It was working–the collar was really working! In the mirror, Gregory could see years melting off his body, fat and gray hair falling away. He watched muscle fill in, and he grabbed and tugged at his nips, his smooth cock hardening, and he suddenly wanted to dance. 

Oh god, was it happening already? He had hoped to have his mind for a while longer, but it was becoming harder and harder to think about anything other than grinding up on a pole, desperate to feel men’s lustful eyes upon him. That was the deal though–eternal youth, but he would spend it as an empty headed stripper in one of the Organization’s many lucrative night clubs. It had seemed like the chance of a lifetime when Gregory had been 82 and suffering through cancer–but now, well, now Gregory was gone.

“Come on GiGi, get your G-string on,” the handler said, hooking a lead to “We have some clients who have already reserved you for a private showing.”

“GiGi dance! GiGi dance good!” the muscle slave said, as he pulled on the skimpy garment and sashayed out of the room, his hips forever grinding to an invisible, pounding beat.