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Tag: humiliation
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Thom, a brooding American singer and songwriter, never expected to win Sweden’s national song contest and earn the right to represent them at Eurosong. With a stripped-down love ballad and zero choreography, he defied the odds and became a global glitch in the system. But SwedeTV wasn’t sure Europe would vote for him, so they’re not taking any chances.
Plunged into the surreal world of Europe’s largest televised music competition, Thom is renamed, re-costumed, and reprogrammed. His emotional song becomes an obscene, hypersexualized pop anthem. His guitar is replaced with flashy dance routines. His name becomes Toomas. His accent is rewritten. His bulge is enhanced.
What starts as minor “orientation” spirals into full-body reconditioning: vinyl suits, autotuned vocals, sensual compliance training, and eroticized surveillance. As the days count down to the Grand Final, Toomas must decide if he’s still Thom somewhere inside or if he’s just another bulge-suited product engineered for continental affection.
Darkly funny, disturbingly erotic, and piercingly satirical, Eurosong Protocol is a body-horror pop odyssey that asks: what’s left of you after fame finishes sculpting?
Eurosong Protocol is a 26,400-word novella. All content in this story is fictional and depicts activities between consenting, unrelated adults who are 18+.
Catch up on chapter 2 of “Eurosong protocol.“
The Voice Cage
Thom didn’t know what day it was anymore, but it had been at least a week since the suit. It hadn’t come off. It hadn’t even loosened.
He’d stopped trying to escape from it after the third day. With the collar locked in place and no zipper, it had been an exercise in futility. He showered in it. Slept in it. Woke up each morning to the same high-necked yellow gloss staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. When he dressed over it—SwedeTV-approved trousers and geometric pullovers—the suit made every layer sit too tight, too high. His skin no longer felt like skin. It felt like packaging.
And, of course, there was the bulge. Or what was left of it.
Continue readingCatch up on chapter 1 of “Eurosong protocol.“
The Measurement Room
The handler didn’t speak.
Nor had he the night before, when he delivered Thom to his new residence just past 23:00. He handed Thom a keycard without explanation and disappeared into the corridor like a shadow from a forgotten nightmare. This morning was no different. Tall, angular, and dressed in SwedeTV-standard black with white piping, he walked precisely five steps ahead of Thom, maintaining just enough distance to preempt conversation.
Thom had counted three right turns, one left, and then a ramp with no apparent descent before he gave up. The broadcaster’s headquarters were impossible to navigate—white on white, matte surfaces broken only by the occasional glowing icon pulsing on a wall panel. No signage, no windows. Even the lighting was unnatural.
Continue readingThe Winner
Tune in over the next several weeks as American folk singer Thom discovers what it really takes to represent Sweden on the biggest stage in Europe.
The carpet was too soft. Every step Thom took sank just slightly, like walking over memory foam. The corridor walls stretched too long and curved just enough that he couldn’t tell if they were leading him deeper or circling back. The production assistant hadn’t said a word since they’d left reception. The tall, expressionless man in a black polo shirt with the SwedeTV logo embroidered on his chest—no badge, no name—just pressed on.
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Office politics
“Your golden boy is a walking lawsuit.”
Jules Wexler dropped the thick personnel file onto Landon Shaw’s desk with the dramatic flair of someone who had earned the right to make it land like a gavel. The manila folder splayed open, exposing a collage of typed complaints, red-ink annotations, and HR bleeding red flags.
Landon didn’t flinch. He glanced down, uninterested. His espresso was still steaming, untouched, beside a single Montblanc pen that cost more than some of his junior associates made in a month.
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Read chapter 1 of “The office dad” before reading on…
Hal rode the elevator to the fifth floor and approached the glass doors of his new office suite. They opened with a soft hiss, and Hal hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, immediately hit by the hum of activity. The sleek, modern space was just as intimidating as he’d feared—polished concrete floors, open workstations, giant monitors, and the steady click-clack of keyboards filled the air. This is their world, he thought. And I’m just visiting.
Hal tugged at his tight white dress shirt, feeling it ride up with his every step. The familiar pressure on his belly returned, his anxiety spiking. The shirt was pulled so taut that he feared it would give up any second. He tried to focus on the immediate task at hand—check in, find his way around, and get through the day without drawing too much attention to himself.
Continue readingHal stood in front of the full-length mirror, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his white dress shirt. It clung to his belly, pulling tight enough that he feared the buttons might pop off at any moment. The fabric stretched over his chest, the small gaps between each button creating a thin, mocking line down the middle.
He hooked a finger into the collar and tugged, trying to give himself a bit of breathing room, but it was no use. Great, he thought, feeling the material dig into his neck. It wasn’t just tight—it felt like the shirt was slowly trying to strangle him. Hal let out a frustrated sigh and took a step back, inspecting the damage.
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Travis Barnes always woke up 16 minutes before his alarm clock sounded. Every weekday morning at 4:14, his eyes opened. He lay motionless until 4:29. He wasn’t sure if he had conditioned himself to do this or whether the implant dictated his actions even at this early hour. He gazed up at the ceiling of his room at the halfway house, savoring the last few minutes of repose he would have until long after the sun set that night. He thought he noticed a new crack forming near the corner above his head, but he couldn’t be sure. After so many months in the program, the days had begun to run together. There was little sense in paying attention to such minutiae.
As he counted down the minutes, Travis tried not to think about the sequence of events that landed him in this mess. Nevertheless, the memory always returned, eating up valuable seconds of his vanishing downtime. Like with the alarm clock. Travis couldn’t tell if it was his own guilty conscience or the implant that dredged up the memory every morning. The program’s administrators refused to explain the details.
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