M4M kink writing. Control and transformation of men. 18+ only.
Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.
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.
Continue readingOwen 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.
Continue readingWhen Matt’s carefully controlled life begins to crack under the weight of a secret desire, he turns to an obscure online forum in search of something he’s never dared voice aloud: the need to become a machine.
What begins as a fantasy spirals into something far more immersive when he counters Ben, a man offering a full sensory protocol, promising conversion, not cosplay. With his reality overwritten and his identity suspended, Matt submits to a new existence. Sleek, obedient, and inhuman.
Continue readingHey 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
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.
Continue readingRead Chapter 1 to get caught up before reading on…
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.
Continue readingMatt 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.
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The door creaked open with a slam of dust and summer heat. Eli Cotton’s thick, bulky body filled the frame, but his downturned eyes and stooped shoulders made him look more like a man sneaking into his own funeral. Sweat clung to his throat, his brow, and even the hollow of his chest where his shirt gaped open. He clutched his hat in both hands, twisting the brim nervously, eyes darting to the floorboards before glancing up.
“Mr. Mercer,” he said, his baritone voice sheepish. “Crops are failin’.”
At his desk, Silas Mercer didn’t look up right away. He was seated behind a desk so polished it practically gleamed in the light spilling through the lace-curtained windows. His perfectly fitted black leather gloves creaked as he turned a page in his ledger. Neatly stacked beside him were a dozen IOUs, some already signed in Eli’s scrawled penmanship, others still pristine and waiting.
Continue readingEveryone had seen the footage a thousand times already, so no one in the conference room spoke when it played on the screen. Someone’s shaky camera phone had recorded the Jumbotron at a concert over the weekend, and eighteen seconds of wobbly, tinny video had taken the internet by storm. Now, two marriages and a billion-dollar company were put to the test.
The stadium crowd roared in the background, but the audio was turned down. Adam’s body pressed close against Gareth’s. Too close for a CEO and his head of human resources, especially when they were both married to other men. Adam’s chin rested near Gareth’s neck, and their drifting, intertwined hands rested just a little too low on Gareth’s hips. “KISS CAM” flashed beneath their blissfully ignorant faces in bright red block letters.
Continue readingStephen 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.
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