Jay Hypno Writer

M4M transformation fiction

A person stands alone at night in front of an abandoned, graffiti-covered building, holding a large duffel bag. The ground is littered with debris, and the scene is dimly lit and eerie.

Rubber Reboot 3

2025-11-16 / / 0 Comments

Chapter 3: Studio 4B 

Catch up on chapter 2 if you haven’t already…

At 3:17 a.m., the bus deposited him onto a curb slick with last night’s beer and piss. Barry stood under the streetlamp, envelope clutched to his chest, flip flops dangling from dumb toes. The building across the street was a six-story corpse, most of its windows blinded with plywood. He crossed when the crosswalk beeped, counting each chirp like a heartbeat. A hand-scrawled sign taped to the buzzer read: 4B—VACANT. 

Inside, the hallway stank of piss and lukewarm takeout. One fluorescent tube flickered overhead, strobing the peeling wallpaper. Barry’s key scraped the lock three times before the tumblers finally gave. The door to 4B opened into a cloud of mildew. The studio was no more than 200 square feet. A bare mattress lay on the floor, and a mini fridge hummed like an angry bee in the opposite corner. The single window overlooked an air shaft where a lone pigeon cooed. Barry stepped in, shut the door, and the walls closed around him again. Walls are good. Walls are boundaries. The thought was comforting. 

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A man stands in a softly lit living room, holding a dark shirt with a star emblem. Warm sunlight filters through sheer curtains behind him, illuminating the cozy, vintage-styled space.

I Don’t Own My Likeness 12

2025-11-13 / / 0 Comments

It Still Fits 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Vince knelt over the plastic storage bin like a man digging up his own coffin. His knees cracked audibly as he crouched, and he muttered under his breath. “Forty-five and falling apart.” His fingers fumbled with the lid for a moment before he pried it off and set it aside. The inside smelled like melted plastic and dryer sheets—a unique combination of scents that only clung to forgotten costumes and boxed-up lives. 

He cast a glance toward the linen closet in the hall. In the back, sealed away in a double-lined garment bag for posterity, lay the original Derek Vesta suit, the one from the Spacedock Omega pilot, back when everything had been fresh, promising, and of cinema quality. He didn’t dare slip into that one. That suit was sacred. A museum piece. He was headed to Fort Wayne Pride, not the Smithsonian. 

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A man stands on a suburban sidewalk at night, holding a map and a large bag, illuminated by streetlights, with houses and a tree visible in the background.

Rubber Reboot 2

2025-11-09 / / 1 Comment

Chapter 2: Where Will it Go? 

Catch up on chapter 1 if you haven’t already…

The crate lid lifted with a metallic sigh. Fluorescent light knifed down, and Barry’s eyes, used to blindfolds and blackout sclera lenses, watered instantly. The crate’s latex lining peeled away from his knees with a wet kiss. Mack’s hand closed around the posture collar and hauled upward. Barry’s legs had forgotten their job; joints popped like cheap plastic. He sagged, rubber squeaking against rubber, until Mack braced him against the playroom wall. 

“Stand up, object.” 

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A man with a beard sits at a desk in a dimly lit room, holding and reading a stack of papers. There are coffee cups, more papers, and boxes around him, with posters and a window in the background.

I Don’t Own My Likeness 11

2025-11-06 / / 0 Comments

One-Off Gig 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Vince sat slumped in the cracked leather armchair across from Randy’s desk, a pair of crumpled parking tickets in one hand and his phone in the other, thumb hovering above a bank app that displayed an overdrawn balance. The red digits blinked up at him with the same quiet finality as a flatline. He exhaled through his nose and let his head tilt back against the wall behind him. 

Randy hunched over a first-generation MacBook Pro so old it looked like it ran on diesel. He twirled a toothpick between his teeth as he pecked at the keyboard with two fingers, then let out a triumphant little grunt. “Here we go,” he said, swiveling the laptop around. “Take a look at this.” 

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A bearded man wearing glasses carves a roasted turkey on a large platter in a warmly lit dining room, preparing to serve a meal.

Rubber Reboot 1

2025-11-02 / / 3 Comments

Chapter 1: The Table 

The first thing Barry knew was pressure: knees folded to chest, wrists cuffed to ankles behind him, the posture collar locked so tight his chin could not dip. The second thing was heat. The rubber lining the underside of the dining room table had warmed to blood temperature hours ago; now it clung like a second, wetter skin. He breathed through dime-sized holes drilled along an acrylic lid, each exhale fogging the glass for a heartbeat before the vents sucked it away. Above him, the room glowed amber. 

Thanksgiving. Year Five. 

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Protected: Hands Off

2025-10-31 / / Enter your password to view comments.

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A young person sits at a table in a comic book store, intently reading a comic titled Noblemen. Shelves filled with colorful comics are blurred in the background.

I Don’t Own My Likeness 10

2025-10-30 / / 1 Comment

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Not a Hero

The vinyl beneath Vince’s thigh made a soft, wheezing noise each time he shifted in the booth. The laminate tabletop was mottled with ring stains, its faux wood pattern long worn down to a ghost of itself, like everything else in the place, including him. 

A sweating glass of diet soda sat next to a rumpled coupon: Buy 1 Lunch Combo, Get 1 Free. Limit 1 Per Table. Vince had deliberately placed it next to his phone, like a talisman to remind himself that he was being clever, resourceful, and practical. As a self congratulation for the audition he’d just come from, he was getting both lunch and dinner today. Burger #1 now. Burger #2 to go. 

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A young cashier hands a paper grocery bag to a man at a supermarket checkout counter, surrounded by shelves stocked with products.

I Don’t Own My Likeness 9

2025-10-23 / / 0 Comments

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

The Credit Card Decline

Vince could see the reflection of his sneakers in the immaculate white tile, slightly distorted under the strip lighting above. Somewhere overhead, soft jazz murmured from the speakers, Davis or Coltrane, something warm and comforting. The produce section smelled faintly of fresh basil, cilantro, and eucalyptus hand sanitizer. 

He liked it here. The carts glided without wobbles and squeaks. The apples looked hand polished. The displays of sprouted granola were arranged like a sculpture. No one here ran. No one shouted. Best of all, nobody looked twice at a man pushing a cart full of kale, oat milk, and a single fillet of organic salmon. 

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Two middle-aged men sit on a couch with takeout food and drinks on the table in front of them; one man looks at his phone while the other gestures as if speaking, in a casual living room setting.

I Don’t Own My Likeness 8

2025-10-16 / / 0 Comments

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Do Vesta

“You’re doing what now?” Joe asked, one hand buried in a greasy bag of chips. 

Vince didn’t look up from his phone, just reached over to the coffee table, grabbed a wad of napkins, and dropped them into his best friend’s lap. He’d spent the last half hour scrolling through a queue of video requests, and he’d felt the beginnings of a callus forming on his right thumb. Birthday wishes. Anniversary congratulations. A shout out to a guy retiring from thirty years in the Navy who “salutes like Captain Vesta.” That one had five stars already. 

“It’s called LinePlease,” Vince said, finally glancing over at Joe, who had upended the empty bag of chips and was tapping the remaining crumbs into his mouth. “It’s a gig thing. Fans pay for custom videos. I record a little message, send it in, and they cry, or laugh, or post it online, or whatever. 

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Two men sit on a couch having a serious conversation, with a bottle and glasses on the table in front of them, in a modern living room with abstract art on the wall.

Encased

2025-10-12 / / 9 Comments

Kevin never meant to fall for someone difficult. He’d had enough of men who texted “u up?” at midnight, only to disappear for a week and then come back horny and full of apologies. He wanted simple. He wanted stable. He wanted someone with a boring day job, a soft laugh, and maybe a houseplant that lived longer than a month. 

When Roger walked into the cafe and they first made eye contact, Kevin knew he wasn’t like the rest. Roger was remarkably composed, with sharp eyes, wearing dark jeans and a snug black shirt that hugged his chest but left everything else to the imagination. Roger moved through the space like he’d never second guessed himself or felt the need to prove anything in his life. When they sat across from each other with their coffees, talking about everything from bad first dates to favorite horror movies, Kevin felt the subtle, almost electric pull. 

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