M4M kink writing. Control and transformation of men. 18+ only.
The first time my roommate Nick joked about being an ATM, I just laughed.
“Wouldn’t it be great if you could just text me for cash?” he said. “Like a personal ATM. No fees, no stress. Just instant withdrawals.”
“Yeah, sure,” I replied, scrolling my phone, not giving it much thought.
At the time, it sounded like one of his usual bits—Nick had always been a generous guy, the type to cover dinner without a second thought. But looking back, that was probably the first sign.
Continue readingKyle never meant to go viral. At 35, he was barely holding his life together—scraping by in a dead-end job at an auto parts store, single for three years, and generally just existing. He wasn’t unhappy, per se, but he also wasn’t much of anything at all. With just enough spare cash to keep his gym membership, his days consisted of long, tedious shifts on the sales floor and grueling hours on the weight bench. He’d have an occasional date if he were lucky but never managed to seal the deal with a guy.
One night after too many beers, he recorded a stupid video of himself trying to assemble an IKEA shelf without instructions. He narrated it like an overconfident dad who refused to admit he was lost.
Continue readingCaden adjusted the collar of his tight black shirt, letting his fingers trace the line of the perfectly tailored fabric. His reflection stared back at him in the full-length bedroom mirror, a mix of confidence and vanity gleaming in his pale green eyes. His body was his trophy, earned through long, sweaty hours at the gym and an unrelenting diet of grilled chicken, kale smoothies, and tequila shots—the latter strictly for social purposes, of course.
His lean frame was a masterwork—a canvas of sharp angles and taut, tanned skin. His chest was broad but not overbuilt, his waist narrow and cutting a sharp V into his low-slung trousers. His jawline, always adorned with just the right amount of stubble, was one of his best features, or so he’d been told. Caden knew how to use his looks—whether that meant an easy smirk that won over a bartender or the slow, deliberate way he unbuttoned a shirt when he knew someone was watching.
Continue readingIn the brightly lit offices of the Bureau of Gay Cloning Compliance, Nate adjusted his tie. He stared at the blinking red notification on his holographic work tablet. It was another anomaly. Of course it was.
“Opposites attract,” he muttered, scrolling through the flagged file. “Not on my watch.”
Continue readingTobias Greene stood in the center of his apartment’s pristine living room, his arms folded neatly across his chest, a faint frown pulling at his lips. “They said it would arrive precisely at eight o’clock,” he muttered, glancing at the digital clock on the wall, its sleek numbers glowing faintly in the soft morning light. “It’s 8:03. You’d think an advanced AI delivery service would be more precise.”
Behind Tobias, his husband Graham chuckled, the sound warm and unhurried, a soothing counterpoint to Tobias’ sharp edges. “Maybe they ran into traffic,” he teased, leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. His casual stance, paired with the faintly rumpled cardigan he wore over his white t-shirt and dark slacks, contrasted with Tobias’ polished appearance.
Continue readingTaking a break from ThinkTech to publish this twisted short story just in time for Christmas.
Snow swirled outside the frosted windows of Santa’s workshop, glinting like glitter under cones of light cast by a row of red and white striped lampposts. Inside, however, chaos reigned. Elves scurried to and fro, arms laden with partially wrapped toys, tangles of ribbon trailing behind them. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle tooted frantically. The reindeer were braying, eager to embark on their annual marathon journey.
Santa Claus, as he strutted through the workshop with a commanding air, wasn’t the jolly, rotund old man depicted in Christmas cards. No, this Santa was a man on a mission. Broad shouldered and barrel chested, he nearly burst the seams of his iconic red suit. His snugly tailored crimson coat accentuated a robust torso with pecs like Christmas hams and arms that bulged beneath the thick, white fur trim. The buttons strained just enough to tease his robust build beneath.
Continue readingRick’s leather jacket creaked as he hunched over the two-top table, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It was barely ten o’clock, still early for a Saturday night, and the regulars had only just started to trickle in. From his perch in the corner, Rick nursed a sweating glass of whiskey, its contents now more melted ice than liquor, and ran a finger along a rough patch of cracked leather on his sleeve. The only piece of leather gear he owned, the old jacket’s worn edges and snug fit lent him a rugged look he rarely felt he lived up to.
He was a middle-aged bear with a build that was beefy and soft at the same time—rounded gut, broad chest, and thick arms hidden under the leather, with a bald scalp and a beard he kept trimmed short but full. His leather look was more functional than flashy, a way of blending in rather than standing out, but tonight, he felt something different in the air. He scanned the bar as it filled with patrons and music grew louder. Surrounded by men he only vaguely recognized from local leather events and meetups, Rick envied their easy camaraderie from a distance.
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The uniform clung to Gavin like a second skin, too tight in all the wrong places. The white shirt stretched across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his nipples and every twitch of muscle beneath. The polished brass buttons bulged at the seams, threatening to pop if he exhaled too hard. His black polyester pants were no better. Snug to the point of humiliation, the fabric molded to his thighs and pressed into his groin. But the worst part by far was the bow tie. It was a cheap, garish strip of synthetic fabric, fastened tightly at his throat and barely large enough to tie correctly. It perched there like an afterthought, making him look small and silly, a visible marker of his demotion.
Gavin adjusted it nervously, his gloved fingers fumbling as he tried to make it sit straight. But no effort could stop it from looking ridiculous, especially compared to the sleek silk neckties the other building residents wore. Their ties draped elegantly, knots thick and proud against crisp, starched collars. Neckties were the mark of men who led; men with Interpersonal Dominance Indexes over 65. Men with power. On the other hand, Bow ties were reserved for those who had failed to measure up, those with IDI scores of 65 and lower. Followers. Not men, just overgrown manboys.
Continue readingThe morning sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Greg and Jim’s newly redecorated living room. Vintage leather armchairs, a teak record console, and shelves groaning under the weight of obscure vinyl had replaced the La-Z-Boy recliners, wide-screen TV, and photos of the middle-aged bear couple smiling in front of various landmarks. A fiddle-leaf fig stood in the corner, its glossy leaves throwing reflected light onto a battered mechanical typewriter sitting on a reclaimed wooden desk. Wedged between the keys was a thin placard that read “Words have weight.”
Jim stood in front of the antique full-length mirror, knotting a mustard-colored silk scarf over his too snug button down. The shirt, two sizes too small, clung to him for dear life and was perfectly suited for a man who wanted people to think it was an old favorite. Over it, he wore a tailored vest with a silver pocket watch and chain. Where he once spent the weekend in cargo shorts and t-shirts, he now excluded the kind of effortless chic that actually took considerable effort to achieve.
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