Jay Hypno Writer

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

Tag: transformation (Page 1 of 6)

Quid pro quo

2025-04-21 / / 0 Comments

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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Book cover for “Spent Casings” showing a split image: on the left, a man in a suit drinks coffee in a city café; on the right, a bearded man in a flannel shirt and cap stands in a forest.

Spent Casings

Will Reed walked into the firing range looking for clarity. What he found was Burke Lawson—gruff, grounded, and impossibly unreadable. As Will trades curated dinners and performative politics for steel, sweat, and submission, a new identity begins to form—one built on quiet control, earned respect, and the searing gravity of command.

But Burke isn’t just a mentor. He’s a man with his own edge—one that wants to yield, if only someone would take him.

Spent Casings is a 9,900-word slow-burn gay romance of masculine transformation, power exchanged in silence, and desire forged in smoke and spent brass. For readers who crave rough tenderness, reverent obedience, and the kind of devotion that kneels without shame.

All content in this story is fictional and depicts activities between consenting, unrelated adults who are 18+.

Close-up of a person wearing black leather gloves and a dark suit with white cuffs.

Numbered assets

2025-03-31 / / 3 Comments

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. 

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A glitchy, sepia-toned image of a bedroom with two twin beds. The ornate, dark headboards and patterned bedspreads are partially distorted by digital effects. A small nightstand with a book or papers is placed between the beds.

Pleasanton hospitality

2025-03-24 / / 0 Comments

Frank’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. 

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Tiles spelling RESOLUTIONS are placed on a dark textured background. Each letter is on a separate tile resembling Scrabble pieces, complete with point values.

Resolutions 8: Severing Old Ties

2025-02-27 / / 3 Comments

Read from the beginning of this serialized novel at “Resolutions.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as Graham stood at the counter, stirring a splash of cream into his mug. He stared absently at the swirling liquid, his mind wandering to the plans they had made a month ago—a casual Sunday brunch with a group of close friends and acquaintances. Graham had been looking forward to it, and after the past week with Max in the house, he needed a break.

Tobias entered the room, already dressed for the day in pressed slacks and a fitted button-up shirt. He carried his tablet, eyes fixed on the screen as he poured himself a coffee.

“Max, what’s the schedule for today?” Tobias asked, setting the tablet on the counter.

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Two people holding hands, seen from behind. One is wearing a blue plaid shirt and jeans, while the other wears a light gray top and brown pants. The background is softly blurred, giving a warm and intimate feeling.

Out and proud

2025-02-24 / / 0 Comments

Carter 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. 

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A man in a pink shirt and hat stands in the foreground with arms open under a neon sign reading Welcome to Pulsetown. Six men in suits with pink ties cheer in the background. Text at the bottom says Jay Hypno.

Welcome to PulseTown™

Tucked away in the Oregon high desert is the dying town of Prospect Bend. PulseTech, a mysterious corporate entity, promises to revitalize and save Prospect Bend from bankruptcy. As the townspeople sign away their autonomy, they are systematically reshaped into the perfect vision of masculinity: bronzed, sculpted, obedient, and mindlessly content. Old-school cowboy Buck Stamets, weary priest Father Dale, and paranoid libertarian Nate “The Pate” Ferguson each try to resist in their own way, but PulseTech’s grip is relentless, turning them into willing disciples of a new order where strength is pleasure, thinking is obsolete, and flexing is the highest virtue. A darkly satirical dystopian horror laced with humor, eroticism, and body horror, Welcome to PulseTown™ explores what happens when corporate influence becomes a town’s ultimate aesthetic rebranding.

Welcome to PulseTown™ is a 10,500-word novelette. All content in this story is fictional and depicts activities between consenting, unrelated adults who are 18+.

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. Earl Lindstrom, mayor of Prospect Bend, wiped the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief, unknowingly yet symbolically waving a flag of surrender. He cleared his throat and tried to look in control, but his weak, tinny voice immediately betrayed his true self. “All right, folks. Let’s come to order,” he said, smacking a gavel against a sagging foldable card table. After leading the room in the Lord’s Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance, he plucked a page of notes from the table, the paper crinkling in his chubby hands. “I know lots of us are worried. I know it ain’t good. But we got a way forward.” Murmurs rippled through the room. Everyone knew how the numbers looked. Half a century of ignorance and resistance to change had bankrupted the town. Three generations of elected leaders had squandered, mismanaged, and embezzled from the town’s coffers. The police department barely functioned. The streets were crumbling. Half the storefronts on Independence Avenue were boarded up. Some bean-counting bureaucrat at the State Capitol in Salem had given Prospect Bend an ultimatum. Either return the town to solvency or be forcibly disincorporated. Wiped off the map. Which is why the men from PulseTech were there. Three of them—tall, polished, and impeccably dressed—cut impressive figures at the mayor’s table. Their haircuts were precise, their suits casual but expensive looking, their smiles just wide enough to feel disarming. Despite the sweltering summer heat, they sat perfectly at ease, hands folded as they waited for the townspeople to finish simmering in their own misery. Mayor Lindstrom concluded his long-winded assessment of the town’s dire straits. Then, he yielded the floor to the frontman of the PulseTech team. He was young for an executive, maybe thirty-five, with a square jaw and a confident stance. His charcoal gray suit and fitted white shirt seemed impervious to the dust and grime that swept through Prospect Bend whenever the winds changed. He leaned forward slightly, drawing the townspeople in. “Mayor Lindstrom, thank you for having us,” he said smoothly. The winds were changing, indeed. “Gentlemen, my name is Grant Hudson. I’m with PulseTech.” Grant’s voice was calm and assured, with an untraceable Generican accent and a slight rising tone at the end of each sentence. A voice like his could make any bad news sound like an opportunity. “We understand your concerns,” Grant continued. “Prospect Bend is facing serious financial hardship. Your elected leaders and small business owners have done their best, but traditional solutions aren’t enough. The world is changing, and towns like this—well, they either adapt or get left behind.” A calculated silence allowed the townspeople to absorb his words. A few scowled. Others just nodded grimly. The man was right. “But we have a solution,” Grand said, smiling. “A full-scale revitalization project—privately funded, expertly managed, and designed to bring Prospect Bend into the future.” The mayor shifted in his seat, the cheap folding chair creaking under his weight. “Now, Grant, we appreciate the offer, but this is a simple, plain-speaking ranching community. What exactly does this deal mean for us?” Grant’s smile widened. “It means your problems go away.” The sales pitch was adequate, if blunt. A ripple of tension passed through the room. Grant waited for the rumblings to die down before he continued. “We take over essential services. Law enforcement, infrastructure, utilities. We eliminate inefficiencies, cut waste, and prioritize modernization. Improvements attract new businesses, bring in new residents, and increase property values for everyone.” “And in return?” Someone grunted from the back of the room. Grant, as if anticipating the question, spread his hands wide. “Just a little governance consultation.” The murmurs grew louder. Mayor Lindstrom raised a hand. “Now, hold on, let’s hear ’em out.” Grant nodded. “Look, gentlemen. We’re not here to take over your town. We’re here to advise and consult. You’ll still have a mayor. Still have local businesses. However, the town manager position will be held by an employee of PulseTech. His office will provide leadership. Direction. A vision.” He took a breath and then delivered the final pitch. “PulseTech can return prosperity to Prospect Bend. And all it takes is one signature.” He pulled a sleek tablet from his briefcase and set it on the table before the mayor. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, from the back, a voice cut through the silence. “And what if we say no?” Everyone turned, forming a halo of contorted bodies around Buck Stamets, the last real cowboy in Prospect Bend. He sat with his arms crossed, a permanent scowl etched onto his sunburnt face. His jeans were stained with dirt, his boots caked in mud and bits of scrub grass, and his hat was pulled low over his sharp, lined features. He looked at Grant like a man looks at a rattlesnake that got too close to the porch. Grant didn’t flinch. He maintained his calm, painted-on smile. “Then you go bankrupt.” Mayor Lindstrom heaved himself out of his chair, his trick knee popping with a grotesque crack as he got to his feet. “He’s right about that, Buck. We’ve all read the notice from that fatass down in Salem. Disincorporation is the only other option.” “Or maybe we could elect someone competent and fix our own damn town.” A few men muttered in agreement. “Fix it with prayers.” another voice cut in. All eyes moved across the room to Father Dale Peterson, standing near the exit, his Bible tucked under one arm, a rosary hanging from his cassock’s belt, a frown carved into his usually peaceful face. “Faith has carried us through hard times before,” Father Dale said, his voice steady. “You gentlemen come here with your money, fine clothes, and promises, but the Lord doesn’t ask for a contract. He asks for trust. Community. That’s what holds a town together, not some out-of-state tech corporation with big ideas.” Grant tilted his head as if generally considering the cleric’s words. “Father,” he said lightly, “do you think faith alone is going to fix your roads? Restore your businesses? Pay your people?” Dale hesitated, and Grant pounced. “You say you want a strong community. Then, let us help you build one. A better one. A healthier one. A stronger one. We believe in the power of transformation, Father. We believe in making this town—and every man in it—the best they can be.” Father Dale clutched his Bible tighter as the townspeople averted their eyes. Not exactly blessed with the charism of preaching, the priest had failed yet again to inspire his flock with a meaningful sermon. Their problems would have been solved long ago if prayers could save the town. Unable to construct a response, Father Dale withdrew into the corner. “I got one question.” Nate Ferguson emerged from a group of men standing in the back. The only person to have moved to Prospect Bend in living memory, “Nate the Pate”—short for patriot—was a transplant from somewhere back east. Taciturn to a fault, Nate had made no close friends, and no one really knew much about him other than he was an untamable libertarian. He lived off -grid, hunting and fishing for his livelihood, and only came into town when necessary. “What happens to our freedom?” Nate asked, eliciting a few groans from the others in attendance. The Pate was nothing if not predictable. “Because I don’t trust any company that tells people what they can and can’t do.” Grant laughed and rested his perfectly manicured hands on the table. “Freedom isn’t going anywhere,” he said, nudging the tablet an inch closer to the mayor. “We’re giving you more than you’ve ever had before.” The room was silent. Mayor Lindstrom sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. He looked at Grant, the other two PulseTech goons, and then at his own people. Everyone in Prospect Bend was tired, desperate, and out of options. “Shall we put it to a vote?” Lindstrom asked. Grant had already proffered him a stylus to sign. The show of hands was conclusive if not a landslide. The town approved the deal by a vote of 29 in favor to 19 against, with Nate the Pate abstaining, having rejected the legitimacy of the town government. Without another word, Mayor Lindstrom took the stylus from Grant. He let the tip hover over the screen for a long moment of hesitation, and then he signed. The deal was done. Grant shook Lindstrom’s hand and turned to face the townspeople. “Gentlemen, welcome to the future.”

Welcome to PulseTown™

2025-02-17 / / 0 Comments

Want to see how this turns out? Buy “Welcome to PulseTown™” on Kindle for the rest of the story.

Chapter 1: The Contract

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. 

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Close-up of a person’s face with eyes edited to show green dollar signs in place of irises, symbolizing financial focus or obsession.

Human ATM

2025-02-10 / / 0 Comments

The 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. 

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Close-up of an Allen wrench, screws, and a bolt on a wooden surface. A blurred screwdriver is in the background. The image conveys the theme of assembling or repairing furniture or other items.

Going viral (My perfect dad 55)

2025-02-03 / / 2 Comments

Kyle 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. 

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All content on this blog is fictional and describes activities between consenting unrelated adults who are 18+.

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