Jay Hypno Writer

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

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I Want to Be a Cyborg (Chapter 1)

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. 

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Dust and debt

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. 

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Kiss cam

Everyone 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. 

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Quiet quitter

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.

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Room for Two

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. 

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ChastiDate™

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?” 

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Now available on Kindle: Husband, Husband, Neighbor

A gay chastity romance of temptation, denial, and surrender. 

Dylan and Paul are thick, fortysomething suburban husbands with a secret spice to their sex life: chastity play. It starts as a fun experiment. A steel cage, a weekend apart, and a playful sense of control. But when a blizzard delays Paul’s return from a business trip, Dylan’s self control begins to unravel. Every touch, every thought, and every hour alone in his cage makes him more desperate. 

Enter Mike, Dylan and Paul’s newly jacked neighbor with a smug grin and a home gym full of temptation. What begins as a harmless crush warps into something far more dangerous as Dylan’s sexual frustration distorts his judgment and his sense of loyalty. 

What happens when a kink meant to bring two husbands closer invites a third man in? When denial becomes devotion, and submission becomes a way of life? 

Equal parts erotic and emotional, Husband, Husband, Neighbor is a slow-burn gay chastity romance that explores what happens when desire gets caged, but obedience gets set free. Read chapter 1 on the site, and buy the whole story on Kindle.

The glove and the collar

The rectory was still, lit only by the faint golden spill from a desk lamp. Father Brad Whittaker sat at the edge of an old oak armchair, the burner phone hidden in his palm like contraband. The screen glowed in the dark, casting a blue light over his knuckles, which were white from the way he gripped it. 

He scrolled an app he swore he’d delete after just one more look. Profiles, a mostly anonymous and faceless parade of torsos and gear, harnesses and collars, whipped past. One profile pinged. 

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