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The Shift, by Donald T. Oolong

Michael was a head-turner, and he knew it. Other men always noticed him, vaguely aware there was something—off—about the otherwise unassuming man. The air around him shimmered as if he were staring at asphalt on a hot day, even when it was cool outside. He called it the Shift, and he’d seen it ever since the car accident. He’d wondered if it was brain damage, but soon realized that if he concentrated hard enough, he could bend the will of others.

He passed a surly-looking young man unloading musical equipment from a van outside one of the clubs downtown. Mid-twenties, shaggy black hair, scruffy, lean but defined, tattoo sleeves coiling around his tightly bunched muscles. From the corner of his eye, Michael saw Tattoo Sleeves jerk his head up to look at him, only to have the amp slip from his hands and crash on the pavement. Michael chuckled as he projected ideas into Tattoo Sleeves’ head. Wanna bury my face in his belly; suck his tits; be pinned down under his weight helpless but safe and warm; feel his cock up my ass. Want men, not women. Fat, older men. That’s what I need: daddy.


Flustered by the dawning realization that his girlfriend–fuck, all women—didn’t do it for him anymore. Caleb stared at Michael’s retreating form, mouth agape. His eyes fixated on the enormous round asscheeks that shifted back and forth with each step, oblivious to the wreckage of his amplifier and the prominent bulge in his pants.

Michael suddenly whirled around “See something you like, young man?”

Their eyes met and Caleb followed Michael’s gaze down to his crotch. He blinked several times, his face reddening as he struggled to find his voice. An address popped into his head, the image of a white brick house. Michael smirked, and Caleb felt as if he were shrinking under his gaze, but found himself somehow enjoying it. It was the same condescending look his dad gave him whenever he talked about his band, or how he didn’t want to grow up to be like him. But in the end he really wanted to lose, to have one of these fat, self-satisfied douchebags put him in his place, but then their faces would soften, they’d throw their arms around him, pull him close and—

Caleb let out a high-pitched cry as he came, soaking his pants. Michael turned and walked away.


Michael could influence things, but he couldn’t control them. So it was a pleasant surprise when he heard the cacophonous music coming down the his street, getting louder and louder until it suddenly stopped in front of his house with the slamming of a car door. Tattoo Sleeves smoked on the sidewalk, glancing at the house and the tree-lined street around him. That gave Michael a few minutes. He unlocked the door, stripped down, and sat in the kitchen facing the door. He heard a knock, and called out. Showtime.

“It’s open!”

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