Like, I can’t tell you how amazing it’s been to work with Master Trainer. I was crazy skeptical at first, I mean, who wouldn’t be? The training program is, like, hella extreme, but when I sat down with Master Trainer and I felt…um…so calm, and everything he said made, like, so much sense, I just signed right up.

I had no idea that I was going to have to sacrifice so much to get into shape, though. I mean, quitting my job, breaking up with my girlfriend–those were, like, understandable. After all, I needed so much more time to work out with Master Trainer, but the drugs hella scared me at first. Still, when I noticed the drop in my libido, it just made working out that much more important to me. I swear, I haven’t jacked it in, like, months now. My cock is so small–it looks amazing in my posing trunks. Sure, the side effects were strange, like my hair falling out, and my voice jumped, like, so high, but, Master trainer has a thing for muscle headed valley girl sluts. I’m so hot now though, and it’s all thanks to Master Trainer!

When most people find out that the water company is going to be tearing their street up for the next two weeks, they’re probably pissed off. Granted, it’s been loud while they work but man, the eye candy! I love a guy in work gear, getting dusty and dirty. Still, none of the guys were really as filthy as I like, so, being the nice neighbor, I’ve been offering them a special lunch each day.

I hear the project has been extended another week because the men keep taking extremely long lunches, and there’s been complaints about their collective hygiene. One of my neighbors even caught them having sex in her backyard–that was hilarious. I’ve definitely found my favorite though, and he’s getting some special treatment. Gareth just goes under so easy–I think he likes it. I’m gonna push him and see how far he’ll go. By the end of the week, he’s gonna be pissing and shitting himself as he’s working, not even noticing until someone else points it out to him. Sure, he’ll feel humiliated, but love the stench too much to even clean himself up. By the end of the week, he’ll be happily incontinent for life.

No, I don’t think the two of them are scared anymore. In fact, I don’t think the two of them are feeling, or thinking, much of anything anymore. What do you think, I would say they’re about 90% covered myself, and it while the spread has slowed, it won’t stop until they’re completely covered. I did both of them just last week–they were planning on getting married, and wanted each other’s names on their arms. Stupid. They’re much hotter, and kinkier, just pieces of meat now, like you’ll be.

Is it spreading? Of course it’s spreading you dipshit. And no, that raging hardon you’ve got isn’t going away, not now, not ever. Now go on, suck their cocks like a good tattoo bitch. See? You can’t even resist my orders. Pretty soon, you’re gonna be one more empty headed tatted whore for my collection. Still, I don’t much like your look–I don’t think I’ll keep you. I can probably get 10 million for you on the market though. You’d be amazed how much rich men will pay to have a punked out ass for them to play with whenever they want–just you wait and see.

“It’s fer yer own good,” they’d told Sheriff Brady when he’d asked about what was inside the trailer.

“Well that’s fine boys, but I still have to know what’s in there.”

Kit and Rudy looked at each other, said nothing and shrugged their shoulders, looking a bit defeated, and so the Sheriff left, only to return that evening with a search warrant. The two protested and urged him not to go in, but they eventually stepped to the side and the sheriff entered the trailer.

He was in there for hours, and when he finally stumbled out, bleary eyed, it wasn’t the same man who’d stepped in. His uniform was gone, replaced by a pair of nearly destroyed jeans and a belt like the other two, a massive gut heaving over the waistline covered in grey hair. He was smoking a cigar, his hair had grown out into a messy, greasy skullet and he now had a long goatee braided down to his chest.

“It git ya then?”

“Yep.”

“Tried tah warn ya.”

“Ah know.”

“Ya need a fuck?”

“Damn straight–This hole a mine is just itchin’ fer a cock.”

Drew looked from the mirror down to the underwear box. The underwear definitely didn’t look as good on him as it did on the model–and he felt that same rush of jealousy he always felt looking at crap like this. He wished he could be the model on the package instead of that guy–and then, something strange happened. 

Looking down at the package, the image was suddenly different. The muscle god was gone and replaced with, well, him. Not a new him, the same gruff bear he’d always been, showing off his hairy belly, tattooed arms akimbo, and he didn’t understand what he was seeing, but memories filled in. He’d been thrilled to hear that Calvin Klein wanted him as their new underwear model, but he hadn’t been surprised. He was the top menswear model in the world–why wouldn’t they want him?

He glanced around his ritzy penthouse apartment, seeing himself on the billboard across the street showing off the newest Fall men’s collection from Versace, all flannel, denim and leather, and smiled. It may not have the result he’d imagined, but now every man wanted to look like him–and he could live with that.

“Alright, I have more cookies for you!” your friend said from the kitchen.

“What? More? But I can’t…” you say, but he’s already out in the living room and setting the tray piled high with snickerdoodles down next to you, and they smell so divine. You have one in your mouth before you can stop yourself. 

“I’ll get you some more milk too, just a second,” he says, and disappears back into the kitchen. Ten cookies are gone before he comes back with a tall pitcher–you just can’t stop yourself. This has been going on for a few hours now–him baking these amazing cookies, you eating them with an apparently bottomless supply of milk. He leaves, and alone again, you notice something in the TV playing some Christmas movie–a strange reflection in the screen. You reach for the remote and turn it off–and get a better look in the black screen.

“Ho Ho Holy shit!” You exclaim. That isn’t you there on the couch, that’s some fat old man with a giant white beard.

Your friend runs back in from the kitchen, “You weren’t supposed to notice yet!”

“What in the hell did you do to me?” you shout, looking down at your clothing stretched tight across your fat frame, but your friend has already grabbed something from a side table–a pipe, ready packed with tobacco, and he shoves it in your mouth and lights it. You inhale, the cinnamon and clove laced tobacco making your face numb…and you feel…really good, all of a sudden.

“Here, let’s get you out of those clothes–they’re too tight.”

You let your friend undress you, and you stare down in disbelief at your new body. The tobacco is going right to your head, and it feels so good to smoke your pipe and rub your hairy belly with your hands…

“Now go sit down, finish your cookies and milk, and smoke your pipe, Santa.”

“Ho Ho Hokay…” you say, and plop back down on the couch. 

Your friend works in the kitchen for a bit and comes out to find the pile gone, the pitcher empty, and your pipe finished. He cleans, refills and lights it for you, then gives you a deep kiss, and you wrap your flabby arms around him and pull him into your lap.

“So tell me, have you been a good boy this year?” you say with a lecherous grin.

“Oh yes Santa, I’ve been very good all year, just for you.”

“Well in that case, Santa has a special sack for you. Why don’t you suck on it for a bit?”

Your friend gets down between your legs, and sucks on your big balls, your dick pressed against his face, smearing precum across his forehead. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fucking tonight, you think, and ram your candy cane down his throat.

Ha, gullible fucks. So many guys out there want to be hypnotized, you wouldn’t fucking believe it. They just want some guy to tell them what to do, and be unable to resist their commands. Well, sure, none of them know that it’s me–you have no idea how many personas I have online. There’s the personal trainer, who promises to help with your workouts, the leather god, the muscle bear. No one really wants to obey a guy like me, or so they think.

They all eventually ask to meet me in real life, I make sure of that. Man, the look on their faces when they discover the man behind the screen is as far from their fantasies as can be, not that they can resist serving me, by then. That’s when I really fuck with their heads, man, they leave those meetings so warped you wouldn’t believe it. Maybe I make them impotent, maybe they feel compelled to show off their bodies, it all depends on my mood. And naturally they all empty their bank accounts for me. Yeah, it’s damn good to be a hypnomaster, what do you say, slave?