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

Tag: superhero

I Don’t Own My Likeness 6

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Too Vesta

The casting office didn’t even have a logo on the door, just a taped-up sign in black marker: AUDIOCRIME CALLBACKS 9 AM – 2 PM. Below it was a polite request not to knock unless you were on the call sheet. 

Vince signed in just below someone named Derek, which felt like a cosmic joke, and took a seat in one of the tan plastic chairs that lined the beige hallway. The walls were peeling, the carpet was low pile, and a little ring light glowed behind a half-open doorway. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 5

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Alone on the Bridge

He wasn’t supposed to be there. 

The studio lot, usually a hive of motion and caffeine-fueled logistics, had settled into an off-season hush. Only one gate was open after hours now, guarded by a prefab security shack and a bored-looking man in mirrored sunglasses scrolling through a phone. 

Vince hadn’t thought about his ID badge. He reached for it out of habit, half aware it was clipped to his belt loop, and only remembered its uselessness when the scanner chirped red. The guard looked up, unmoved. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 3

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Wrap Party with Ghosts

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. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 2

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

The Last Unzip

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. 

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I Don’t Own My Likeness 1

Hey 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 

One Last Take 

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. 

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Adventures of DadMan: The Client is Always Wrong (Part 3)

Catch up on part 2 of “The Client is Always Wrong” before reading on…

Part 3: Servant Leadership 

The rain came down in sheets, hammering the windows of the cozy townhouse tucked into the sleepy cul-de-sac like applause from the sky. Inside, it was all warmth: amber firelight flickering across hardwood floors, the soft drone of a streaming reality show half watched, and the smell of cinnamon from some fancy coffee drink Frank had insisted on making despite Mike’s teasing. 

Frank was curled under a blanket on the sofa, gray-socked feet resting on the coffee table as he scrolled through his phone. Mike, hair tousled from the shower, leaned back in the armchair with a dog-eared paperback, one finger holding his place while he sipped his room-temperature mug of “Mocha Minty” and tried not to smirk. 

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Adventures of DadMan: The Client is Always Wrong (Part 2)

Catch up on part 1 of “The Client is Always Wrong” before reading on…

Part 2: Slow Correction 

The next morning, the lobby of Langston & Smythe Accountancy, Inc., was tranquil. The receptionist, Jason, sat blinking down at the steaming cup of coffee placed neatly on his desk. On the crisp cardboard sleeve, a smily face was drawn in permanent marker. Jason glanced up, perplexed, at the broad-shouldered man who had just handed it to him. 

“Uh… thanks?” he said cautiously. 

Brandon gave him what was clearly meant to be a warm smile. It appeared to have been copied from a YouTube tutorial on executive charm. “You’ve been so helpful this week,” he said, his voice more measured than usual. “Figured it was the least I could do to show my appreciation.” 

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Adventures of DadMan: The Client is Always Wrong (Part 1)

Part 1: The Spark of Discipline

Living up to its pretentious name, Bistro Bistro had a self-consciously sleek ambience particular to the upper tier of the city’s dining scene: cool lighting, leather banquettes, waitstaff in minimalist black, and wine lists that read like doctoral dissertations. It was the kind of place Mike wouldn’t have chosen himself—he preferred something cozier, more homestyle cooking and less performance art—but tonight Frank was celebrating surviving a particularly hellish client project, and Mike, ever gracious, had let him pick the restaurant. 

They sat tucked into a semi-private alcove near the window, their fingers brushing across the crisp table linen as they shared a plate of olives and sipped on Tempranillo. Mike, as always, wore his quiet elegance like a second skin. With salt-and-pepper stubble, thin glasses framing his intelligent eyes, and a voice that rarely rose above a murmur, Mike knew how to disappear in a room unless he wanted to be noticed. Frank loved that about him. 

But tonight, someone else wanted attention. 

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