Category: Sci-Fi (Page 1 of 2)

Two muscular, shirtless men in brown jumpsuits stand in the foreground, their chests exposed and sweaty. In the background, a man in a shirt looks on with a serious expression, partially obscured by shadows.

The Space Bears (chapters 1-3)

2025-04-28 / admin bot / 0 Comments

I’ve expanded My short story from 2023 into a full-length transformation epic. Read the first three chapters here.

Chapter 1: The Golden Ticket

I had been based out of Artemis Station for nearly a decade, working long-haul cargo routes to neglected outposts and failed experiments in galactic living. Six months to Vesta. Fourteen to New Rockall. The occasional ten-week jog to Hyperion. Interstellar freight isn’t glamorous, but the solitude suited me. The pay was steady. And when you’re in deep sleep for most of the journey, the years barely touch you.

Some guys can’t handle it—waking up decades older than their friends, missing birthdays, funerals, and civilizations. Me? I had nothing waiting for me planetside. No lovers, no obligations. I liked it that way.

The Space Bears

Joseph Cole thought he was just signing up for a nine-month cargo run from Artemis Station to Earth. Instead, he found himself locked, trained, and transformed by Bradford and Chapman, the legendary “space bears” whose reputation for rough camaraderie and extreme bonding rituals precedes them across the stars.

Stranded aboard the aging freighter Berengaria, trapped in a relentless program of sweat, muscle, and total control, Joseph is dragged into a brotherhood he never saw coming, and soon never wants to leave.

Chastity devices, enforced masculinity, muscular transformation, sweaty bear bonding, and irreversible submission drive this high-heat, high-grit space saga. Once you’re aboard, there’s no way out—not that you’ll want one.

The Space Bears is a 7,900-word short story. It is a full-length, complete, and expanded version of Jay Hypno’s original Space Bears series, now revised and filthy as ever. All content in this story is fictional and depicts activities between consenting, unrelated adults who are 18+.

The old Prospect Bend VFW hall smelled like sawdust, sweat, and coffee gone stale in the pot. The scent was decades old—as permanent as the cracked linoleum floor and faded American flag pinned to the back wall. The men gathered inside were tired. Not just from the heat—though the single oscillating fan in the corner wasn’t doing much to cool the high desert air. Not just from the years of hard labor—though their calloused hands, stooped shoulders, and sun-weathered faces spoke of decades spent working ranches, mending fences, and running businesses that stopped turning profits years ago. No, they were tired because they had lost. Earl Lindstrom, mayor of Prospect Bend, wiped the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief, unknowingly yet symbolically waving a flag of surrender. He cleared his throat and tried to look in control, but his weak, tinny voice immediately betrayed his true self. “All right, folks. Let’s come to order,” he said, smacking a gavel against a sagging foldable card table. After leading the room in the Lord’s Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance, he plucked a page of notes from the table, the paper crinkling in his chubby hands. “I know lots of us are worried. I know it ain’t good. But we got a way forward.” Murmurs rippled through the room. Everyone knew how the numbers looked. Half a century of ignorance and resistance to change had bankrupted the town. Three generations of elected leaders had squandered, mismanaged, and embezzled from the town’s coffers. The police department barely functioned. The streets were crumbling. Half the storefronts on Independence Avenue were boarded up. Some bean-counting bureaucrat at the State Capitol in Salem had given Prospect Bend an ultimatum. Either return the town to solvency or be forcibly disincorporated. Wiped off the map. Which is why the men from PulseTech were there. Three of them—tall, polished, and impeccably dressed—cut impressive figures at the mayor’s table. Their haircuts were precise, their suits casual but expensive looking, their smiles just wide enough to feel disarming. Despite the sweltering summer heat, they sat perfectly at ease, hands folded as they waited for the townspeople to finish simmering in their own misery. Mayor Lindstrom concluded his long-winded assessment of the town’s dire straits. Then, he yielded the floor to the frontman of the PulseTech team. He was young for an executive, maybe thirty-five, with a square jaw and a confident stance. His charcoal gray suit and fitted white shirt seemed impervious to the dust and grime that swept through Prospect Bend whenever the winds changed. He leaned forward slightly, drawing the townspeople in. “Mayor Lindstrom, thank you for having us,” he said smoothly. The winds were changing, indeed. “Gentlemen, my name is Grant Hudson. I’m with PulseTech.” Grant’s voice was calm and assured, with an untraceable Generican accent and a slight rising tone at the end of each sentence. A voice like his could make any bad news sound like an opportunity. “We understand your concerns,” Grant continued. “Prospect Bend is facing serious financial hardship. Your elected leaders and small business owners have done their best, but traditional solutions aren’t enough. The world is changing, and towns like this—well, they either adapt or get left behind.” A calculated silence allowed the townspeople to absorb his words. A few scowled. Others just nodded grimly. The man was right. “But we have a solution,” Grand said, smiling. “A full-scale revitalization project—privately funded, expertly managed, and designed to bring Prospect Bend into the future.” The mayor shifted in his seat, the cheap folding chair creaking under his weight. “Now, Grant, we appreciate the offer, but this is a simple, plain-speaking ranching community. What exactly does this deal mean for us?” Grant’s smile widened. “It means your problems go away.” The sales pitch was adequate, if blunt. A ripple of tension passed through the room. Grant waited for the rumblings to die down before he continued. “We take over essential services. Law enforcement, infrastructure, utilities. We eliminate inefficiencies, cut waste, and prioritize modernization. Improvements attract new businesses, bring in new residents, and increase property values for everyone.” “And in return?” Someone grunted from the back of the room. Grant, as if anticipating the question, spread his hands wide. “Just a little governance consultation.” The murmurs grew louder. Mayor Lindstrom raised a hand. “Now, hold on, let’s hear ’em out.” Grant nodded. “Look, gentlemen. We’re not here to take over your town. We’re here to advise and consult. You’ll still have a mayor. Still have local businesses. However, the town manager position will be held by an employee of PulseTech. His office will provide leadership. Direction. A vision.” He took a breath and then delivered the final pitch. “PulseTech can return prosperity to Prospect Bend. And all it takes is one signature.” He pulled a sleek tablet from his briefcase and set it on the table before the mayor. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, from the back, a voice cut through the silence. “And what if we say no?” Everyone turned, forming a halo of contorted bodies around Buck Stamets, the last real cowboy in Prospect Bend. He sat with his arms crossed, a permanent scowl etched onto his sunburnt face. His jeans were stained with dirt, his boots caked in mud and bits of scrub grass, and his hat was pulled low over his sharp, lined features. He looked at Grant like a man looks at a rattlesnake that got too close to the porch. Grant didn’t flinch. He maintained his calm, painted-on smile. “Then you go bankrupt.” Mayor Lindstrom heaved himself out of his chair, his trick knee popping with a grotesque crack as he got to his feet. “He’s right about that, Buck. We’ve all read the notice from that fatass down in Salem. Disincorporation is the only other option.” “Or maybe we could elect someone competent and fix our own damn town.” A few men muttered in agreement. “Fix it with prayers.” another voice cut in. All eyes moved across the room to Father Dale Peterson, standing near the exit, his Bible tucked under one arm, a rosary hanging from his cassock’s belt, a frown carved into his usually peaceful face. “Faith has carried us through hard times before,” Father Dale said, his voice steady. “You gentlemen come here with your money, fine clothes, and promises, but the Lord doesn’t ask for a contract. He asks for trust. Community. That’s what holds a town together, not some out-of-state tech corporation with big ideas.” Grant tilted his head as if generally considering the cleric’s words. “Father,” he said lightly, “do you think faith alone is going to fix your roads? Restore your businesses? Pay your people?” Dale hesitated, and Grant pounced. “You say you want a strong community. Then, let us help you build one. A better one. A healthier one. A stronger one. We believe in the power of transformation, Father. We believe in making this town—and every man in it—the best they can be.” Father Dale clutched his Bible tighter as the townspeople averted their eyes. Not exactly blessed with the charism of preaching, the priest had failed yet again to inspire his flock with a meaningful sermon. Their problems would have been solved long ago if prayers could save the town. Unable to construct a response, Father Dale withdrew into the corner. “I got one question.” Nate Ferguson emerged from a group of men standing in the back. The only person to have moved to Prospect Bend in living memory, “Nate the Pate”—short for patriot—was a transplant from somewhere back east. Taciturn to a fault, Nate had made no close friends, and no one really knew much about him other than he was an untamable libertarian. He lived off -grid, hunting and fishing for his livelihood, and only came into town when necessary. “What happens to our freedom?” Nate asked, eliciting a few groans from the others in attendance. The Pate was nothing if not predictable. “Because I don’t trust any company that tells people what they can and can’t do.” Grant laughed and rested his perfectly manicured hands on the table. “Freedom isn’t going anywhere,” he said, nudging the tablet an inch closer to the mayor. “We’re giving you more than you’ve ever had before.” The room was silent. Mayor Lindstrom sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. He looked at Grant, the other two PulseTech goons, and then at his own people. Everyone in Prospect Bend was tired, desperate, and out of options. “Shall we put it to a vote?” Lindstrom asked. Grant had already proffered him a stylus to sign. The show of hands was conclusive if not a landslide. The town approved the deal by a vote of 29 in favor to 19 against, with Nate the Pate abstaining, having rejected the legitimacy of the town government. Without another word, Mayor Lindstrom took the stylus from Grant. He let the tip hover over the screen for a long moment of hesitation, and then he signed. The deal was done. Grant shook Lindstrom’s hand and turned to face the townspeople. “Gentlemen, welcome to the future.”

Welcome to PulseTown™

2025-02-17 / admin bot / 0 Comments

Want to see how this turns out? Buy “Welcome to PulseTown™” on Kindle for the rest of the story.

Chapter 1: The Contract

The old Prospect Bend VFW hall smelled like sawdust, sweat, and coffee gone stale in the pot. The scent was decades old—as permanent as the cracked linoleum floor and faded American flag pinned to the back wall.

The men gathered inside were tired. Not just from the heat—though the single oscillating fan in the corner wasn’t doing much to cool the high desert air. Not just from the years of hard labor—though their calloused hands, stooped shoulders, and sun-weathered faces spoke of decades spent working ranches, mending fences, and running businesses that stopped turning profits years ago.

No, they were tired because they had lost.

A closeup on a man’s muscular chest with him wearing a crop top tank top and the picture colored overall with a pastel tone.

Gay Cloning Bureau

2025-01-20 / admin bot / 0 Comments

In 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.”

The 40th Year: Dads by Design

In the dystopian city of Madison, conformity is law. As men approach their 40th birthdays, those who haven’t yet aligned with society’s strict expectations are subjected to the state’s Development and Assimilation Directive. This program forces them into meticulously designed archetypes of manhood, transforming them into hyper-masculine figures—the perfect “dads” that society demands.

Julian, a free-spirited artist; Leo, a reclusive professor; Tristan, a disciplined yogi; and Noah, a nature-loving minimalist—four friends standing on the brink of enforced transformation—are marked for a future they can’t escape. Each is slated to become a new kind of “dad”—a handy handyman, a drill-sergeant sports coach, a relaxed grill master, and a tech-savvy family man. But as the government’s virtual reality workshops chip away at their identities, the battle between personal freedom and imposed perfection grows ever more intense.

Will these men find a way to hold on to who they are, or will they succumb to the relentless programming that promises order at the cost of individuality? Don’t miss this gripping exploration of identity, resistance, and the lengths society will go to control those who don’t fit the mold.

The 40th Year: Dads by Design is a 13,000-word novelette. All content in this story is fictional and describes activities between consenting, unrelated adults who are 18+.

Drone days

2024-07-29 / admin bot / 0 Comments

I sat alone in my dimly lit apartment, the neon glow of the city outside flickering through my windows like a dying pulse. My fingers hovered over my phone, scrolling for the millionth time through the last few messages I’d received from Josh. Like a lovesick teenager, I reread every romantic exchange, trying to figure out what I’d done to turn him off.

Three dates, countless laughs, and then nothing. He vanished as if he never existed. It wasn’t like we were living out in the frontier sectors, where drones patrolled the streets, government agents monitored every breath, and disappearances were common. Josh and I hit it off like I never had with anyone before. Or so I thought.

Robot cops (chapter 5)

2024-02-12 / admin bot / 2 Comments

Read chapter 4 of “Robot cops” to get caught up before reading the final installment…

Bryan opened his eyes. His return to consciousness was met with almost debilitating disorientation. He didn’t remember blacking out, nor did he recognize his current location. The last thing he remembered was that he’d gone looking for Jack. He’d found him just off the hoverway where he—

In the haze of Bryan’s mind, his memories didn’t play out continuously, like an old cinefilm. Instead, they developed in asynchronous order in short, still images, like distorted holophotos. He remembered seeing Jack slumped against the wall. He remembered seeing his hands bound in wristcuffs. He remembered the smooth, plastic, hyper-masculine torso of a PX officer. The cold, artificial feeling of PX roboskin against his bound hands. And that low, monotonic voice calling his name.

Citizen Bryan Collins.

Robot cops (chapter 4)

2024-02-05 / admin bot / 1 Comment

Read chapter 3 of “Robot cops” to get caught up before reading on…

Bryan sped down the hoverway, his eyes darting back and forth between the road ahead and the clock on his dashboard. It was 7:53 p.m. His mind was in fits, trying to fathom what his friend Jack could have uncovered. What would make him resort to sneaking about like a spy, leaving paper messages as clues to avoid having his movements traced? Whatever it was, Bryan surmised, couldn’t possibly be good.

He navigated off the hoverway at exit 4 and quickly turned onto Olive Street. Instead of stopping there, he drove for another block and parked. He’d meet up with Jack on foot, he decided.

The sun had already sunk beneath the horizon, and the city streets were bathed in a dim gray twilight. This stretch of Olive Street crossed through the city’s central core, densely populated with commuters during the day and all but deserted after dark. Bryan rounded the corner, reaching Jack’s designated meeting place and checking his ID card display for the time. 8:01 p.m.

Robot cops (chapter 3)

2024-01-29 / admin bot / 1 Comment

Read chapter 2 of “Robot cops” to get caught up before reading on…

Bryan pulled into the parking lot behind the Citizen-Journal‘s offices. It was 9:17am. He fished his ID card out of his pocket for the second time this morning, accessing his employee credentials on the flickering display. I’ve got to charge this thing soon, he thought.

He flashed his credentials at the door panel, and the doors to the Citizen-Journal‘s offices slid open. Bryan was greeted by what looked to be a police officer but with some modifications. Its uniform body wasn’t the standard shiny navy blue finish; instead, it was a glossy grey, but even stranger was that it was smiling. PX officers never smiled unless they were dealing with children or the elderly. Otherwise, they were stoic and blank in the execution of their duties.

Whatever stood before him greeted Bryan as he passed through the office’s main door. “Good morning, Mr. Collins,” it said cordially. “The editorial staff is in the conference room and has been advised of the circumstances of your reporting to work late today.”

Robot cops (chapter 2)

2024-01-22 / admin bot / 1 Comment

Read chapter 1 of “Robot cops” to get caught up before reading on…

Bryan was only eight but always remembered the afternoon PX6-5901 visited his classroom. Of course, twenty years had passed since then, and PX6-5901 was likely in pieces at some offshore garbage facility now or as recycled components of playground equipment. The PX6 was, by modern standards, a relic. Two new generations of PX officers had come and gone since then. Today, the patrol force was primarily PX9 officers, with a small minority of PX8 units still in service. However, they had since been relegated to mundane police duties, like parking enforcement. The real patrol work was now the province of the PX9.

The overall design of the PX officers hadn’t changed much over the decades, with the same human-looking face, hands, navy blue torso, and limbs, although the body was shinier than Bryan remembered from his youth. A glossy finish had been applied to the bodies of the PX8 models to better reflect energy, keep the units from overheating, and prevent dents and scrapes to their plastic and metal frames. This glossy finish was carried over into the current PX9 units. The badge was still affixed to the left pectoral. The unit’s serial number was now printed in white block numerals on the right. Each generation of PX officers was also slightly taller and bulkier than the last, the PX9 reaching a hair higher than its immediate predecessor at 191 centimeters.

Category: Sci-Fi (Page 1 of 2)

The Space Bears (chapters 1-3)

Chapter 1: The Golden Ticket

The Space Bears

Welcome to PulseTown™

Chapter 1: The Contract

Gay Cloning Bureau

The 40th Year: Dads by Design

Drone days

Robot cops (chapter 5)

Robot cops (chapter 4)

Robot cops (chapter 3)

Robot cops (chapter 2)

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