M4M kink writing. Control and transformation of men. 18+ only.
Drake always told himself he wasn’t like the others.
He knew all about his boyfriend Michael’s specialist kink—the serial numbers, the leather gloves, the obedience conditioning. He’d watched the transformations, the way Michael smoothed men over, reprogrammed them and paired them off like dolls. He’d seen the glassy eyes and the scripted lines. Hell, he’d even helped pick outfits and personalities for their new lives as retired assets after Michael lost interest in them.
Continue readingFrank’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as they pulled into town, knuckles pale beneath his sun-darkened skin. The truck groaned a little under the weight of Brendan’s belongings—a life packed up in boxes after a messy breakup Frank had no interest in hearing about.
Brendan sat hunched in the passenger seat, arms folded, jaw tight. His thick-rimmed glasses slid a little down his nose every time they hit a bump. He pushed them back up with a tired flick of his finger. He wore a gray hoodie, threadbare from too many washes, and skinny jeans cuffed above worn sneakers. His dark hair was shaggy, grown long at the sides—messy in a way Frank suspected was intentional.
Continue readingThe confessional was dark, save for the flickering candlelight casting broken patterns against the wooden partition. The air, thick with ghostly wisps of incense, felt even heavier with something deeper—unspoken desires pressing against the walls, waiting to be exposed, waiting to be exorcised.
Nathan knelt on the worn leather cushion, his hands folded tightly on the tabletop. His belly, straining the buttons of his shirt, pressed against the prayer kneeler with each shallow breath. The act of kneeling itself sent a strange thrill down his spine. He closed his eyes and exhaled, slow and unsteady.
Continue readingJournal entry: March 3rd
Location: The goddamn coffee shop. Across the street. Where I always am.
I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe if I get the words out of my head, they’ll stop echoing so loudly. Maybe if I force them onto the page, I’ll finally see how absurd all of this is. How ridiculous. How wrong.
Or maybe—God help me—I just want to remember.
They’re at the restaurant again. Our restaurant. Or at least, it was ours, once. Now it belongs to them. Rod and Jason. The happy couple. The perfect pair. The ones who fit together like puzzle pieces while I sit here alone, watching.
Continue readingCarter and Ken strode into the glass-and-chrome office building, shoulders brushing slightly against each other as they passed through the revolving doors. Best friends for over a decade in addition to coworkers, they were inseparable, though neither would have described the other as their “type” if asked.
Carter, the taller of the two, was broad shouldered with a sharp jawline dusted in a five o’clock shadow that always seemed intentional. His hair was dark brown, neatly styled, and it still fell perfectly across his forehead even after a long day. Beneath his tailored charcoal suit, his chest filled out his shirt in all the right ways. Athletic but not bulky, Carter’s lean build reflected his commitment to taking care of himself without obsessing over it. His deep-set hazel eyes gave him a commanding presence, drawing curious, enamored glances whenever he entered a room.
Continue readingWant to see how this turns out? Buy “Welcome to PulseTown™” on Kindle for the rest of the story.
The old Prospect Bend VFW hall smelled like sawdust, sweat, and coffee gone stale in the pot. The scent was decades old—as permanent as the cracked linoleum floor and faded American flag pinned to the back wall.
The men gathered inside were tired. Not just from the heat—though the single oscillating fan in the corner wasn’t doing much to cool the high desert air. Not just from the years of hard labor—though their calloused hands, stooped shoulders, and sun-weathered faces spoke of decades spent working ranches, mending fences, and running businesses that stopped turning profits years ago.
No, they were tired because they had lost.
Continue readingThe first time my roommate Nick joked about being an ATM, I just laughed.
“Wouldn’t it be great if you could just text me for cash?” he said. “Like a personal ATM. No fees, no stress. Just instant withdrawals.”
“Yeah, sure,” I replied, scrolling my phone, not giving it much thought.
At the time, it sounded like one of his usual bits—Nick had always been a generous guy, the type to cover dinner without a second thought. But looking back, that was probably the first sign.
Continue readingKyle never meant to go viral. At 35, he was barely holding his life together—scraping by in a dead-end job at an auto parts store, single for three years, and generally just existing. He wasn’t unhappy, per se, but he also wasn’t much of anything at all. With just enough spare cash to keep his gym membership, his days consisted of long, tedious shifts on the sales floor and grueling hours on the weight bench. He’d have an occasional date if he were lucky but never managed to seal the deal with a guy.
One night after too many beers, he recorded a stupid video of himself trying to assemble an IKEA shelf without instructions. He narrated it like an overconfident dad who refused to admit he was lost.
Continue readingCaden adjusted the collar of his tight black shirt, letting his fingers trace the line of the perfectly tailored fabric. His reflection stared back at him in the full-length bedroom mirror, a mix of confidence and vanity gleaming in his pale green eyes. His body was his trophy, earned through long, sweaty hours at the gym and an unrelenting diet of grilled chicken, kale smoothies, and tequila shots—the latter strictly for social purposes, of course.
His lean frame was a masterwork—a canvas of sharp angles and taut, tanned skin. His chest was broad but not overbuilt, his waist narrow and cutting a sharp V into his low-slung trousers. His jawline, always adorned with just the right amount of stubble, was one of his best features, or so he’d been told. Caden knew how to use his looks—whether that meant an easy smirk that won over a bartender or the slow, deliberate way he unbuttoned a shirt when he knew someone was watching.
Continue readingIn the brightly lit offices of the Bureau of Gay Cloning Compliance, Nate adjusted his tie. He stared at the blinking red notification on his holographic work tablet. It was another anomaly. Of course it was.
“Opposites attract,” he muttered, scrolling through the flagged file. “Not on my watch.”
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