M4M kink writing. Control and transformation of men. 18+ only.
Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.
The waiting room looked expensive in the way a dental spa looked expensive. Overdesigned and underfelt. Framed posters lined the pristine white walls, all rendered in oversized metallic print.
Spacedock Omega — 7 Seasons of Galactic Glory!
Every Star Has a Story.
Thank You, Captain Vesta!
Continue readingGet caught up on chapter 1 before reading on…
A pot of chamomile steeped quietly on the counter, casting a faint floral warmth through the apartment. Their shared desk—actually an old dining table they’d promised to replace twice—was littered with swatches, menu printouts, and two half-charged laptops facing each other like opponents in a civilized duel. Outside, the city exhaled softly through the windows, distant sirens and the hush of weekend traffic. Inside, things finally felt back in rhythm.
“I’m veoting anywhere with scorpions,” Seamus said, scrolling past another too-good-to-be-true resort promo. “Or ‘open-air showers.’ That’s just code for mosquitoes without boundaries.”
Continue readingIn a world shaped by the collapse of the AI revolution, society turns to an unlikely savior: dads. State sanctioned, compression suited, emotionally optimized dads. Zach is prematurely activated into DadNet, a nationwide program that converts ordinary men into obedient, comforting father figures. His best friend Trevor is left behind, watching helplessly as Zach’s identity is overwritten by apron-clad purpose and programmable warmth.
But Zach doesn’t go quietly.
His new life begins, complete with casserole dishes, chore charts, and daily affirmations, but Zach begins to remember fragments of who he used to be. His glitchy reawakening draws him back to Trevor’s doorstep, kicking off a strange, tender reunion filled with domestic rituals, emotional recalibrations, and the slow, terrifying return of the firmware.
Continue readingRead from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.
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.
Continue readingThe lights overhead glowed warm against the polished wood of the long table, their gentle twinkle catching in the rims of champagne flutes and the brass buttons of semi-formal jackets. Laughter rang out from different corners of the room—distant cousins clinking glasses, work friends hearing embarrassing teenage stories for the first time, someone pressing play on a nostalgic playlist that made Charlie groan and grin. Seamus stood near the head of the table, a glass of champagne in one hand, the other resting on Charlie’s lower back. The gesture was casual, yet proprietary. In a word, perfect.
The back room of the restaurant had been dressed to impress. String lights adorned the ivy-covered trellises, the table boasted a trio of custom hydrangea and rosemary centerpieces, and the faint scent of the main course’s roasted garlic and truffle oil still lingered in the air. Their friends had joked it looked like a scene from a lifestyle blog, and Charlie had winked. “That’s what happens when you let the control freak plan things.”
Continue readingRead 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 reading© 2025 Jay Hypno Writer
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
