Category: Transformation (Page 1 of 6)

Two men sit at an outdoor restaurant table. One man in a navy suit looks ahead, while the other, wearing a black t-shirt and gold chain, looks at his phone. A platter of oysters is on the table in front of them.

Uncle Midas Touch

2025-09-01 / admin bot / 2 Comments

Chapter 1

Owen was late. As always.

Jake had already ordered the oysters and the champagne because that’s what Owen liked: tiny rituals of indulgence. They were seated at Le Manifeste, a velvet-curtained French bistro where the menus were priceless and the waiters didn’t speak unless summoned. Jake had reserved the terrace, hired the quartet, and even made sure the kitchen brought out Owen’s favorite smoked truffle salt for the butter.

He’d been planning this dinner for weeks.

Owen strolled in without apology, thumbs still dancing across his phone. His tight black tee clung to a swimmer’s frame, gold chain winking against sun-warmed skin. His stubble was just uneven enough to look effortless, and his lips glistened with whatever balm he used to stay camera ready.

A realistic illustration of a man with metallic, robotic facial features and a glowing blue cybernetic eye, blending human and cyborg elements, looking straight ahead against a neutral background.

I Want to Be a Cyborg (Chapter 2)

2025-08-25 / admin bot / 5 Comments

Read Chapter 1 to get caught up before reading on…

The Threshold

Matt drove with the radio off. The rising sun bled over the hills in golden streaks, catching on windshields and bouncing off silos. Mount Horeb thinned out fast, replaced by long stretches of dry fields, baled hay, and distant barns like toy buildings in a sea of beige. About an hour into the drive, Jim texted.

Mornin’ babe. Saw your note. Tell Danny I said hi.

Matt forced a smile and replied.

Will do.

I Want to Be a Cyborg (Chapter 1)

2025-08-18 / admin bot / 4 Comments

Flesh and Chrome

Matt came with his eyes open.

Jim’s back arched slightly atop him, fingers curling into the sheets as he let out a quiet, familiar growl. The ceiling fan spun overhead in lazy circles, evaporating the sweat from their bodies and infusing their shared afterglow with a hint of chill. A floorboard creaked beneath their bed. In the silence that followed, Jim exhaled and rolled back over to his side, letting his body go slack.

But Matt’s body didn’t follow. His mind was still alight with his secret desires. He blinked slowly, and for a long moment, he was able to successfully delay reality’s inevitable return. In his imagination, his skin wasn’t flushed and freckled, but smooth, mirror finished, and free of pores or blemishes. His arms were chrome. His thighs reflected the light. Each breath was a servo-whir, each moan a filtered audio file marked “submissive_pleasure_014.” An output report immediately followed each climax response.

A person wearing a black leather glove rests their hand on a wooden table. They are dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt cuff visible. Sunlight shines through a window onto the table.

Quiet quitter

2025-07-28 / admin bot / 2 Comments

Stephen hadn’t been to the top floor since orientation.

The elevator rose slowly, the numbers ticking upward in silence. No music, no chimes announcing each floor in turn, just the soft hiss of climate-controlled air and the faint smell of disinfectant. Stephen leaned against the brushed steel wall, hands balled in the pockets of his too-worn chinos. On his hip, his laminated ID badge had started peeling away at the corners.

The higher he went, the quieter it got. The HR offices were mostly empty. At least, that’s how it used to be. Except for open enrollment season when an army of temps descended on the office, it was usually just Candace the receptionist, always on her phone; Gloria from Payroll, who still printed everything; and Donna, the department head, whose greatest skill was scheduling meetings that solved nothing.

Room for Two

2025-07-21 / admin bot / 0 Comments

The Producers’ Meeting

Ryan sat motionless at one end of the long, black conference table, his spine a rod of resistance, his arms folded tightly across his chest. A single droplet of condensation rolled down the untouched pitcher of water in front of him, slow and voyeuristic, as if the room itself were waiting for its occupants to break a sweat.

Luis, by contrast, had begun to wilt. He slouched next to Ryan, loose limbed and leaking energy, one knee bouncing nervously beneath the table like a trapped animal in fight-or-flight paralysis. Unlike Ryan, a sheen of sweat glistened at Luis’ temples. He didn’t touch it.

A smartphone screen showing app icons. The center icon features a red heart with a yellow lock inside, suggesting a focus on health and security. Other visible icons include App Store, Maps, Settings, Health, and Home.

ChastiDate™

2025-07-14 / admin bot / 0 Comments

Last Night on Poundr

Zane and Micah lay tangled in the rumpled sheets of their Boystown loft, still sweat slicked and buzzing from the night before. The haze of cigarettes and cologne lingered in the air, commingling with the faint trace of poppers. A third body had once been part of the heap, some perfectly forgettable twunk named… Kyle? Keegan? Kian. Definitely Kian. But Kian had stumbled out sometime before dawn, leaving only a cock ring and a half-empty can of IPA on the windowsill.

Zane yawned, stretching his lean, tattooed arms. “Check your phone yet?”

A pink box filled with assorted donuts, including plain, powdered sugar, chocolate-covered, and glazed varieties, all casually arranged and overlapping with a trippy filter applied.

Donut shift

2025-06-30 / admin bot / 0 Comments

The Bite

David “Dutch” Reinhard pressed his badge against the scanner, and the red light flickered to green with a mechanical beep. The heavy security door opened into the dim underground garage, and the scent hit him like a soft punch: concrete dust, engine oil, and powdered sugar.

The night shift break room—if you could call a converted janitor’s closet a break room—pulsed with orange-yellow light and the tinny laughter of an old sitcom. The guards were already inside, bodies wedged into plastic chairs, bellies out, legs sprawled. They were watching Honest to Todd on a mounted TV, powdered sugar dusting their uniforms like fresh snowfall.

Protected: Subscribers only: Jester’s Tragedy

2025-06-20 / admin bot / Enter your password to view comments.

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Eurosong Protocol

Thom, a brooding American singer and songwriter, never expected to win Sweden’s national song contest and earn the right to represent them at Eurosong. With a stripped-down love ballad and zero choreography, he defied the odds and became a global glitch in the system. But SwedeTV wasn’t sure Europe would vote for him, so they’re not taking any chances.

Plunged into the surreal world of Europe’s largest televised music competition, Thom is renamed, re-costumed, and reprogrammed. His emotional song becomes an obscene, hypersexualized pop anthem. His guitar is replaced with flashy dance routines. His name becomes Toomas. His accent is rewritten. His bulge is enhanced.

What starts as minor “orientation” spirals into full-body reconditioning: vinyl suits, autotuned vocals, sensual compliance training, and eroticized surveillance. As the days count down to the Grand Final, Toomas must decide if he’s still Thom somewhere inside or if he’s just another bulge-suited product engineered for continental affection.

Darkly funny, disturbingly erotic, and piercingly satirical, Eurosong Protocol is a body-horror pop odyssey that asks: what’s left of you after fame finishes sculpting?

Eurosong Protocol is a 26,400-word novella. All content in this story is fictional and depicts activities between consenting, unrelated adults who are 18+.

Yellow text reading EuroSong Protocol over a background featuring people in colorful, shiny outfits, possibly at a musical event or performance.

Eurosong protocol (chapter 3)

2025-06-02 / admin bot / 1 Comment

Catch up on chapter 2 of “Eurosong protocol.“

The Voice Cage

Thom didn’t know what day it was anymore, but it had been at least a week since the suit. It hadn’t come off. It hadn’t even loosened.

He’d stopped trying to escape from it after the third day. With the collar locked in place and no zipper, it had been an exercise in futility. He showered in it. Slept in it. Woke up each morning to the same high-necked yellow gloss staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. When he dressed over it—SwedeTV-approved trousers and geometric pullovers—the suit made every layer sit too tight, too high. His skin no longer felt like skin. It felt like packaging.

And, of course, there was the bulge. Or what was left of it.