M4M kink writing. Control and transformation of men. 18+ only.

Category: Series & arcs (Page 1 of 6)

I Don’t Own My Likeness 7

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

Cease and Desist

The email subject line practically glowed on his cracked phone screen. BEER COMMERCIAL—Offer for V. Karros (Confirmed). 

Vince sat up straighter in the diner booth, nearly knocking over a bottle of hot sauce. A waitress in orthopedic sneakers shuffled past without looking at him. He thumbed open the message, his heart rate climbing. 

Inside was a brief note from his agent’s assistant, along with a PDF attachment. No preamble, no pleasantries, just Straight offer, no audition requirement. Attached. Call us. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 6

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

Too Vesta

The casting office didn’t even have a logo on the door, just a taped-up sign in black marker: AUDIOCRIME CALLBACKS 9 AM – 2 PM. Below it was a polite request not to knock unless you were on the call sheet. 

Vince signed in just below someone named Derek, which felt like a cosmic joke, and took a seat in one of the tan plastic chairs that lined the beige hallway. The walls were peeling, the carpet was low pile, and a little ring light glowed behind a half-open doorway. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 5

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

Alone on the Bridge

He wasn’t supposed to be there. 

The studio lot, usually a hive of motion and caffeine-fueled logistics, had settled into an off-season hush. Only one gate was open after hours now, guarded by a prefab security shack and a bored-looking man in mirrored sunglasses scrolling through a phone. 

Vince hadn’t thought about his ID badge. He reached for it out of habit, half aware it was clipped to his belt loop, and only remembered its uselessness when the scanner chirped red. The guard looked up, unmoved. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 3

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

Wrap Party with Ghosts

The rooftop glowed like a catalog spread. Sunset bled across the glass towers downtown, turning every surface reflective and cinematic. String lights zigzagged above the patio, their bulbs warm and soft against the deepening sky. A row of fire pits flickered between low couches and planters full of ornamental grasses. From hidden speakers came a steady stream of stylish yet forgettable downtempo synth. 

Vince stepped out of the elevator and into the glow. He was dressed cleanly in a black button up, collar open, and sleeves cuffed just enough to show his forearm. The look screamed, “I’m relaxed, but I still know where the cameras are.” His posture was upright, almost imperially so, though he walked without the stiff rhythm of Vesta’s command stride. Everyone looked up as he entered. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 2

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

The Last Unzip

The trailer door thudded shut behind him with a dull clack. The sound was oddly final. 

Inside, Vince’s dressing room was still and stale, just the low hum from the vent and the faint trace of old hairspray and synthetic fabric lingering in the air. A coil of yellow stage tape curled from the edge of the counter. The AC rattled overhead as it pushed cold air downward like an indifferent sigh. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 1

Hey you—yeah, you, reading this post. This one’s not a quick jolt of transformation kink. I Don’t Own My Likeness is a slow burn, built like a novel, where each chapter tightens the screws and pushes Vince Karros deeper into a change he can’t escape. 

Settle in. It only gets more consuming from here. 

—JHW 

One Last Take 

The stars shimmered around him. They weren’t real stars, of course, just reflected gels against the midnight-black backdrop. But from the way Vince Karros stood at the helm, you wouldn’t know the difference. 

His eyes were locked onto the forward view screen, yet another example of Hollywood trickery. In Vince’s mind’s eye, it stretched into endless, galactic silence. In reality, it was slathered in a shade of green paint not found in nature, allowing the visual effects department to superimpose whatever they wished into the panorama. 

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Dad State (Chapter 1)

Get started with the prelude to Dad State by reading Countdown to midnight first…

The Processing Center 

The shuttle moved without sound. No engine hum, no road friction, just the faint whir of internal diagnostics running in the dashboard. Zach sat alone in the backseat, hands folded, posture unnaturally upright, as if summoned by instinct rather than intention. Outside, the world slid past in antiseptic slices. Parking lots, empty walkways, and sleek fences topped with soft-beeping security domes all melded into a blur. Zach’s life as he knew it was over. 

A sign, “DadNet District Activation Hub—East Quadrant,” flashed by before the vehicle made a seamless ninety-degree turn and glided into a narrow bay. When the doors unlocked, he didn’t move. He waited for the melodic chime and the polite digital voice. 

“Welcome, DadNet Unit 70855. Please proceed inside.” 

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Going viral (My perfect dad 55)

Kyle 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. 

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Resolutions 1: The Delivery

Tobias 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. 

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