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 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 readingTucked 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+.
Want 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.”
Continue readingTaking a break from ThinkTech to publish this twisted short story just in time for Christmas.
Snow swirled outside the frosted windows of Santa’s workshop, glinting like glitter under cones of light cast by a row of red and white striped lampposts. Inside, however, chaos reigned. Elves scurried to and fro, arms laden with partially wrapped toys, tangles of ribbon trailing behind them. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle tooted frantically. The reindeer were braying, eager to embark on their annual marathon journey.
Santa Claus, as he strutted through the workshop with a commanding air, wasn’t the jolly, rotund old man depicted in Christmas cards. No, this Santa was a man on a mission. Broad shouldered and barrel chested, he nearly burst the seams of his iconic red suit. His snugly tailored crimson coat accentuated a robust torso with pecs like Christmas hams and arms that bulged beneath the thick, white fur trim. The buttons strained just enough to tease his robust build beneath.
Continue reading© 2025 Jay Hypno Writer
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
