Jay Hypno Writer

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

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The pageant, part 1 (My perfect dad 49)

What a difference a year makes. 

Patrick walked across the parking lot from his SUV to the venue, feeling like a stranger in a strange land. His leather jacket and pants creaked with each step, and his right hand formed an apprehensive fist in its tight, shiny glove. The Muir cap in his left hand had become a relic of a bygone era, and despite being clad head to toe in custom leather gear, Patrick was reluctant to don the cap. 

“Hang in there, Sir,” Patrick’s boyfriend Vince said as he jogged to keep up with Patrick’s purposeful gait. “It’ll be over soon.” 

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DadMan, part 2 (My perfect dad 48)

Read part 1 of “DadMan” to get caught up

Buzzwords was a trendy coffee shop near the university campus, full of tweedy young professors waxing dialectic, shy college students hunched over chessboards, and aging hipsters with a veritable prism of hair colors. It wasn’t where I’d have chosen to meet for a first date, but Frank, the beefy accounting executive of my dreams, lived in one of the medium-rise condos nearby and suggested meeting there. As I walked from my car to the cafe, I wondered which building he lived in. Whichever it was, my modest suburban townhome paled in comparison.  

I arrived first, ordered a coffee, and claimed a table by the windows to catch Frank’s arrival. I didn’t have to wait long. I hadn’t been seated for two minutes before he rounded the corner with a bounce in his step and a casual grin on his face. He was dressed in a navy blue two-piece suit that so accentuated his build that it must’ve been made to measure. Each step he took up the sidewalk drew my attention to a different part of his body: his big thighs, his broad shoulders, the way his belly strained at the buttons of his dress shirt. He caught me staring through the windows as he made his final approach and smiled wide. I stood to greet him, and we shook hands when he arrived at my table.  

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DadMan, part 1 (My perfect dad 47)

I had sworn off dating as my New Year’s resolution. Between my busy day job at the advertising agency and my secret side hustle that was becoming harder and harder to keep secret, I just didn’t have the time or patience for the snake pit of dating apps. My decade-long relationship ended last summer, and at 45, I wasn’t old, but I wasn’t young anymore, either. Out of practice and wanting something more than a one-night stand, I felt like re-entering the city’s dating scene was the romantic equivalent of a polar bear plunge. The more I tried to adapt to the culture of swiping, sexting, unmatching, and ghosting, the older, less relevant, and less desirable I felt. 

And then I met Frank. The attraction was instantaneous; I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt sparks upon meeting a guy. Frank had recently transferred from his accounting firm’s HQ in Boston to run a field office in the same building as my ad agency. About the same age as me, he radiated the refreshing confidence of someone who no longer needed to prove himself. He cut an impressive figure in a suit and tie, too. Just a whisper taller than my six feet, Frank had the build of an ex-college athlete who’d gotten quite comfortable in the C-suite. The way his belly pushed against his belt buckle, making it rest atop the ample bulge in his slacks, drove me wild. His thick, chestnut hair had more than a touch of gray at the temples, and while he was cleanshaven when I first met him, he’d let his salt-and-pepper beard grow in, much to my delight. Frank was a welcome change from the guys who cluttered up all the dating apps and prowled the back rooms at Buddies, our city’s local bear bar. Mature, easygoing, and drop-dead sexy, he was just my type.  

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Robot cops (chapter 5)

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.   

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Robot cops (chapter 4)

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.  

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Robot cops (chapter 3)

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.”  

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Robot cops (chapter 2)

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.  

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Robot cops (chapter 1)

Bryan noticed the officer directing traffic on the corner just in time and killed the accelerator on his hovercar. The vehicle glided to a smooth stop at the end of a long line of hovercars waiting to clear the intersection, and Bryan eased his foot off the brake. He couldn’t tell what was causing the logjam, but he was grateful. Having to wait gave Bryan the time to carefully watch the officer standing in the middle of the street, using its hands to allow one hovercar from each side to pass through the intersection at a time.  

Bryan had never seen a human patrol officer before, and it was likely that neither had anyone his age. It had been 44 years since the national police had begun replacing human patrol officers with the PX4s, commissioning new models as vacancies opened through promotion or attrition. Nearly 26 years ago, the last four remaining human patrol officer turned in their badges and sidearms, and the lower ranks had been composed entirely of PX officers ever since. Detectives and other higher ranking members of the police force were still human, of course, because criminal investigations required more than the PX programming could offer.  

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Whisper what you’ll bring me

My husband Terry squeezed me awake, and I looked around the living room bleary eyed. I could never stay awake in front of the TV. The Christmas movie we’d started watching was over, and a poor cover version of “Jingle Bell Rock” played over the closing credits. Instinctively, I reached for my phone to check the time, hoping I hadn’t overslept.  

I felt his beard graze my bald scalp as he moved in to kiss me. The scratchy sensation sent shivers down my spine. “I’m sorry I passed out,” I said. I stood up and stretched, already missing the warmth radiating from his body. I rechecked the clock more surreptitiously this time. It was 11:54 p.m. Only six minutes until Christmas.  

“It’s okay,” Terry said, reaching out to me. I grasped his hands and pulled him into a standing position. We laughed as both of his knees cracked on the way up. “I love napping on the sofa with you, but if I don’t get in bed, I’ll be a pretzel when I wake up tomorrow.”  

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Husband, Husband, Neighbor (Part 5)

Read part 4 of “Husband, Husband, Neighbor” to get caught up before reading on…

By Thursday afternoon, I was a wreck. Gone was the focused productivity of the previous workday, and in its place was a sweaty, horny, humiliating distraction. Every time I rested my fingers on the keyboard to respond to an email or update a client file, my caged cock practically cried out to be fondled. Again and again, my right hand abandoned the desktop and drifted between my legs. Every time, I felt nothing but disappointment and the lack of stimulation as my fingertips bumped against the inert barrier encasing my junk.  

After dismal performances in the day’s first two meetings, my coworkers expressed concerns, and my manager eventually “encouraged” me to take the rest of the day off. With nothing at home to distract me, I ran some errands. If sitting at my desk in the privacy of my own home had been frustrating, nothing prepared me for the way the heavy cage undulated between my thighs with every step I took. More than once, I caught myself staring at my bulge in public, and I was sure that everyone else was, too.  

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