A sleeveless tank top that says 'Toke 'n Stroke Bro'... A pair of douchey sunglasses... Some red gym shorts, socks and slides... Ew, a snapback saying 'Who ate all the pussy?', why the fuck would anyone wear this!... And 2 dumbbells, no wonder this thing was so heavy! All of this is useless shit that's gonna end up in a donation bin now, I'll have to drop this trashy stuff off tomorrow on my way to the library... But hey, at least the weed seems fine, smells... potent." He said, tossing everything back into the box and taking a whiff of one of the blunts.

Kicking back on the couch again, he played with the blunt in his hand for a while before finally having the courage to light it up, taking a hit. Immediately he started coughing, not used to the sensation, but it did make his brain start to feel... fuzzy. "Damn, okay I need to push past it and get used to it." he said, lighting up for another hit of the blunt, this time barely a cough escaping his throat, feeling suspiciously more used to it. Then another, and another, until finally the whole blunt was gone. Sitting in his daze for a while, he enjoyed the sensation of his mind drifting around experiencing the high, his anxiety melting away as if he didn't have a care in the world. Eventually he decided to try and get up, but his body slumped over off the couch and hitting the floor, the room fading to black...

...

When Lucas finally came to again, the first thing that hit him was the strong smell of weed floating around in the air. "Damn bro, did I smoke the whole set or what..." he laughed groggily, getting ready to stretch out and get back to laying on the couch before he was startled by the sound of moaning blasting from his TV, eyes shooting open in confusion. On the screen, two busty lesbians were making out, them taking turns groping each others boobs and fingering each other. "What the fuck bro, how long has this been on?" he cursed, nervous that the neighbors nextdoor might have heard it playing as he started desperately looking for the remote.

When he couldn't find it in the cushions, he got up from the couch only to be met with his feet kicking a bunch of empty beer cans. "Dude, there's gotta be 2 dozen thrown all over the floor, did I have a party or something? I don't even know anyone who drinks beer..." he mumbled, going to scratch his head in confusion, but was even more confused when instead of his hair he felt a hat on top of his head. "Huh?" he thought, as he looked down at the floor again, noticing that instead of his skinny jeans and converse he was now wearing the socks and slides from the box, along with the sleeveless tank top and the shorts too. He stumbled his way to the bathroom door still baked out of his mind, mouth dropping open at his reflection in the full-length mirror in front of him.

"Broooo, am I dreaming or what the fuckkkk is going on" he said in disbelief. No more was the cute, pale twink he used to be staring back at him. Instead, a douchey bro he didn't recognize was standing face to face with him. Tanned skin, pillowy muscles, his once blonde hair turned into a brown buzz cut and with that stupid "Who ate all the pussy?" hat slapped over it. He touched his face, feeling along his chin where his once smooth skin now had a rougher texture, and a trashy chinstrap sprouted from his jawline. He slapped his face a few times in his daze, trying to wake up from the dream and growing more confused each time nothing changed.

Turning around and staggering back to his living room to try and make sense of what's going on, it hit him that he barely recognizes the room anymore. His apartment used to be perfectly maintained and well-decorated, now there was beer cans all over the floor, along with dirty socks and cummed-in underwear, greasy pizza boxes and chip bags all over the table and counter, the decorations on his walls had been torn down and replaced with posters of chicks in bikinis and sports teams, his Switch replaced with an X-Box and a stack of COD games next to it, DVD cases of trashy bro-comedies were thrown around near the TV too... Then the smell hit him, it STUNK in here, like a sickening mixture of weed, cheap body spray, and sour BO wafting in a heat around the room. "Bro, it fucking reeks in here... Or wait..." he mumbled as he gave himself a whiff, "I fucking reek!"

After a bit of stunned silence he finally started to process things in his brain again. How the fuck did he get like this, was any of this even real, and how does he get back to normal? He plopped back onto the couch, picking up his phone to see he had a handful of missed texts and calls from his boyfriend before noticing the time... 2:00pm. On Sunday. He had somehow been blacked out for 2 whole nights, with no memory of anything that had happened. While getting ready to call his boyfriend back, Lucas felt his insides rumbling and at first he thought it was from the munchies because of all the weed, but then he realized "Oh bro, all that double-cheese pizza is really gonna fucking..."

*PHRRRBBBTTT!*

His body instinctively lifted its leg as it pushed out the loudest and most obnoxious fart he'd ever ripped in his life, as his body seemed to react on its own, letting out an immature laugh and wafting the air before muttering "Fuck yeah bro, smells like victory!" He leaned back into the couch, remembering he needed to call Alex, but the loud moaning on the TV caught him off guard again. This time he locked eyes with the screen, the cock in his shorts immediately bulging and straining at the sight of the lesbian porn before him. "I really need to turn this shit off and get whatever's going on sorted out..." he thought, but he realized he couldn't move his hand to reach for his phone, instead it reacted on its own, reaching down his waistband to pull out his cock and start stroking for the busty babes on TV.

"All I do is Toke 'n Stroke, bro..." a voice in his head seemed to say, except it didn't come from within, he spoke it directly out of his own mouth.

"Wait, I didn't say that bro, it's-" he tried to talk, realizing that his thoughts echoed around stuck in his own head, not even leaving the lips of his own body. He was just stuck there, watching in a dazed horror as he went on autopilot.

"Toke 'n Stroke bro, I'm such a loyal customer Broski's Buds will HAVE to take me as a hype boy this time haha!" his voice spoke again, continuing to stroke for the porn on TV, Lucas's eyes stuck fixed on the screen. Suddenly though, he was interrupted by his phone vibrating, a text from his boyfriend coming through.

Alex: "Hey cutie, I hope everything is alright? You haven't answered my calls or texts in a couple days, I know it's busy with all your studying but we do still have dinner planned for tonight. Still on for me to pick you up at 5?"

"Oh thank God," Lucas thought, reading the message, "I can tell him what's going on and have him come over to help me fix this shit!" Unlocking his phone, Lucas let out a sigh of relief as he got ready to reply, only for his body to still be taken over by whatever douchey daze it was stuck in.

Lucas: "dont u ever come around me u faggy creep, if me or my bros ever catch u within 100 feet of us we'll give u the beating of a lifetime! fuck around n find out if u dare to show ur face here."

Lucas screamed internally as the message was typed out and sent in front of his very eyes, before his hand moved to block his boyfriend's number and turn his phone off. "Something is seriously fucking wrong with me bro, I need to-"

*PHHRRRRBBBTTTTTT*

Another obnoxious and sickening fart blasted out of his ass, filling the room and breaking Lucas's thoughts down into a daze again, as he felt around under the couch for something before pulling a sweaty, well-used fuck toy of a girls ass and pussy up from the mess.

As Lucas once again locked eyes with the TV, he took another hit from his dwindling blunt stash, finishing up the last one. After throwing what was left onto the floor, he prepared the fuck toy and slid it right down onto his cock, starting to bounce the toy up and down as he edged himself closer to finishing.

"If I can't figure out a way to snap out of this, I'm so fucked..." he thought, as his voice spoke again. "Toke 'n Stroke bro, this chick is soooo getting fucked!" He moaned, as he shot his thick load into the toy, feeling some of his braincells permanently shoot out with it, sloppily wiping the mess on the cushion next to him as he laid back, feeling his insides start to bubble again.

Lucas had a lot of Bro Time to catch up on, but luckily his new favorite weed strain was making sure that he was a captive audience until he was fully converted and assimilated into just another Bro.

[jel-jel-jel]

it's marinacht-ober. time for bad end

[bigboysfalldeep]

cycling gear

The early morning sunlight streamed through Mike’s window, casting warm golden hues across his bedroom. He stood in front of the mirror, examining his reflection as he pulled on his new cycling jersey. The tight, silky fabric clung to his athletic frame like a second skin, every line and curve of his body accentuated. He adjusted the fit, smoothing it over his chest and down to his hips, his hands moving with meticulous care.

The jersey was new—carbon black with white stripes accents that streaked along the sides, giving it a sleek, aerodynamic look. Mike had always loved the feel of high-performance cycling gear; it made him feel alive, like he was part of the road itself. Today, however, the familiar sensation was different. There was a warmth in the way the fabric hugged him, a faint tingling that started at his chest and radiated outward. He chalked it up to excitement.

Carlos sat on the edge of Mike’s bed, his own gear already on—deep blue with silver streaks that matched his sharp, focused demeanor. He had been quiet as Mike dressed, his gaze steady and unwavering. Carlos had always been like that: confident, self-assured, with an intensity that drew people in. They’d met a few weeks ago during a long ride through the hills, bonding over their shared love of cycling and the thrill of the open road. Since then, their weekend rides had become a ritual, and they often spent hours pushing each other to their limits.

"You almost ready?" Carlos asked, his voice low and steady. There was something in his tone—something calm yet electric—that made Mike pause.

"Almost," Mike replied, his voice slightly breathless as he zipped up the jersey. The tingling sensation surged, spreading across his chest and down his arms, like an invisible current tracing his veins. His mind went blank as he ran a hand across his chest instinctively, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath the taut fabric. The motion sent another rush through him, his fingers trembling slightly as they lingered.

“Mike? You okay?” Carlos’s voice was steady, but there was a glint of something in his eyes—concern, curiosity, or something else entirely.

“Yeah, I- I'm.... fine,” Mike muttered. He ran a hand across his chest, the fabric of the jersey cool beneath his fingertips. But the sensation was electric, sending a shiver down his spine.

Carlos stepped closer, his brow furrowing. “You sure? You look… different today.”

Mike glanced at him, his mouth dry. He tried to speak, but his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. His hand drifted over his chest again, almost of its own accord, tracing the contours of his pecs. The tingling was overwhelming now, spreading through his body, clouding his mind.

“Mike,” Carlos said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. His touch was firm, grounding. “Doesn’t it feel good? To give in?”

Mike’s head tilted, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He wanted to respond, to ask what Carlos meant, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, a soft sigh escaped him, and he felt his body relax, leaning slightly into Carlos’s touch.

Carlos’s hand slid down to Mike’s chest, his fingers brushing over the taut fabric of the jersey. “Good boy,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You look sharp in your gear. I couldn’t resist.”

A flicker of confusion passed through Mike’s mind, but it was quickly drowned out by the wave of warmth and pleasure coursing through him. He felt Carlos’s hand move in slow, deliberate circles, his touch both comforting and electrifying.

For weeks, Carlos had been subtly planting the idea in Mike’s mind, steering their conversations, guiding their interactions. It had started with innocent compliments, the casual touch of a hand on a shoulder or back, and the shared thrill of their rides. Slowly, he’d woven a web of trust and subtle suggestion, waiting for the moment when Mike would be ready to let go.

Mike’s breath hitched as Carlos’s hand pressed gently against his chest. “You’ve worked so hard to get here,” Carlos whispered. “To become the best version of yourself. Don’t fight it. Just… feel.”

The words sank into Mike’s mind like stones in a pond, rippling through the fog of his thoughts. His body responded instinctively, leaning further into Carlos, seeking more of that grounding touch. A soft sound—half moan, half sigh—escaped his lips, and he felt a bead of saliva slip past the corner of his mouth.

Carlos chuckled, his tone warm and indulgent. “That’s it. Just let go. Trust me.”

Mike’s hands hung limply at his sides, his body pliant under Carlos’s guidance. He barely registered the world around him, his focus narrowing to the sensations flooding his senses: the tight embrace of his cycling gear, the warmth of Carlos’s hand, and the soothing rhythm of his voice.

“You’re perfect,” Carlos murmured, his hand moving to cup Mike’s jaw, tilting his head up so their eyes met. “Exactly as you should be.”

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Mike’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow and uneven. And then, as if a switch had been flipped, he felt a surge of clarity—a sense of rightness he couldn’t explain.

Mike stood frozen, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath as Carlos’s hands roamed over his body. The firm press of Carlos’s palm on his chest felt impossibly intense, like a flame stoking embers just beneath his skin. Mike’s head tipped back slightly, his lips parted as the sensation deepened, spreading from his chest to his arms, shoulders, and biceps.

Carlos’s touch was deliberate, lingering as his fingers traced the curves of Mike’s muscles through the taut fabric of his cycling gear. “You’ve been working hard, haven’t you?” Carlos murmured, his voice low and velvety. “All those rides, pushing your limits, building this incredible body. And now, here you are. My perfect cyclist.”

Mike’s mind swirled, his thoughts a jumbled mess as the tingling sensation intensified. He barely registered Carlos’s words, but they sank into him nonetheless, feeding the warmth that radiated through his body.

Carlos’s hands slid back to Mike’s shoulders, squeezing them firmly before moving down to his biceps, caressing the tense muscles as if he owned them. “That’s a good boy, Mike,” Carlos whispered, his tone both soothing and commanding. “Let the tingling spread. Let it take over.”

Mike’s breath hitched as Carlos’s hands moved back to his chest, rubbing slow circles over the fabric of his jersey. The tight gear seemed to amplify every touch, every movement, sending waves of heat coursing through him. His body felt both tense and relaxed, caught in a strange limbo between resistance and surrender.

“Feel your gear,” Carlos coaxed, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “Feel your body. The way it moves, the way it reacts. You can’t fight it, can you? It feels too good.”

Mike’s knees wobbled slightly, and he let out a soft, involuntary moan. Carlos chuckled, his hands moving lower, grazing Mike’s waist before settling firmly on his hips. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Mike’s ear. “Oh?” Carlos’s voice held a teasing edge. “Someone’s enjoying himself, huh?”

Mike blinked, his eyes heavy-lidded as Carlos stepped back slightly, his gaze dropping to the unmistakable strain in the front of Mike’s tight cycling shorts. The fabric left little to the imagination, and Mike’s arousal was impossible to ignore.

Carlos grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief and satisfaction. “Your gear can’t hide your excitement, Mike. Looks like you’re really feeling it now.”

Mike’s face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and helplessness washing over him. He tried to move, to say something, but his body refused to obey. Carlos reached out, his hand cupping Mike’s face possessively, tilting it upward so their eyes met.

“There’s no need to be shy,” Carlos murmured, his thumb brushing over Mike’s cheek. “This is exactly where you’re meant to be. Exactly who you’re meant to be.”

Mike’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow as Carlos’s words seeped into his mind, soothing and intoxicating. The world around him faded, leaving only the sensation of Carlos’s touch, the warmth of his gaze, and the unrelenting tension in his body.

“Good boy,” Carlos said again, his voice soft but firm. His thumb traced the curve of Mike’s jaw before sliding down to press lightly against his bottom lip. “Just let go. Trust me. Let it all take over.”

Mike’s lips trembled, a small, breathy sound escaping him as he leaned into Carlos’s touch. The tingling warmth inside him swelled, washing away the last traces of resistance. His body felt alive, every nerve humming with sensation as Carlos continued to caress him, guiding him deeper into the moment.

Carlos’s smile widened, his satisfaction evident as he stroked Mike’s cheek, his hand lingering possessively. “That’s it, Mike,” he whispered. “You’re perfect. My perfect boy.”

Carlos’s fingers trailed along Mike’s jawline, tracing the soft curve of his lips with an intimacy that made Mike shudder. His touch was slow, deliberate, lingering just enough to send a fresh wave of tingling heat coursing through Mike’s body. Carlos’s thumb brushed over Mike’s bottom lip, pressing lightly, as if testing his resolve.

“You feel that?” Carlos whispered, his voice low and commanding. “That pull? That need? Be a good boy, Mike. Submit fully. Let it all go.”

Mike’s breath hitched, his lips parting slightly under Carlos’s thumb. He wanted to resist, to pull away, but his body betrayed him, leaning into Carlos’s touch instead. The faint stubble on Mike’s chin scraped lightly against Carlos’s fingertips as they traveled upward, tracing the line of his cheekbone, brushing over his temple with an almost reverent touch.

“Good boy,” Carlos murmured, his dark eyes locked on Mike’s. His tone was soothing yet possessive, drawing Mike deeper into the warm haze clouding his mind.

Mike felt Carlos’s hand drift downward, his palm flat against his chest, pressing firmly over his pounding heart before sliding lower. The tight fabric of Mike’s cycling jersey did little to hide the contours of his body, and Carlos’s hand moved with purpose, tracing the defined lines of his torso, his hips, and the growing tension in his shorts.

Carlos’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as his fingers brushed against the palpable outline of Mike’s cock. “Oh, Mike,” he said softly, almost teasingly. “You’re holding back, aren’t you? Don’t fight it. Let it out—all of it. Give it to me.”

Mike’s knees threatened to buckle as Carlos’s touch became firmer, his hand pressing against the strained fabric. The warmth inside Mike swelled, threatening to consume him entirely. His mind was a blur, unable to form coherent thoughts as Carlos’s words sank deep into his subconscious, coaxing him to surrender.

“Feel it, Mike,” Carlos urged, his hand moving with slow, deliberate pressure. “Feel the tension, the heat. Let it take over. Let me guide you.”

Mike’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling as Carlos’s grip tightened, grounding him in the overwhelming sensation. He let out a soft, broken moan, his head tipping back as the last vestiges of his resistance crumbled.

“That’s it,” Carlos said, his voice filled with satisfaction. His hand lingered, commanding and unyielding, as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Mike’s ear.

Carlos’s voice dripped with satisfaction as his fingers trailed teasingly along the curve of Mike’s jaw, his dark eyes glinting with possessive intent. “You know, Mikey,” Carlos began, his tone low and almost purring, “I knew I wanted you the moment I saw you in that pretty gear. The way it clung to you, showing off everything. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Mike shivered, his breath hitching as Carlos leaned in closer, his lips brushing against his ear. “And you’re so easy to control, aren’t you?” Carlos continued, his hand wandering back to Mike’s chest, pressing against the tight fabric. “Making this gear your trigger? That was genius. Every time you pull it on, you’ll feel it—the warmth, the sensation, the need. You’ll crave this, just like you’re craving it now.”

A soft, involuntary moan escaped Mike’s lips as Carlos’s hand slid downward, his fingers grazing the unmistakable strain in Mike’s shorts. The tight fabric did nothing to hide his cock, and Carlos’s touch was unrelenting, coaxing another breathy sound from Mike.

“You don’t have to hold back, Mikey,” Carlos murmured, his voice velvet smooth. He cupped the bulge firmly, his hand applying just enough pressure to make Mike’s knees wobble. “Let it all out. Don’t be shy.”

Mike’s head tipped back, his eyes fluttering shut as Carlos’s words wrapped around him like a spell. His body betrayed him completely, leaning into the touch, chasing the heat and the pleasure that came with it.

Carlos smirked, his hand moving with calculated precision, stroking the sensitive bulge as Mike let out another helpless moan. “Good boy,” Carlos whispered, his voice laced with satisfaction. “You’re exactly where I want you. Completely under my control. And it feels so good, doesn’t it?”

Mike could only nod weakly, his mind a haze of sensation and submission. His body trembled, utterly at Carlos’s mercy, and as the tingling warmth spread through him once more, he knew there was no going back.

Mike’s world narrowed to the feel of Carlos’s touch, the sound of his voice, and the unbearable tension building inside him. With a final, shaky exhale, he surrendered completely, letting the wave of warmth and pleasure crash over him.

Carlos’s hand moved with firm purpose, his touch both commanding and deliberate as Mike’s body trembled under him. The tension in the air was thick, the heat radiating from Mike’s body palpable. Carlos leaned closer, his breath warm against Mike’s ear as his fingers pressed into the fabric, now damp with the unmistakable evidence of Mike’s pre-cum.

“Can you feel it, Mikey?” Carlos murmured, his voice a low, sultry whisper. “The wetness? I can. Oh, I do. You’ve been holding back so much, haven’t you?”

Mike’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping his lips as Carlos’s words sank into him. His body was taut, trembling on the edge of release, and the relentless heat spreading through him made it impossible to think, to resist.

Carlos’s smirk widened as he stroked the damp fabric, his hand coaxing more soft sounds from Mike. “Let it out now,” Carlos commanded, his tone both soothing and firm. “Don’t fight it, Mikey. Stain your pretty gear. Show me how good it feels to let go.”

Mike let out a broken moan, his head tipping back as the last threads of his composure unraveled. His body arched slightly, pressing into Carlos’s hand as the overwhelming warmth and pressure finally spilled over.

Carlos’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he felt the fabric grow wetter beneath his touch, the proof of Mike’s surrender clear. “Good boy,” he murmured, his voice soft but possessive. “You’ve done so well for me. That’s it—let go. Give it all to me.”

Mike sagged against Carlos, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the tension drained from his body, leaving only the hazy, blissful aftermath. Carlos’s hands remained steady, grounding him as he murmured soft praises, stroking his cheek with a gentle possessiveness.

Carlos’s hand lingered, pressing and stroking over the damp fabric with deliberate care. His touch was firm yet unhurried, a steady rhythm designed to keep Mike caught in the haze of sensation. Each stroke sent fresh shivers through Mike’s body, the wetness against the tight cycling gear amplifying the intensity of every movement.

“Good boy,” Carlos murmured, his voice low and velvety. “Such a good boy. You’ve done exactly what I wanted. Do you feel it now? How much better the gear feels like this?”

Mike let out a soft, breathless whimper, his body trembling under Carlos’s touch. The tight, wet fabric clung to him, every sensation heightened as the tingling warmth continued to spread through him. He managed a shaky nod, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out.

Carlos chuckled softly, his hand never stopping. “Oh, come on, Mikey. You can do better than that,” he coaxed, his tone teasing but laced with command. “Tell me. Tell me all about it. How does it feel now? How does it feel to give in completely?”

Mike’s head tipped forward slightly, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “It… it feels…” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He struggled to form words, his mind still clouded with the overwhelming sensations.

“Go on,” Carlos urged, his hand pressing firmly over the wet bulge, sending another shiver through Mike. “Tell me. I want to hear it from you.”

“It feels… so good,” Mike finally managed, his voice breaking as another soft moan escaped him. “The gear… it feels better now. Tighter… warmer…” He trailed off, his cheeks flushing as he realized what he was saying.

Carlos’s grin widened, his satisfaction clear. “That’s my good boy,” he said softly, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over the wet fabric. “You’re right—it does feel better, doesn’t it? The warmth, the wetness, the way it clings to you. You can’t get enough of it now, can you?”

Mike shook his head weakly, his body sagging slightly as Carlos continued to stroke him, coaxing out every last bit of his surrender.

“That’s it,” Carlos murmured, his tone soothing and possessive. “Let yourself feel it all. Don’t hold back. You’re mine now, Mikey. And I’m so proud of you.”

Carlos’s grip on Mike was firm yet guiding as he reached down, taking Mike’s trembling hand in his own and pressing it firmly against the wet, sticky fabric of his bulge. Mike gasped softly at the contact, his eyes widening slightly as Carlos moved his hand over the wetness, making him feel every inch of himself.

“This is all you,” Carlos murmured, his voice smooth and commanding. “Feel it, Mikey. The sticky fabric clinging to you. You did this, and it’s perfect.”

Mike’s breath quickened, his hand hesitating for a moment before Carlos’s firm guidance encouraged him to press harder, to explore. His fingers trembled as he traced the contours beneath the gear, the sensations overwhelming.

Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against Mike’s ear as he whispered, “And the smell? Can you sense it, Mikey? That intoxicating, heady scent of you, of everything you’ve let out. Good. So good.”

Mike let out a shaky moan, his face flushing deeper as Carlos’s other hand slid up to his chest. He stroked Mike’s pecs through the tight, damp jersey, his fingers tracing slow circles over the fabric. “You’re beautiful like this,” Carlos said softly, his hand drifting upward to cup Mike’s flushed face. He caressed him gently, his thumb brushing over Mike’s reddened cheek. “Your face says it all, Mikey. You love this. You need this.”

Mike’s head tipped forward slightly, leaning into Carlos’s touch as his fingers twitched against the wetness. The tingling warmth still coursed through him, making every touch feel electric.

Carlos smiled, his hand guiding Mike’s again, encouraging him to stroke himself through the gear. “Go ahead, Mikey,” he urged, his voice a mix of command and encouragement. “Stroke yourself. Feel it all. Tell me how it feels.”

Mike’s lips parted, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he obeyed, his hand moving tentatively at first before growing bolder. His fingers pressed and traced, each movement sending a fresh wave of sensation through him.

“It feels… so good,” Mike whispered, his voice trembling with vulnerability and pleasure. “The fabric… it’s so tight, so sticky… it feels… incredible.”

Carlos chuckled softly, his hand moving back to Mike’s chest, stroking and kneading the firm muscles beneath the damp jersey. “That’s my good boy,” he murmured, his tone laced with satisfaction. “Keep going. Let yourself feel everything. Don’t hold back.”

Mike’s moans grew louder, his body responding helplessly to the overwhelming sensations. Carlos’s words and touch grounded him, keeping him in the moment as he surrendered completely, lost in the haze of pleasure and submission.

Carlos’s hand moved swiftly to Mike’s chin, tilting his head upward so their eyes met. The grip was firm but not rough, a silent assertion of control. Mike’s breath hitched, his body frozen under Carlos’s intense gaze.

“Ah, ah,” Carlos chided, his voice low and teasing. “You’re not allowed to cum unless I say so, Mikey. You’re mine to control, and we both know you like it that way.”

Mike whimpered softly, his lips trembling as Carlos’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip. His hand stilled against the wetness of his gear, his body caught in a limbo of need and obedience.

Carlos’s lips curled into a sly smile as he released Mike’s chin, his hand trailing down to pat his cheek lightly. “That’s a good boy,” he murmured. “We’ve got plans, don’t we? We want to go on our ride, show you off in that perfect gear. Let the world see how good you look. How irresistible you are.”

Mike swallowed hard, his mind hazy but his body still tingling with anticipation. He nodded faintly, his eyes wide and glassy as he hung onto Carlos’s every word.

“But we can’t forget the most important thing,” Carlos continued, his tone shifting to one of playful practicality. He stepped back slightly, picking up Mike’s helmet from a nearby surface. “Safety first, Mikey. Always safety first.”

He leaned in, placing the helmet gently on Mike’s head and adjusting the straps with practiced care. The intimate, deliberate motions grounded Mike, pulling him slightly out of the haze. Carlos patted his cheek again, his grin widening as he stepped back to admire his work.

“There we go,” Carlos said, satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Now you’re ready. But remember, Mikey—no cumming until I say so. Let that tension build. Let it drive you. You’ll thank me later.”

Mike nodded again, his body taut with both anticipation and obedience as Carlos’s words settled over him like a warm blanket. The promise of the ride ahead and the electric tension in his body left him trembling, completely under Carlos’s control.

Carlos let out a low chuckle, his hand still resting lightly on Mike’s cheek as he took in the dazed, almost dreamy expression on his face. Mike’s wide, unfocused eyes and slightly parted lips gave him the look of someone completely lost in a world of sensation and command.

Carlos’s gaze followed Mike’s as it drifted downward, taking in his own body as though he were seeing it for the very first time. The way the cycling gear clung to him, damp and snug, seemed to mesmerize him, and Carlos smirked at the sight.

“There you are,” Carlos murmured softly, smoothing his hands over Mike’s chest and down along his sides. He tugged slightly at the fabric, straightening it with deliberate care. Each touch sent a fresh shiver through Mike, who stood still, pliant under Carlos’s hands. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. My good boy.”

Satisfied, Carlos stepped back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window. The sun was bright and inviting, casting a golden glow over the landscape outside. Carlos’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment before a grin spread across his face.

“Oh, we could use something extra, couldn’t we?” Carlos mused, turning back to Mike with a glint of mischief in his eyes. He reached for a sleek pair of cycling glasses resting on a nearby counter, holding them up for Mike to see. “What do you think, Mikey? Don’t you think these would complete the look? Make you even more irresistible?”

Mike blinked slowly, his eyes flickering to the glasses in Carlos’s hand. His lips moved as though he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Carlos leaned in closer, slipping the glasses gently over Mike’s ears and positioning them carefully on his face. “There we go,” he murmured, adjusting them until they sat just right. “Perfect fit. Now, put them on properly, Mikey. Show me how good you look.”

Mike’s trembling hands rose obediently, pressing the glasses firmly into place. The tinted lenses added an edge to his appearance, making him look sharp and focused even in his dazed state.

Carlos stepped back, his grin widening as he admired the sight before him. “There it is,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Now you’re ready. The world won’t know what hit it when it sees you like this.”

He placed a firm hand on Mike’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before guiding him toward the door. “Come on, Mikey. Let’s take you out for a spin. The road’s waiting, and so am I.”

[hypnomcfox]

His House, His Bitch

I had just come back from a hard shift at work when I noticed my front door was unlocked and cracked open. I stepped inside and immediately noticed a tall, lean guy in a shiny tracksuit lounging on a chair in front of my TV. He played on my PlayStation casually, as if he owned the place. “Who are you?” I asked and received no response.

“Get out of my house before I call the police,” I threatened.

“Shut up already,” he barked at me, which caused me to do so. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want to shout at him anymore. I was just about to reach into my pocket to pull out my phone when he said, “Don’t move. You don’t want to move until I tell you to,” and I stopped. He was right. I didn’t want to. I had never wanted to move until he told me to. It was weird for him to mention that fact now, though.

He finally turned away from the TV to face me. His gaze showed that he saw me as nothing but an inconvenience. “Since you want to yap your tongue so bad, go ahead and clean my kicks with them.” I hated this guy so much. Like hell, I was going to lick his disgusting shoes, yet my body disagreed. I could only internally panic as my body knelt in front of him, my mouth already opening up in anticipation. My anger turned to confusion, confused as to how he was manipulating me like this. I could only assume my discomfort was visible because of his following words.

“Stop pretending like you don’t like this. We both know how much you love being underneath me.” I didn’t know why he needed to say that; obviously I liked being beneath him. I just hated how I was treated, like nothing more than an object. He didn’t even look at me as he kicked off his sneakers with his feet, revealing a pair of sweat-stained white socks. “You’re not a person, just my bitch. And my bitch loves everything about me. They know their place is breathing me, worshipping me, and finding my taste and smell irresistible. They want me to be in charge of their life, serving and pleasing me. They love my trackies, and they love me. Don’t you agree, bitch?”

He describes me perfectly. I don’t know why I was upset. He is everything. I am his bitch, and I deserve to be under him. I dug my face into his socks, tasting them with raw desire. I can’t believe I ever thought of myself as a person when he existed. I love his smell, his tracksuit, his musk, I love him, and I am nothing but his bitch.

[sportsentranced]

Lando is still tingling

Lando stood in front of the mirror in his motorhome, taking a deep breath as he ran his hands across his chest. The tight nomex undershirt clung to his frame, accentuating the lean muscle beneath. His racing suit hung loosely around his waist, the sleeves tied in a knot, as he mentally prepared himself for the upcoming training session. The air was cool against his skin, but a faint heat buzzed beneath the surface—anticipation, focus, the familiar pre-session nerves settling in.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before reaching for the suit’s sleeves. One by one, he slid his arms into them, tugging them up when—“Tingle.”

The word cut through the air like a switch being flipped. Lando barely had time to process before the warmth hit him, deep and all-encompassing, spreading from the back of his neck down his spine like liquid gold. His breath hitched. His limbs, mid-motion, wavered, his hands going slack as a slow, dreamy smile curled at his lips.

A deep, intoxicating fog rolled into his mind, silencing every thought before it could fully form. He swayed slightly, his knees softening beneath him. His eyes fluttered, heavy-lidded, unfocused, his reflection in the mirror growing distant and hazy. The tension in his body melted away in an instant, replaced with a weightless, floating sensation—like sinking into a warm bath, like drifting on a cloud.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips, barely audible, his head tilting ever so slightly as pleasure tingled at the edges of his awareness. He wasn’t thinking anymore. He didn’t need to. He was simply feeling—warm, soft, relaxed. Open.

Behind him, Bastien chuckled, stepping closer. The sound barely registered in Lando’s trance-addled mind. His world was weightless, warm, obedient. And as that sensation deepened, as his body yielded further to it, a quiet part of him welcomed it completely.

Bastien stood behind Lando, watching with quiet satisfaction as the young driver swayed ever so slightly, his body loose, his expression soft and distant. His lips were parted just enough to let out the slow, steady breaths of someone completely adrift.

"Good boy," Bastien murmured, his voice a smooth ribbon of praise that seemed to sink into Lando’s dazed mind. So easy. So effortless. Just one word, and he was here—floating, empty, waiting.

He reached out, fingers grazing the curve of Lando’s cheek. The skin was warm beneath his touch, the slightest shiver ghosting through Lando’s body at the contact. Bastien traced his thumb over the driver’s cheekbone, then down to his jaw, reveling in how pliant he was—how Lando leaned, just the smallest bit, into the touch.

Lando’s lashes fluttered, his eyes unfocused in the mirror. His head lolled slightly, his body caught between standing and surrendering. His breath hitched, a sigh slipping free as that gentle warmth pulsed through him, deeper, stronger. His mind was quiet. His body was waiting.

Bastien smirked. "So good for me," he murmured, tilting Lando’s chin ever so slightly, watching as his muscles yielded to the motion without hesitation. "So easy to bring under."

And Lando, his lips barely moving, let out a soft, dreamy, "Mmm..." as his mind slipped just a little deeper.

Bastien’s gaze roamed over Lando’s form, drinking in the sight of him in his racing gear—the way the snug nomex undershirt clung to his frame, the way his suit, still loose around his waist, hinted at the power and control his body held on the track. But here, now, there was no resistance, no tension. Just warmth, obedience, and that soft, hazy look in Lando’s eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Bastien let his hand glide across Lando’s chest, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He traced along the contours of muscle, feeling the way Lando responded—how his breath hitched, how his body subtly leaned into the touch without thought.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Bastien helped Lando into the upper half of the suit. One arm at a time, slow yet steady, he led the young drivers body. Then, he took hold of the zipper of Lando’s suit and began to pull it up, inch by inch. The fabric slid over the nomex, enclosing him, trapping the warmth pooling inside him. Lando’s lips parted, his breath growing heavier, a slow flush creeping up his neck as the sensation sank deeper.

"It feels warm," Lando giggled dreamily, his hands twitching at his sides.

"Go on then," Bastien murmured, his voice low and velvety. "Feel it for yourself."

Guiding Lando’s hand, he pressed it flat against his own chest. Lando’s fingers twitched, his mind sluggish but eager to follow, to obey. Slowly, dreamily, he began to stroke over the fabric, mirroring the touch Bastien had given him. His own warmth pressed back against his palm, and a quiet sigh escaped him.

His head tilted slightly, his movements slow, almost hypnotic, as he traced the shape of himself—feeling the heat, the rising tension, the pleasure of simply being told to feel.

Lando’s fingers trembled slightly as they moved over his chest, tracing the heat trapped beneath the fabric of his suit. His breath came shallow, each inhale pressing against the tight material. He could feel it all—his own body, the steady thrum of warmth pooling deep inside him, the way his muscles tensed and fluttered beneath his own touch.

And then, lower—something tighter, heavier. A slow-building strain, undeniable. His cock was bulging, imprinting just barely through the suit's tight fabric.

His cheeks flushed instantly, a soft, involuntary gasp slipping past his lips as he realized. No. No, no, no. He shouldn’t—he couldn’t—

Lando swallowed hard, willing himself to focus elsewhere, to push past the heat crawling up his neck, but the fog in his mind made it impossible. Every sensation felt amplified, drawn out, inescapable. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fingers stuttering against his chest as if stopping would make it disappear.

But then—

"You can’t hide anything from me."

Bastien’s voice curled around him like silk, smooth and knowing. Lando’s breath caught. His reflection in the mirror showed everything—his flushed skin, his parted lips, the dreamy haze in his eyes, the way his body ever so slightly tensed at being caught.

Bastien chuckled softly behind him. "I see you," he murmured, his fingers brushing over Lando’s shoulder, his touch light but commanding. "I know exactly what you’re feeling."

Lando shivered. A part of him wanted to protest, to deny it, but the warmth—the weight of Bastien’s words—settled too deeply inside him. And as much as he wanted to fight it, another part of him, quiet and helpless, already knew the truth.

Bastien always knew.

Lando’s breath hitched as Bastien’s hand covered his, guiding it lower with deliberate slowness. The touch was light, but the command beneath it was unshakable. Lando’s fingers curled instinctively, resisting—his mind grasping for control, for clarity. But clarity was slipping, drowning beneath the warmth pooling in his limbs, clouding his thoughts.

"There," Bastien murmured, his voice smooth, unwavering. "Feel it, boy. It’s all you."

A slow shudder ran through Lando’s body. His pulse pounded in his ears, too loud, too fast. He didn’t want to acknowledge it—the heat, the tension, the way his body responded without his permission. His breath came quick and shallow as he fought against it, as if sheer willpower alone could push it away.

But his body wasn’t listening to him anymore.

His fingers flexed, hesitated—then tightened in a desperate attempt to suppress the sensation. A quiet, shaky exhale slipped from his lips, his reflection in the mirror betraying him. His cheeks were flushed, his pupils blown wide, his expression caught between confusion and surrender.

Bastien chuckled, his grip firm but unhurried. "Still trying to fight it?" His tone was knowing, patient. "But we both know how this goes."

Lando swallowed hard, his throat dry, his thoughts sluggish and tangled. He wanted to protest—to deny it, to push back—but the words wouldn’t come. His body had already decided for him, caught in the slow, irresistible pull of warmth and suggestion.

Bastien leaned in just slightly, his presence at Lando’s back a steady, inescapable weight. "Let go," he murmured, low and velvety. "Feel it."

Lando squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to ground himself, to push past the hazy warmth clouding his thoughts. He needed to focus—on his breathing, on the weight of his suit, on anything that could tether him back to control.

But then he felt it.

A slight dampness beneath his palm—he was leaking.

The realization sent a shock through him, a quiet, sharp awareness piercing through the fog for only a fleeting second. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching as if he could undo it, as if simply ignoring it could erase the truth of what was happening.

Slowly, hesitantly, he opened his eyes.

The fabric beneath his hand had darkened, a subtle shift, but undeniable. His stomach flipped, his throat tightening around a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. A rush of heat flooded through him, not just pooling now but cresting, rising, a wave building with nowhere to go.

Then—it hit.

A rush of sensation, deep and dizzying. His knees buckled. The world tilted. A soft, helpless sound escaped him as his body gave in completely, all tension slipping away in an instant.

Strong arms caught him before he could fall.

Bastien held him effortlessly, steady, guiding. "That’s it," he murmured, his voice a low hum that curled around Lando’s spinning thoughts. "Just let go."

Lando sagged into the embrace, his body pliant, weightless. His mind swam in the lingering aftershocks, thoughts sluggish, distant, unreachable. He was floating now—adrift in warmth, in sensation, in the deep, inescapable pull of surrender.

He moaned, a rough, guttural sound from deep within his throat, as his body twitched, when he came into his gear. It spread further across his groin and thighs. With every second, he let out more quiet moans.

Lando felt the wetness clinging to his skin, seeping into the fabric of his suit. The realization sent a fresh ripple of warmth through him, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His fingers dug into the thick material, gripping it tightly as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. But reality itself felt distant—fading at the edges, slipping through his grasp like sand.

“Bastien…” he breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper, raw and pleading.

A hand smoothed over his back, grounding, steady. A quiet, knowing chuckle followed. “Shh,” Bastien murmured. “Just let it happen. Feel.”

Lando shivered, his body tensing for a fleeting second before melting into the command. His thoughts were slow, thick, like honey dripping down the walls of his mind, leaving nothing but sensation in its wake. He focused on the heat radiating from his skin, the damp fabric pressing against him, the way Bastien’s hold anchored him, firm yet unyielding.

Every breath he took was saturated with warmth, each inhale drawing him deeper, each exhale surrendering more of himself to the trance. The world outside felt inconsequential, faded into a soft blur. There was only this—the weight of his body against Bastien’s, the lingering pulse of heat beneath his skin, the quiet hum of his own surrender.

“There, there. Good boy.”

Bastien’s voice was a smooth whisper, a steady presence wrapping around Lando’s hazy mind. A warm hand caressed his face, fingers gliding along his cheek before tilting his chin up, possessive yet patient. Lando barely registered the touch—his body felt weightless, his thoughts thick and slow, sinking deeper into the warmth that pulsed through him.

“How do you feel now?” Bastien asked, his tone knowing, expectant.

Lando hesitated, his mind struggling to grasp onto words. The warmth was everywhere now, stretching through his limbs, pooling low, a deep, liquid heat. And beneath it, the dampness clinging to his skin—undeniable, spreading, sending another slow wave of sensation through him.

A lazy, unfocused smile tugged at his lips. “Goooood…” he slurred, his voice heavy, lost in the trance. His eyelids fluttered, his breath hitching as the reality of his state settled over him. “Wet…”

Bastien’s arms tightened around him, steadying, grounding. “That’s good,” he murmured, pleased. “How it should be.”

Lando let out a soft, helpless sigh. His fingers twitched before reaching out, curling into Bastien’s shirt, clinging—not out of resistance, but something else entirely. His other hand drifted lower, almost unconsciously, pressing into the damp fabric, as if confirming what he already knew. A quiet whimper escaped him at the sensation, his breath stuttering.

Bastien chuckled, running a hand through Lando’s curls, his touch both soothing and firm. “That’s it,” he coaxed. “No need to think. Just feel.”

Lando's fingers shuddered, feeling the sticky, warm material. It felt oddly satisfying. The surrender.

His eyes rolled for a moment before he caught himself, his body arching slightly.

"My little driver," Bastien murmured, his voice rich with quiet satisfaction. "Always so good for me."

His fingers brushed over Lando’s face again, tracing the flushed skin, the softness in his expression. Lando barely reacted—his body loose, his mind floating, carried by the warmth coursing through him. He felt another wave rise inside him, swelling and cresting, but he didn’t resist. Didn’t even try.

Instead, he sighed, a dreamy giggle slipping past his lips, light and breathless.

"Good?" Lando smiled and let his head loll slightly, his body swaying with the lingering aftershocks. His skin prickled under the touch running down his chest, the firm, deliberate squeeze at his waist sending a deep shiver through him.

"Very good," Bastien answered, his voice laced with approval. His hand lingered, pressing gently against Lando’s ribs, feeling the way his breath stuttered beneath his palm.

Lando exhaled slowly, his grip tightening slightly on Bastien’s shirt, as if holding onto the only thing keeping him upright. He couldn’t think anymore—not in words, not in logic. Only in sensation. The warmth, the weight, the deep hum of satisfaction settling in his chest.

His suit bore the evidence of his surrender, a dark stain spreading across the fabric, clinging to his skin. But there was no embarrassment, no resistance—only fascination. His fingers curled into Bastien’s shirt, gripping lazily, needing the contact, the grounding. His unfocused eyes, glazed and dreamy, stared at nothing in particular.

A slow, idle curiosity tugged at him. His free hand drifted down, fingertips gliding over the dampened fabric of his suit. He pressed against it, poking lightly, feeling the way the material clung, the warmth trapped beneath it.

“Oh?” He giggled, a soft, breathy sound full of wonder, tilting his head as if the sensation was something entirely new to him. His fingers tugged at the fabric experimentally, his movements slow and unhurried, like a child discovering something for the first time.

Bastien watched him with quiet amusement, his eyes dark with curiosity. He didn’t intervene, didn’t guide—just observed, letting Lando explore, letting him feel.

“Go on,” Bastien murmured, his voice smooth, encouraging.

Lando hummed, his fingers pressing, teasing, tracing over the wetness, mesmerized by the feeling. The giggle that followed was soft, blissful, detached from thought. His breath hitched slightly, his body still lost in the lingering waves of warmth that pulsed through him.

Bastien reached out, brushing a hand through Lando’s curls, his touch firm yet soothing. “That’s it,” he praised. “Good boy.”

Lando sighed into the touch, his body melting further. No thoughts. No hesitation. Just warmth, sensation, and the deep, endless pull of surrender.

Lando giggled softly, his voice light and breathless as his fingers traced over the damp fabric clinging to his body. “My suit is so clingy… so wet…” The words came out in a dreamy sigh, more an observation than a concern, laced with wonder.

The sensation fascinated him—the warmth seeping through the material, the way it hugged his skin, every shift and movement amplifying the awareness of it. Curious, he let his fingers drift lower, pressing, teasing, playing with the sensation like a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out. Each touch sent another ripple through him, gentle yet inescapable, pulling him deeper into the trance.

Bastien chuckled, steadying Lando as he shifted him slightly, giving him better access, encouraging his exploration. “This is all you, boy,” he murmured, his voice rich with quiet satisfaction. “My good boy.”

Lando let the words settle over him, his body shivering under their weight. His thoughts were slow, syrupy, sinking deeper into the warmth that held him captive. He turned his face up toward Bastien, his expression blissfully unfocused, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a soft, hazy smile.

“Me?” he breathed. "Yea....smells like me."

Bastien’s hand cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls as he pressed a lingering kiss to Lando’s temple. His voice was low, soothing, wrapping around Lando like a tether.

“Very good.”

A quiet, contented sigh slipped from Lando’s lips as he melted further, completely adrift, completely his.

“Keep going, Lando,” Bastien murmured, watching him closely, his voice a low hum of approval. “I can tell you’re curious.”

Lando barely heard the words, but they settled deep inside him, resonating like a gentle command. His fingers twitched over the damp fabric, his touch slow, exploring, fascinated. He couldn’t think—not in full sentences, not in logic. There was only the sensation, the wetness clinging to him, the heat pooling low, the steady pulse of something inevitable.

His breath shuddered. His body ached—tight, trembling on the edge of something he couldn’t name, something he didn’t need to name. It built within him, creeping higher, waves lapping at the edges of his consciousness, dragging him deeper with each breath.

And then—

A soft gasp escaped him as warmth surged through his body, crashing over him in slow, rolling waves. His fingers pressed into his suit, feeling the fabric ripple beneath his touch, darkening, spreading, the evidence of his surrender blooming before his dazed eyes.

His cock spilled even more sticky wetness into the suit, soaking through the fabric.

A giggle slipped past his lips, breathless, dreamy. He swayed slightly, his body weightless, untethered. His lashes fluttered as he watched, enraptured by the way the suit clung even tighter now, how the wetness seeped through, how the warmth lingered, unshakable.

Bastien chuckled, steadying him, his hands firm but patient. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice smooth, coaxing. “Good boy.”

Lando sighed, eyes half-lidded, body completely slack in Bastien’s hold.

(A part 2 to one of my fav stories on here, which inspired me to write)

[villainous-homosexual]

[ghoulishfreak]

broooooo you've gotta check out this video. hold on, you'll need these noise canceling headphones. just trust me bro, it'll make the video so much better!

are you feeling it bro? dude you are totally drooling your stupid brains out. haha, come on bro, you know you wanna touch yourself. good boy.

[footaddiction]

Just because you and your dick are useless it doesn't mean @hotmilffeetforyou can't put your mouth to work footcuck.

Think about how good it would feel 😈

[archer-vale]

Just give in, bro. Stop fighting it.

[wakeup01]

buttslut

If you had asked Dante whether he would ever bottom, 1, he would probably punch you. And 2, he would insist that topping gays was just something 100% straight men like him did. And he’d say it with…well, with a ‘straight’ face. It was a display of superiority and power, an act to show people their place. He wouldn’t be seen dead bent over, presenting his rear. The mere idea disgusted him, a fact he made very clear when loudly talking to his recently made friend, Cris, inside the local inclusive night club.

An unlikely friendship that only came about from bumping into each other while Dante was taking selfies in the college bathrooms. Something of a regular past time, as Cris quickly learned. Even in a public place, Dante didn’t miss the opportunity to admire his own body, smirking as several gay guys around him turned to get a glimpse. Maybe that was the only real reason he agreed to come along. Then again, he was capable of being kindhearted, in his own special way.

“You see those pathetic ‘guys’ earlier? Practically begging to be shown what a real man can do.” Dante commented, chugging down the rest of his beer. Blatantly ignoring the warning hanging on the wall which stated ‘discrimination will not be tolerated’. Yes. Kind. In his *own* special way. “You get me?”

“Uh huh...” Cris sheepishly replied, trying to hold back a wince. Looking down with disappointment, his eyes tearing up slightly. Now definitely wasn’t a good time to reveal that he was actually trans. Maybe when the sun was about to implode, yes, that seemed like a more appropriate occasion.

Dante was a somewhat typical douchebag jock in most respects, keen to display his dominance and superior body to anyone with a hole to fill. A fuckstick with a guy - rather inconveniently, attached. Dante pushed out his perfectly sculpted chest and flexed his rippling muscles while he made his openly deriding remarks as a group passed him by. Deliberately yelling over the obnoxious club song that was blaring overhead. Cris merely laughed nervously, ashamed to admit his infatuation with Dante’s body - adjusting his trousers as his dick unconsciously rose to attention at Dante’s confident voice.

“Christ, your drink looks kinda fruity. You should try some of mine.” He lifts a glass and holds it out.

“Maybe later, do you want to go dance? I kinda dig this Charli…song.” Cris’ voice peters out at the expression shot in their direction. “Maybe not, huh.”

Unfortunately for Dante, the patrons and staff weren’t too keen on his ‘colourful’ choice of words, especially when starting to talk about ‘butt sluts’, as he put it. A bit of glitter blown in his direction was all that was needed to kickstart a change in perspective. Cris watched with wide eyes as he witnessed his toxic crush’s language and demeanour gradually adjust in front of him.

Dante attempted to brush away the glitter that somwhow got all over him. “The fu—fudge is this gay shi—shizzle!” Instead he only managed to spread it everywhere, speeding up the adjustments. Dante took another sip of beer and scrunched his nose up at the taste, pushing the drink aside. His stiff and once proud stature grew limp, hips swaying to the rhythm of the club music. The plethora of swears and insults softened into a series of enthusiastic lisps and giggles. His deep voice changing pitch one word at a time. “This soOOoong s—slaps, like, a totes banger!” Dante shouts out, to his friends amusement.

“But I thought you hated this—“

“Uhhhh, as if!” Dante’s whiney intonation quickly interjects, somewhat unbefitting of the muscled body it came from, his defined pecs still pushing out against the thin fabric of his tank top.

A warm insatiable itch caused Dante to absently remove his top and shorts, revealing a jockstrap cupping his bubbly rear - which quickly doubled in mass as it comically splayed out beneath him. A result of the rainbow glitter sticking to his sweaty body. The rest of him remained built like a tank, wide shoulders and thick thighs. A meaty chest glistening under the flickering lights of the club. He was so hot, but not just in appearance. The drunken stupor had fully gripped his easily manipulated mind. Everything around him suddenly seemed soo funny.

“Gawd, my butt’s, like, pretty big. Weird. Heehee.” Dante points out, turning slightly to show Cris, causing his cheeks to wobble. “Do girls even want big butts on guys?”

“Well…I…” Cris stammers, blushing bright red at the image of his ultra masculine friend shaking his butt while effeminately biting his lip.

“Like suuuper big and…” Internally Dante was unaware of his out of character behaviour, unquestioning as his brutish dominance was purged, replaced by adorably bratty submissiveness. He was the same old Dante deep down, just…happier. And sluttier. His body unconsciously began to gyrate to the heavy bass throbbing in his head. All he noticed was the growing need centred around his tight hole. His fingers cautiously touched the jiggly mound of flesh weighing him down from behind. Dante’s eyes filled with lust as he stared at his friend Cris, noting the sight of him and all the other hot men around him. A pleasurable sigh escapes his pursed lips.

“Big and…empty.”

A couple minutes of character growth later, members of staff arrived to offer Dante ‘vip status’ at the club. A program they had setup to deal with any ‘troublemakers’. Dante didn’t mind however, and agreed instantly. Cris followed as he got directed out the back door towards his new station, taking his position as a public relief hole. Leaning against the wall as the cool night air brushed against his bare skin. All the while he was incapable of keeping his hands off his rear, feeling it up without a second thought as onlookers watched. Dante simply nodded along dimly while the club’s manager explained that he was about to be fucked and used repeatedly to atone for his remarks. That once he has filled his quota, he and his twerkable bubble butt would become the club’s next permanent dancer.

Dante smiles and says “mmkay” while pushing his hands against the wall and widening his legs - staring blankly ahead. “Like this?” There was a little sign above his head that simply read ‘hole’ with an arrow pointing down. Just in case it wasn’t clear.

Cris made sure he was first in line to try out the new resident ‘butt slut’. He positions himself behind Dante, and struggles to hold back a laugh at the sight of the once bigoted jock willingly preparing to get dicked. He definitely liked him a lot more like this - the same muscled physique, but without the crude superiority complex. Their friendship was sure to hit new heights.

“Ready? Let me show you what a ‘real man’ can do.” Cris says with a newfound sense of confidence. Playfully, he spins Dante’s baseball cap around and places his hands across the himbo’s rear, parting his huge round cheeks to show off the cherry he was about to pop - before the rest of the club would inevitably leave him gaping.

“Mm.” Is all Dante can muster before Cris’s cock forcefully stretches him open and leaves him moaning like the natural cock hungry bottom he now was. “Don’t—don’t stawwwp babe!”