The Himbo Merchant

By Yourmind123
published January 10, 2020
16408 words

A gay hypnotist’s blog about his day-to-day activities, set in an alternate world filled with gay mind controllers and secret organizations.

The Himbo Merchant

This is a gay rewrite of Limerick’s The Bimbo Merchant, set in an alternate reality where all the major straight mind controllers of that era were actually gay. It doesn’t translate as well as some other adaptations I’ve done, but it was one of the first I did. I still find it pretty hot, and I thought some of you might as well.



January 4, 2014 A NEW HOME

As has become tradition, I celebrate a new city by going to a supermarket and turning some guy into a begging, mindless muscular fuck toy. His name was Alan and he was there with a very lucky boyfriend (I don’t know how someone that ugly scored a guy like Alan without mind control). I was surprised to find a gay couple. This wasn’t a super small or conservative town, but still. Alan wore tight black compression shorts that outlined his tight, muscular ass, and a gym shirt. He was probably going to the gym after this.

Like everyone else in the mind control game, I work almost entirely with chemicals. They’re safe, cheap, effective, and, most importantly, anonymous. But I got my start with mind games and—obsolete as they are—I can still wrangle minds like a professional. The boyfriend I looped onto the bananas. He stood in front of them in quiet and never-ending wonder at the yellow bounty, constantly surprised, forgetting, and then seeing them again.

A long-term mind control job would take eight or nine hours of mental work, resculpting memory and personality into the form of a moaning, eager to please muscleslut. It takes forever and is exhausting. But with the right incentives I’ve long found that even the most heterosexual and career-minded guy can be persuaded to shunt himself into an obedient, muscle-building, pleasure-addicted gay himbo life. And it’s far quicker.

I prodded Alan to gently lean over a display of cherries. Then I made his pleasure center start to glow cherry-red, swelling with blood and hormones like he was deep in a relaxed and lengthy banging. Next, a dose of relaxation.

And finally, I coughed gently.

When Alan turned around, he saw me—well, he saw a nondescript male—staring lustfully at his ass. That’s when I banged in the association. Gay men staring at his ass meant pleasure. Wonderful, euphoric, brain-melting pleasure. A wholesome pleasure, like a deep and long-lasting orgasm in his boyfriend’s arms. An all-american sort of pleasure.

And that’s really all I needed to do. I looked away, apologetic, and the torrent of sweet red heat to Alan’s mind stopped. He examined me with puzzled, liquid brown eyes, still chewing on the sudden hard rush to his cock.

I broke his boyfriend’s trance and, from that point on, kept a discreet distance.

Alan didn’t wait too long. He first followed his boyfriend around, with shaky legs, his arousal-soaked mind coping with withdrawal. The rational parts of him put two and two together, and he easily made the connection with the draw of his well-sculpted ass. He was proud of it, after all.

So Alan stood with his legs together and bent over a wine display. His boyfriend looked over at two perfect half-moons with proprietary interest and real appreciation (also a bit of caution. This wasn’t Texas, but it wasn’t NYC either).

For Alan, it was like someone had slipped six inches of dick into his ass during a bubble bath. His eyes opened wide, and he started to breathe hard and fast, the rest of his sculpted-at-the-gym body juicing up like he was getting pumped.

There was a bit of internal struggle. Of course there was. A sense of wrongness, a rational argument that this was bizarre, that he was acting like a bitch in heat at the supermarket. That he was painfully erect in public, for chrissakes. All of his concerns were valid and helpless against a blanket of post-orgasmic bliss. Dulling his mind, his complaints, his intelligence.

I couldn’t help tweaking. An optimization, even. There are so many mental barriers and minor hormone-influenced blocks to cumming really, really hard. I had plans for the boyfriend, but it wouldn’t do to make Alan just his fuck-slut. I had him walk away with some casual explanation about buying bread. Alan, disappointed, unaccountably angry, stood up. Strolled up and down the aisle. Felt his body start to lose its heightened senses, his tight and needy hole tingling. Already those nagging regrets were starting to fade away, lost in the want for more stimulation.

Heck, given enough time, that stimulation could wear a PHD scientist down right to the nubbins. I’ve had guys orgasm so hard they lose their names. I was ready for the push, but Alan was a good pupil. He walked himself through the rationalization in no time, and had latched on to the two burly men in the butcher shop.

This time he leaned forwards against a very cold freezer, and slowly arched his back. His eyes closed as the two sets of male eyes fell immediately upon his rear end. It was easy to make the butchers believe that it was a hot girl pushing her ass out at them. His Andrew Christian jockstrap was sporting a wet spot from precum, and he was loving it.

Morals and social norms were already starting to erode. Alan put one hand between his legs and started to gently rub his cock through his pants, right there in the supermarket. What a good boy he was. It made me optimistic for another re-establishment.

I don’t take pictures as a rule, but I have a good mental image of him grunting onto the frosted-up glass.

I had half a mind to have the butchers take him, tossing him onto a cold aluminum table and banging him senseless from behind. But Alan had been such a willing boy, so quick to toss away sophistication and education in favor of jerking himself in public. So I brought his boyfriend back and encouraged him to put a hand on his ass.

Alan came, yelping and groaning.

I left them there. I could well imagine what they would do next. The sudden burst of sanity after a shocking display of animal lust. The search for intelligence in a mind suddenly fogged and stuffed with cotton. And then the realization that he was still hot, still horny, still aching to have his buff and toned butt admired by men, any men, hundreds of men, millions of men. That he would do anything, put on any shorts, wiggle on any stage, as a go-go boy with his ass on display.

Alan shucked off his shorts, then his underwear and quickly set to finishing his groceries, trying to bring as much attention to his ass as possible, while his boyfriend followed in admiration. It took a lot of mental wrangling on my part to keep the other shoppers from noticing Alan going bottomless, but it was well worth it. click here

They appeared at the front of the store some ten minutes later, walking slowly, the boyfriend supporting Alan’s shaky and unsure legs, but with his hand still firmly gripping his rear. Alan nuzzled close to him, probably wanting nothing more than a shower and some alcohol while he figured things out.

But I had already convinced all the men in the store to wait idly by the exit. And each gaze (believing Alan to be a girl with a fat ass) collected on his hot, muscled, already-wriggling butt as Alan was fuzzed into a himbo by the collective eyes of so many satisfied and appreciative men.

I drove by them as I left. Alan was bent over the backseat of their sensible VW, his shorts on the pavement, his boyfriend giving him a thorough and enthusiastic reaming as he brayed senselessly across the upholstery, and jizzed all over the seat.

I kept a small swatch of his dark grey underwear and put it in the jar with the others.

January 4, 2014


Got my first job over the weekend. Happily, a simple low-grade himboization for a gay couple.

Not everyone in the community does this—heck, most don’t—but I believe strongly in only dumbing down guys who have a keeper afterwards. Male or female. It’s sad and cruel to sap a guy’s brains and then put him out into the world. To the extent I have a code of ethics, there it is.

The boyfriend didn’t want to be there, which made it even easier. Part of client service of course is letting the guy or girl watch if they want to. But frankly most clients just want the finished himbo and don’t give a shit about the process, which is unfortunate in my opinion, but understandable.

It’s all very workaday for me but this is my basic process, my most affordable option. His name was Kyle.

For about a week beforehand—the longer the better—catch him with a hypnotic tone on his cell phone. Here the boyfriend made sure his phone was charged and by the bedstand, and I made calls right when Kyle woke up and right before he was supposed to go down. The morning call puts him in a light trance and discusses how he is a horny, sexy, available guy who really should be proud of what a rugged fucktoy he is. Ideally the boyfriend will bang him immediately afterwards to lock some of that in. The evening call is a more hardedge obedience training and brain-sapper, to make it hard for him to protest.

Some clients stop there, pleased that their man is serving them dinner and waking them up with a bowjob.

Second step is to get into the apartment while both of them are gone. As a rule, the clients don’t get to handle the chemicals. Period. For real hard himboization I administer personally, for a low-grade one like this I am comfortable with putting it somewhere the client won’t find it. I dosed his toothpaste and told the client it was in Kyle’s pillowcase.

Then it’s a week of monitoring and more phone calls. This client was very easy to work with and really good about sending me pictures. Kyle, smiling as he casually walked around the house in a jockstrap. Kyle, returning from the gym the second time that day. Kyle, puzzling at the blonde streak in his hair. He even got one of Kyle brushing his teeth, to my private amusement—his hair streaked with his boyfriend’s jism.

In technical terms, the chemicals act on selected parts of the brain to decrease reasoning and spatial skills. They’ll make his hole tingle and give his mouth the need to be filled, essentially turning him into a full bottom. They also have a mild muscle enlarging effect which is just part of the package—the chemicals without muscle growth cost extra. They affect the glutes in particular. For an added fee, his hole will start to self-lubricate when aroused. Mostly what they do is overload Kyle’s system with constant, unceasing, and wonderful feelings of happiness and contentment and horniness. At the end of the week he’ll giggle through Schindler’s List.

I got a common call towards the end of the week.

“[Harold], it’s [Client].”

I can tell he’s peeved but play it off.

“Good to hear from you! How’s it going with Kyle? His ass come in yet?”

pauses “Well yeah, his old underwear barely fits. He looks great.”

“Did he quit his job like he said he would yesterday?”

“Yeah he uh… he quit. But that’s the thing. He brought home one of his co-workers and fucked him into the ground. He’s not even apologetic about it.” mock sympathy from me “We did discuss this.”

And we always do. Clients think I’m giving them the ‘are you sure you want a himbo fuck slut’ talk because I’m stupid, or something. I do it for my own protection.

“Look, I don’t want him walking around giving head to other guys,” the client eventually says. “Is there anything you can do?”

If the client has been an ass and a half I upsell him to a fidelity hypnosis package and charge him until his bank account burns. But I like this client so I say

“sure, I can take care of that. I’ll need an hour with him. Also, how often are you fucking him?”

“Four.” Hesitation. “It’s hard to keep up with him.”

And I have no regrets at all selling him my usual libido enhancement package.

Kyle meets me for the first time at a coffee shop. It’s empty, because of me. It’s a random coffee shop because I’m concerned about the association finding my new place of business.

I have to smile when I see him. Such a classic dumb jock. Dirty blond, with dumb, vapid smile, lightly tanned and rippling muscles. It’s a mild himboization so he’s still quite capable of fashion, and has gone with a designer muscle tee with white mesh shorts so you can kind of see the black web thong beneath. He wrinkles a pretty nose at the acid caffeine atmosphere.

“Hi!” he bubbles with a vacant smile. “[Client] said you were going to help me with my cooking?”

There is very little room for anxiety in his puffy, gym-bunny mind, but what there is, is that he’s a bad cook for his boyfriend. And he is, he burns toast and struggles with recipes that can’t hold his tiny attention span. But he tries.

Did I mention the before-Kyle? Glasses. Scowls. Dark jeans and black buzzcut hair. Skinny. Wouldn’t be caught dead listening to anything from the top 40. Funny how often the hard cases with a Master’s in Social Welfare 180 themselves. When I himboize a blond he picks a much more nontraditional style. It’s the work of about ten minutes to gently convince his overtaxed brain that he should restrain himself to his boyfriend for his considerable sexual needs. I encourage him to take up an interest in dildos and vibrators and anal beads.

When I’m done I stand up, abruptly, have him spin around one last time for my mental picture, and send him off with a slap on the ass. It’s the only time I touch the guy at all. Kyle is warranted for fifteen years of fucking, sucking, and happy slutty fun. And that’s just my warranty—I still keep tabs on some of my early guys and they are taking that libido into their 40s.

And that’s what you get for $20,000 in my line of work.

January 5, 2014


It is a bad idea, and I will regret it, but I decided to start a local harem.

It would be more intelligent to wait until I am established in this new town, ensure that the association did not follow me here, and then, perhaps, have a fling with a local firefighter. Get him into crossfit and convince him that my jizz tastes like ambrosia. And then, maybe a year later, have a friend of his over for odd-tasting coffee.

That would be an intelligent idea. However. I spent four years in the last town, where I was extremely comfortable. I left behind a butler, a secretary, a personal assistant, two baristas at my favorite coffee shop and an entire row of shops with male staffers who would assist me in the back room with my erection.

Also I’m turning 40 this year.

So a local harem it is. Happily fortune intervened and there are two 25 year olds living in an apartment nearby. One is a programmer and the other used to be a bank teller, now he fills out job applications. Perfect.

I’m going to take advantage of Mason and Colt with a personal favorite, personal fitness. Both of them will be suddenly eager to make positive changes in their health, inspired by the New Year, and the want for company of women. And I can guarantee that the excess pounds will just melt away and their nagging depression will end. And why wouldn’t a newly-sparked libido accompany weight loss, with a muscular new body to admire help with that? I planted the suggestion, and while they were out on a sudden and impromptu jog, picked the lock to their apartment. We’ll see what happens next.

January 6, 2014

Anonymous asked: Who is the first guy you himboized?

Well the FIRST first guy is uninteresting. My early experiments were limited and juvenile. Make my buff science teacher give me straight A’s in return for the chance to suck my dick. Or force my entire high school football team to do whatever their flamboyant towel boy told them to do (Our school never won a game after that, the players always walked funny). That kind of adolescent stuff.

My first real himbo was Aaron. And by first himbo, I mean where I had moved past a basic obsession with mind control and focused on the complete lifestyle change. First guy to wake me up by giving head: Aaron. First guy to declare that all of my sperm had to go into him somewhere: Aaron. First guy to max out my credit cards and then suck off a Walmart manager for some cheap weights: Aaron.

He HAD been my RA at the dorms, and wore glasses so thick they made his eyes massive and wide-eyed beyond the lenses. It became the focus of his himboization, going to an “eye doctor” and gradually improving his prescription, his body, his new lust for boys. He rationalized his toned body and growing muscle ass as finally seeing it correctly for the first time. His need for dick was just appreciating the male form. When he got his first pair of contacts I fucked him on a balcony on the tenth floor, letting him enjoy the view with clear eyes.

He was with me for over ten years. I must’ve cycled him through a dozen different bodies, cultures, hundreds of addictions and fetishes. A dirty socks obsession, a mania for having a vibrator up his ass, a lust for blowjobs so strong he must’ve vacuumed the university’s gay population dry. Every kind of hair color and ass size. And yet I never changed his cock or his hole, both of which I could’ve recognized blindfolded, a hundred men into a marathon session. Over time I started using him in recruitment and himboization. Straight jocks tend not to trust gay guys much. So I put Aaron in a barbershop with my special hair gel, or had him calm a struggling half-himbo by licking his cock.

I had even given thought to manumission around the fifteen year mark or so.

And then I lost him in a poker game.

I did offer to buy him back, but almost immediately after I lost him Aaron’s new owner got in deep trouble with the association and disappeared. He took his massive harem with him. Certain of his boys have popped up all around the world since then, but never Aaron.

To this day I still check our online equivalent of a Lost-And-Found, keeping an eye out for him. He’d be over forty now. Often I wonder where he ended up.

January 7, 2014

mcgman001 asked: So you’ve wound up the stud and then let him go…how do ensure that the dude you left him with will make a good master? Lover? Daddy? Father?

You have the wrong idea. I am not these guys’ magical fairy, there to usher them into a land of sexual delights and anal sex. I am a professional. I am much more like a car mechanic. I am paid large sums of money to make everything well lubricated, with the engine humming, so that you enjoy a smooth and comfortable ride. That’s where my involvement ends.

…But I get what you’re saying, which is: what about the sadists? It honestly rarely comes up in my line of work. The soft himboization I specialize in produces dumb, happy guys who are always eager to please. Their huge muscles are mainly for show. Brutalizing them would be like kicking a puppy around. And if the client likes a bit of BDSM, well, easy enough to make the guy love it too. Don’t forget also that this himbo is a five-figure-or-more investment for these guys, they aren’t eager to abandon him.

On the rare occasions that I pick up an obviously fucked-up client I walk away and put him/her on the DNB list. The association to their credit lets me keep access to that.

January 8, 2014

Anonymous asked: Have you ever himboized a superhero? If so, was it harder or easier than you expected?

Way out of my league. Also that would require magic and I don’t do magic.

January 8, 2014


Did a hard himboization today. Consensual. I specialize in soft jockification and I’ll usually only do a hard if it’s consensual. Nonconsensual hard himboization requires special equipment that I don’t have, you want someone like Himbotech for that work.

Tom was 35, a flat-faced brunet with a tired voice. He and client lived in an underfurnished apartment with ikea furniture. He served me coffee and set out chips like I wasn’t about to turn him into a handsome little fuckdoll forever.

“We’ve talked about this for a long time,” he said. I hadn’t asked. “I’m a school teacher. For middle school. And I’m 35 and we don’t want to adopt kids and I get these migraines and I was finally like, fuck it.”

“Sure,” I said, looking around. I felt like I was selling them life insurance.

“Then [client’s] uncle died and left us some money and we heard about your… service,” Tom went on. He wore a cheap dress shirt and old trousers that would’ve fit in perfectly teaching a middle school class. The shirt stretched around his gut.

I don’t normally give a second warning speech to the guy—and I had already given him one over the phone. But it was a weird situation. “You know that this is the extreme option,” I told her. “If you’d rather be horny and dim and slutty, that’s something different. There’s no coming back from this one. You’ll be practically a cartoon. Nymphomanical. Stupid. Constantly horny. You walk down a street, everyone will turn to stare at the gay sexdoll with the huge ass.”

Tom licked his lips and smiled, without wavering. For the first time you could really see the conviction in his eyes. Well, whatever.

I finished my coffee. “Okay, lets head to the bedroom.”

I had them fuck each other.

It’s understandable that they wanted direction but I practically had to walk them through how to bang. “Okay, [client], I want you totally naked. No, take your socks off.” Christ, I hate when guys leave the socks on. “Great. Tom, I want you flat on your back with your legs up in the air. [Client], lean into it slightly. You comfortable? Okay, great. I’ll just be standing up here getting the needle ready.”

Hard himboization uses the needle. Let me digress a bit on that for a nonprofessional audience. These are industry terms and they’re not intuitive. A hard himbo is not rippling muscle and BDSM, it’s the term for an all-the-way, brain-scrambled, constantly-hard fuck toy. Really, himbo isn’t the right word. Hard himbo means a guy who craves sex, lives for it, and has the attention span and brainpower otherwise of a house pet. Soft himbos are reversible—mostly reversible—hard himbos are not.

If you want to be technical, there’s a third category, tabula rasa. I don’t do that, period. I don’t make furniture.

“Okay, this is going into your upper arm,” I told Tom, who was starting to get into his husband’s clumsy strokes. He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. The needle was a big one, and the syringe held a solution that glowed a bright pink. I’m sure the color is all show. I unloaded the contents into Tom.

“Oh shit,” he whispered. He immediately began to get into it more, pushing back with his hips and grabbing on to the sheets. The first reaction to the shot is a sudden, intoxicating sexual euphoria which will last more or less the rest of him life.

“That feeling is the part of brain that controls pleasure swelling up.” The ventral tegmental area and surrounding areas, I didn’t say. “It’ll get four times as big in the next five minutes.” For good. His brain was very thoroughly getting rewired. It was mostly one big erogenous zone, already. Honestly there wasn’t even any room left for upper reasoning.

“Oh, SHIT,” Tom grunted. He moaned and bucked, starting to lose control of his reactions. It was a real challenge for hard himbos to control themselves during sex. They fucked like the animals they were.

“Memory goes next,” I told him. I guess I could’ve left, but it’s helpful to walk the man through it. And a little fun. “Tell me your name, stud.”

“Tom,” he answered, concentrating.

“Full name,” I said.

“Tom… uh…” his mouth went wide, that first realization that this was more then just a good orgasm, that this was really real. That he had voluntarily flushed his memory, his personality, right down the toilet. Happily, it didn’t seem to stop him from banging his ass against his husband’s cock. The client had grabbed his legs to hold on. “Anderson! Thomas Anderson.”

“Middle name?” I asked. But he was gone in the first orgasm, a shrieking, transcendental experience that tore him apart, cum shooting all over his abs, pecs and face. When his eyes reopened they were slow, half-lidded, and a skein of drool trickled out the side of his mouth.

“What?” he said, his voice husky.

I turned to his husband, who had lost his stroke with Tom’s thrashing, orgasm. He didn’t seem particularly close to climaxing, which is normal. It’s hard to just hold on. “That turned off his upper reasoning,” I told him. “Did you make sure to get all his computer passwords and bank account numbers and everything?”

He looked at me, wild-eyed. Fair enough. It wasn’t the right time.

“Oh god, I’m still cumming. I’m still.. I’m…” he looked around, confused. I recognized the look. So many things in the room where the words would just fall into place, the context automatic. How locks worked. What car keys did. What the word was for ‘ceiling’. All gone now, blown clean away by his O. And then Tom lost interest in all of those things, like mathematics and decent grammar, because he had a dick in his ass and it was still plugging away.

“Harder,” he commanded, “More. More! God, fuck me stupidest!”

For whatever reason that got the client going, and he finally started to give Tom the deep-dicking he deserved. His cock pistoned in and out of him, his balls slapping Tom’s muscular ass. His butt would come in properly over the next few days, until they were taut and high and firm. The client whimpered through his second orgasm, his eyes a dull gloss, his hands sliding over Tom’s beautiful abs, pinching his large pecs.

“Now your prostate is a—actually, I’ll wait outside.”

I went outside. Being present at a consensual hard himboization is a weird thing. In many ways, a new person is being born.

They came out a few hours later. I had helped myself to their fridge. Client looked exhausted, but in control, and wrapped in a robe. He had some extra pounds on him that would soon melt off.

Tom walked differently, giggled softly, and was still totally naked. His ass was starting to come in.

“I’m full of cum,” he informed me, serious. Eventually he sniffed, or sensed, that I was a male with a fully functional cock. He didn’t even glance at his husband before starting to toy with my zipper. Tom giggled, cheerful and brainless. He was covered in glistening white jism.

“All right?” I asked the client. He waved an exhausted hand. “Please do,” he told me. “You mentioned some supplements you could give me?”

“Sure,” always be upselling.

The client gave me a long look. “How dumb is he?” he asked.

I pointed. “Tommy, what is that?”

He followed my finger, puzzled, then shrugged.

“It’s a door, Tommy.”

Tom had pulled my dick out and had locked his mouth around it. His blowjob was amateurish but enthusiastic. I rummaged a bit around inside his head. Simple, clean, warm. A guy in heat. A jism sponge. A fuck toy.

January 10, 2014


I have always liked himboizing in twos.

Mason and Colt are getting along very well, mutually supporting each other in their race to muscle gain and fat loss. Jogging together in the early a.m. and spotting each other down at the gym.

The twosome cooperated in a thorough fridge raid, tossing out all of their junk food and urging each other on to commit only to greens and red meat. Every bit of ice cream and chocolate was identified and destroyed, and the two sweaty and excitable young men retired to their own rooms, where they both unknowingly masturbated in unison.

I might intervene with how they look but for now everything is going well. Colt has ink-black hair and translucent skin that looks gothy on his chubby self but which will look be ethereal when he’s properly sexy. Mason is a squat brunet who might need more intervention, but if he keeps his energy and that mouth then he’ll be a firecracker of a cocksucker and that spark that every good harem needs.

One problem is how to introduce myself. I am thinking of joining their gym (a gay gym I picked for them that’s an hour and a half drive)—I’m developing a gut now that I don’t have a dozen men to keep happy. Obviously I could just march up and make myself their best friend but where is the fun in that.

January 10, 2014


There is another mind controller in this town.

A very unwelcome thing to find out. I had this town picked out exactly because I was sure there were no former colleagues around.

And yet, striding down main street, was a himbo. Not one of my discreet hot guys, but a cartoonish fuckboy. Lips wide and puckered open. An ass that stuck out practically horizontally. Muscles that were something out of early 90s comic books. A giant hard cock stretching the material of the short-shorts he was wearing. He oozed pheromones, too, men’s eyes glued to him. Hard-ons growing.

I didn’t get too close, but I did follow him. He walked into the public library, of all places. I didn’t go in.

I’m hopeful that I stumbled upon an isolated himboizer doing amateur work. Otherwise, I’ll have to bail on this town so soon after arriving.

January 11, 2014

Anonymous asked: How often do you have to troubleshoot? Are there any guys who make your job difficult?

Well, I could give you a technical answer, but let me tell you instead about Liam.

When Liam woke up, someone had forgotten to properly restrain him in his chair.

He was a handsome man, with a sharp jawline and piercing green eyes to match his jet-black hair. When he woke up it was to find that his chest (pecs, in particular) had already been done. Six-pack abs, and large pecs designed to be stroked and sucked. His nipples were wired directly to his cock, making any stimulation at all a potentially orgasmic experience.

Which he found out when he first stroked them.

The problem with soundproofed rooms, it turns out, is that they’re soundproofed both ways. No one heard anything of the loud grunts and moans from the room.

One messy and drippy recovery later, Liam examined the room and his situation, his underwear sticky. He had a handcuff around his wrist that, thinking outside and with the box, he slipped off with lubrication from his fresh jism. The guy wore a plain white long-sleeved t-shirt that he didn’t recognize, and grey boxer briefs that he knew didn’t belong to him.

The door was unlocked.

It led out into a dark and disused corridor, which led to another door, which led to Liam’s discovery that he woke up in the back of a restaurant. Where he vaguely recalled dining. Or was it working? Something about it did seem so familiar…

His nipples brushed against a doorway. More white hot heat blazed from head to toe. These were eroding orgasms, chipping away at him, and Liam had to fight an urge to just sit on the dirty floor and rub at them.

Liam had both pride and brains. He simply kept his head up and walked right out the front door. Pedestrians gaped at the man with no pants striding down the sidewalk. His underwear and a large, sticky stain on the front. Liam ignored them. And strode right into a nearby department store, where he acquired some pants.

Properly clothed, Liam felt a surge of confidence until he realized that 1) he didn’t have any money or ID or anything and 2) he wasn’t really sure who the hell he was. He remembered his name, and a sort of a memory, but nothing he could pin down. No locations or names or phone numbers or addresses. It had all been replaced, or perhaps torn away during one of his messy, blissful orgasms.

Reluctantly, Liam realized that he needed to get ahold of a large sum of money, in cash, and quickly. Then he could work on sorting out his fuzzy brain. And there was only one way he could think of to get ahold of some cash—with his magnificent body.

The store manager’s name was David, and he was only too happy to take Liam into the back room for a sudden job interview. Especially when Liam licked his lips and slowly winked at him, and followed him so closely into the back. David turned out to just want to suck on his pecs like an infant deprived, slurping on his nipples as his hands travelled down his abs to his cock, while Liam whimpered from the stimulation. (David wasn’t gay, but the pheromones that Liam was exuding were extremely potent now that he’d jizzed twice)

Afterwards, David wouldn’t give him an advance on salary, but did encourage Liam to pick up some additional clothes at no charge. And Liam did, figuring that a set of clothing changes would help him avoid pursuers. Some experimentation showed that nylons and synthetic fabrics didn’t set off his nipples as much. Also that he looked fantastic in shorts and loose tank tops that showcased his pecs as if they were cleavage.

When he emerged, Liam felt confident his captors wouldn’t recognize the half-naked and fearful victim. This Liam wore navy blue skinny jeans that hugged his ass and a low-cut tank top.

And when Liam saw the barbershop just next door to the restaurant, the rest of the plan fell into place.

It was nearly night by the time he emerged.

Liam was scarcely recognizable. He had first thought of just getting his head shaved bald, but the hairdresser wouldn’t let him, insisting on styling his wavy hair just right. His only charge had been a quick blowjob from Liam, who had been surprised to enjoy his time between a man’s legs. His lips could still taste the barber.

Liam had refreshed his outfit, too, finding a spandex-blend black men’s romper in a backend S&M store. The contrast of black on his blond hair was perfect.

And now, he knew, there was no way his captors could ever find him.

The restaurant next door was doing brisk business. Cheerful shirtless fratboys in slim white shorts waited on tables, their perfects chests on display, sometimes even taking down orders. Hands pawed and groped at them.

There was a man out front, looking intently around, peering at restaurant patrons. He sparked something deep within Liam—a thought that couldn’t surface.

The man’s eyes took him in, his absurdly sexy body, his hair, his spandex romper—and slid off.

Liam shivered in the chill of the oncoming night and ambled away.

When he recollected himself it was deep in the night, with the stars out, and his feet ached. It wasn’t clear to him just how long he’d been walking—or even where he had been. His hair was ruffled by the wind and, as he thought about it—his underwear seemed to be gone. And it was way too cold out for a sexy guy like himself to be alone and outdoors.

But he seemed to be at a house of some kind. Shoot, a mansion. And the gate was already open. Another plan unfolded in his little head, and he giggled at the thought. Why not just move in? If there was anyone already inside he could get on his knees and work his magic. Who would kick a piece of ass like him out?

No one, he concluded.

To his delight and surprise the door was answered by a totally hot and muscular asian guy in a sexy butler outfit. And there were other guys, too, as he ambled inside, in sexy costumes and awesome clothes. And all of them with great bodies like his!

He was escorted deep within the house, to a room he ached to enter, where a man waited deep within a chair. And another man, to whom he was totally indifferent.

“He’s ten minutes late,” the man in the chair said. Liam gaped at the words. They were so wonderful, so easily masculine. He forgot the plan, fell onto his knees on the carpet, and awkwardly made his way towards him.

“Would you like a refund?” the other man said, amused.

“I think we can let it be bygones,” his owner said, helping Liam gently with his fly. “Depending on if he doesn’t disappoint right now.”

Liam was very determined not to disappoint.

January 12, 2014

motherfducker-blog asked: Why do you separate mind controller and himboizer? Don’t they both rely on the same thing?

Himbos are the goal, mind control is the means. Many people in my position with my abilities easily obtain political power or huge sums of money, I live in a small apartment and turn ordinary men into muscular man-whores. Oh well.

Anyway, there are four “types” of himboizers for the discerning customer with a too-smart male on his hands. They each have their advantages and disadvantages.

Magic is best for those real extreme body-mod jobs that just can’t get done any other way. If you want your guy to have a tail, or boobs, or another cock, you’re going to want a magical solution. Try as I might, I cannot give a guy a merman’s tail. The major issue with magic is duration—himboizing wizards will freely admit that their work starts to wear off after 2-3 years, and needs regular renewal. Also, magic being what it is, you’ll get unanticipated side effects—like shedding and territory marking from your barkinging dogboy.

Technology is a bit of a catchall but I mean groups like Himbotech that rely exclusively on actual science. Strap the guy into a chair, put him in a tank, that kind of thing. Tech is ultra-reliable and also tends to work very fast—I’ve seen guys turn into toned, lifelong cumsluts from a few pulses of electricity in a himbotech chair. Major issue is finesse. Tech can get a guy dumb and hard but struggles to make those subtle changes without adding in a mind controller like me.

I am a mind controller. My work is what you might describe as bespoke himbos—ultra-customized work for the discerning (and wealthy) client. What I do is slow but if you want your guy to think he’s a former boyfriend named Eli who enjoyed edging, you need me. I also instill fetishes and do what I like to call ‘variable’ work—himbo at home, wage-earner at work. And my work is permanent. Major downsides: cost, cost, cost. I don’t come cheap.

But the real answer for 95% of clients is chemical. Dr. Downing has been publishing his catalog for two decades now. All of us rely on it. His compounds are safe, effective, fairly permanent, and inexpensive. The catalog is thirty-five pages now with all sorts of variants and specifications, from small stuff like body hair chubbiness, to big stuff including even transgender and a very limited but growing animal/TF section. If you want the himbo that lives in your dreams, you want Downing’s Catalogue.

Obviously there’s a ton of category overlap. Master PC modders should be in the magic category but usually gets lumped in with tech (which is dumb). There are also people like the NN-HANC group that are committed to making a one dollar complete-himbo pill.

Someday the association will finally manage to add a new category: Virus/Germ. And then all the rest of us will be out of work.

January 13, 2014

prance asked: Have you ever made a himbo out of a musician or artist of any kind?

One of my proudest works was Carlos, a semi-amateur painter who was dating my client (a very rich gallery owner), but didn’t put out enough for my client’s tastes. He produced dark, bold works on oversize canvases, nightscapes evocative of 2 a.m. car rides. Formerly a dark, toned man with smoky eyes, he had married the client and become gaunt and withdrawn. My challenge was to himboize him—easy—but the client wanted his artistic ability preserved—hard. For days I formulated ever more complicated overlay schemes where the himbo persona would pop on and off with a trigger word. It takes forever and is unstable—the guy essentially becomes two people.

In the shower one morning I came to a sudden epiphany. I even shouted out, to the surprise of the three men in there with me.

Carlos suddenly found his work taking a turn. He began producing works with more than just a monochrome of black and greys. Initially there were just slashes of red to break up the scene, but soon he rioted in color, producing practically neon bursts of riotous color. His wardrobe quietly altered to match, and the formerly raven-clad man was soon flouncing in bright red robes with matching blood-colored thongs. The local art scene was tittering with gossip about the change in style and mood of Carlos’ art.

Some other former clients bought a few pieces as a favor, and Carlos’ mood peaked. He was so pleased with himself he found it both easy and fun to wake up the client with a lengthy and considered blowjob.

The new and intense pleasure of sex awoke him to new artistic possibilities. Suddenly, aspects of pleasure and passion exploded onto his canvas, gobs of pink and red paint in blotches. It wasn’t long until he insisted on painting with the client’s cock inside of him, very slowly thrusting, while he channeled the warm and full feeling of his ass onto the painting. His ‘Orgasm’ series sold well without my involvement, actual cum shots mixing with the pigments. By now he was a muscular and happy confirmed slut, feeling himself enlightened for becoming a master cocksucker. And then, one day, with bright pink overalls off his waist and the client’s dick in his mouth, Carlos realized that he was art, too. How many male nudes had been painted? Ten bajillion? And he WAS a male, and he COULD be nude.

He demanded that the client let him exercise thrice a day to perfectly sculpt his body. And then he took up sculpting his own dildos.

I used to own one of his later works, part of the Pink Ass series. Naked, covered in latex paint, he fucked on top of a canvas, pressing his tight, paint-coated ass into the white and preserving his butt for eternity. There was a writeup of him in a major artistic magazine. I had nothing to do with it. The art world loved him.

I lost the painting in a move. But I still have a video file of his performance art, 100, documenting his brave attempt to orgasm 100 times in a single day. I don’t think he had any brain cells left after number 27 or so, but he kept trying, bless him.

Sad postscript, the client hated the result. He revealed that he really just wanted a standard muscle-jock who could maybe fingerpaint. I told him to be more honest with himself next time. He left Carlos who, with a studio show in New York pending, barely noticed or cared.

January 14, 2014


I got off with my own two hands yesterday. I haven’t done that since I was 17. This cannot go on.

On the plus side, things are going well with my two jocks-to-be. They have both gained large quantities of muscle and are practically skipping in and out of the door. After work they eat a quick dinner and then off to the gym for a solid two hours of running, stretching, and a lot of weight work. I think Mason will taper off the iron but I like the idea of Colt as an athletic hard-edged sexpot.

Last night, chests heaving, exhausted and sweaty, they returned home and guzzled water. Colt caught ahold of Mason’s scent—or vice versa—and was suddenly entranced by his roomies new muscle ass in tight workout shorts. The two laughed and play wrestled and ended up in a wet and hot makeout session on the floor of their apartment, bodies hungry for the stimulation.

They broke apart without anything more—lingering doubts and questions of sexuality. And marinated all night in erotic frustration, dreams revolving around each other. Before the sun rose they were in each other’s beds, slurping each others’ cocks, grunting through orgasms.

And then a silent five mile run around the lake.

January 14, 2014


Part of the reason I haven’t simply inserted myself in a hot police officer/firefighter’s bed is out of fear that this town already has a registered himboizer. I quietly checked online and also made a circuit of the area coffee shops, looking for handsome and dim baristas with jizz in their hair. Nothing. So back to check my only lead, the library.

For a boring six hour stretch, nothing. I went through three cups of coffee and had to get a nearby homeowner to forgot I was using his bathroom. At hour six, results. A battered Ford Explorer pulled up with a chubby teenager behind the wheel, and discharged two tall jocks from the back seat. They were both on the masculine side like how I make ‘em, along with bulging muscles, round, tight asses, jawlines sharp enough to kill, and wearing football jerseys with their name and numbers on them which wouldn’t have looked out of place if not for the fact that they weren’t wearing pants, just classic white jockstraps. One of them put a hand on the teenager’s crotch, and whispered in his ear, but he shook his head and led them into the library. A hand on each bare muscular ass. this is what they looked like

So as I thought, a new talent. A long, long time ago I was that kid, forcing the buff Mr. Ladd who taught Science to give me hummers in the staff room. Confident I had little to worry about, I went into the library. The kid had managed to put together a rudimentary field on the door, keeping entrants from noticing anything weird. Inside a library, a staff of studs and jocks flounced about with dim bulb expressions and jockstraps. They spent a lot of time bending over to pick up books, exposing their holes for the world.

His mental work was okay but too aggressive. Some of the guys would continue to get dumber or sluttier until they made a scene—a scene that would attract attention on a scale I wouldn’t like. So I’m going to have to decide—do the padawan thing with the kid, or kill him.

January 15, 2014

bimboisbetter-deactivated201401 asked: What was the most unlikely jockslut/himbo you’ve made? That is, who started out the least himbo-ish when you were brought in to change him?


I kid.

It’s hard to answer this. Certainly I’ve done my fair share of shy skinny nerds and homophobic fratboys and “mature” men. There have been feats of resistance often quite heroic by the most unlikely guys. But the truth is, high class or low, black or white, brainy or dumb, inside all of them is a raging fuckbeast waiting to be let out. We are all of us governed by hormones and urges and, after twenty-five years of himbos, the results run together a bit. A nice way of looking at it is that we are all of us human, in the sense that we can be reduced to a rock hard and needy bitch in heat with just a few alterations.

January 17, 2014


Drove a very long ways to do a very expensive job for a very old friend and client. I’ve probably done fifteen boys for him over the many years—so many I’d have to check my records to be sure. And that’s leaving aside the temporary horniness/memory charms for his parties. He is the wealthiest and most powerful man I know.

He brought me inside his office and poured me my usual. His buff secretary tapped slowly on a keyboard with a vacant expression, unaware that he was missing the suit part of his uniform. The whirr from his seat reminded me that he was one of mine—a anal vibrator addict who got wild with his tongue when he maxed out the batteries. click here

We caught up a bit in the anteroom (it’s a BIG office) and then he brought me back to his desk, with its commanding views of the ocean and neighboring skyscrapers. A beautiful man in underwear and overall straps was slumped over in a comfortable chair. click here

“I can’t remember how many this has been,” I confessed to him. He shrugged.

“Me neither. You know, I ended up marrying one of them? Do you remember Cory?”

No. “Sure.”

He must’ve caught my look. “You did him for me real mild. A personal assistant with a leather and rubber fetish. Got dumb as a rock when he got aroused.” It rang a distant bell. “Okay.”

“Yeah, he just had so much personality I couldn’t help but fall for him. As a first among equals sort of deal. I had someone else remove most of the programming and we’re about to adopt our first kid.”

The client was in his mid-50s. I toasted him congratulations. The reference to another himboizer was his way of telling me not to overcharge for the work. This guy had broad shoulders, well-defined features, with an alright body (abs but not obliques or the V, lightly toned arms and legs), . He wore glasses with black plastic frames. His name was Brendan.

“No body work?” I asked to confirm, and also in case he wanted to throw in a bigger ass or more well-defined abs and pecs. In my line of work Brendan’s ass, loosely covered by blue and white boxers, was infinitesimal.

“None, none. As I get older it’s more and more about the mental game. Also I’m drowning in bubble butts and large cocks,” the client said. He clinked the ice around his glass. “I’ll let you get to work. I’ll go use the secretary.”

The Brendan job ended up taking a lot longer than expected. Fiddly, complicated brain work, and since I couldn’t change any deeper neural pathways it was just layer upon layer of personality overlays. I also was using some technology I had borrowed, which helped with the fixing and with the trance-inducement but I also had to train myself on a user interface ripped from 1980s MS-DOS. The client was fine with it—he had conceived of the idea and understood that you can’t rush art.

He thoughtfully had a few men sent up, one of whom got the pleasure of taking care of a zombie-mode Brendan, the other one of which settled me down with a lazy handjob underneath the desk.

Is that surprising? I like handjobs when I’m working. I find them refreshing but not distracting.

I finished around 4 a.m. and was woken up on the client’s leather couch at 6 when he strode in, alert and excited. I sipped coffee while he waited for Brendan to wake up.

“He’ll wake up normal and then trance off after about 30 seconds,” I told him. “I have the failsafes in of course so no yelling or anything unpleasant.”

When his eyes popped open the client was beaming at him from behind his desk.

“[Client]?” Brendan said, confused. He rubbed his eyes. “What’s going on? I.. did I fall asleep?”

“No, no,” the client said, pleasantly. “I drugged you. Are you alright? Feeling okay?"

“No.. I.. drugged?” Brendan stood up, abruptly. “What.. what am I wearing?”

“I didn’t pick it out, so I couldn’t say the designer, but it’s a very nice designer underwear with braces,” the client said. “But don’t worry about that. Sit down. We have to discuss the position you came in for.”

“No.. I…” at this point Brendan noticed he was no longer wearing glasses. Indeed, no longer needed them. “This is.. what are you… what…”

“Thirty seconds,” I said, from my corner of the room.

And Brendan froze.

“Wonderful,” the client said, nodding his head. “How long will this last?”

“Five minutes is standard, to give you time to react. You can pick what he’ll come out as with commands while he’s in trance. Or just wait it out for random.”

“Oh, random. Random it definitely is,” the client said. His smile grew. “How many different bits and pieces did you toss in there?”

“I have a sort of an autodialer I brought with me, it lists 372 different fetishes and interests. Some of them… well, you know how sometimes you get a licorce jellybean in with the good ones?”

“All for the better!” the client declared, imperiously. “and there’s no way to know in advance what it’ll be, correct?”

“None.” the client’s instructions had been very clear on that. “the normalcy trigger is our usual passphrase. But he’ll still trance from time to time. Nothing to be done about that. Also, some of these fetishes… they’re a little dangerous. I left you a list but… there’s some real watersports in there.” And a fecal fetish, I didn’t mention.

Brendan snapped out of it. This time his eyes were downcast, low-lidded, sly. He slid his hand over his chest, and the underwear that he had been so concerned by now looked like he was born to wear it. Such a different attitude makes.

“Brendan, can I help you with anything?” the client prompted, leaning across the table.

He grew a slow, quiet smile. “Maybe, daddy,” he said. And just when I thought I had him figured out added “if you can give me something to suck on.” Brendan moaned deep in his throat and added: “right now.”

“Immediately,” the client said. He gave me a nod that I recognized. Time to leave.

As I slouched to the door he took his eyes off Brendan—who was seductively sucking the client’s finger—long enough to say “[Harold]. Beautiful work.” It’s nice to be appreciated.

January 19, 2014


My two jocksluts-to-be are starting to look a lot less like average american fatsos and a lot more like extremely fuckable studs. Both have gained a ton of muscle, and the chemicals are having their usual effect on their asses. Colt has a much lower body fat percentage, and he’s lost all his body hair for that perfect toned and lean look of a masculine professional swimmer. Meanwhile I’ve had Mason bulk up, getting him bigger and buffer, but still a bit soft, like a big fuckable teddy bear.

They have noticed the dramatic changes to their libido and to their penises. It has become a nonstop orgasm rampage in the Mason/Colt household, as they keep finding their hands wandering all over themselves and each other. Colt especially has something in his asshole more or less all the time.

I picked up a gym membership and have been sweating my way into better health. Mind controller that I am, it was easy enough to listen in on their conversations.

COLT: I’m going to head back to the locker room. [visibly fidgeting]

MASON: [annoyed] That’s the third time since we got here! I got you off in the car before we came in, too! What is wrong with you?

C: It’s just.. all these guys, they’re so hard and they keep looking at me and looking at my ass and my bulge and… geez… [nervous laugh]

M: So stop performing for them! You use the machines like you’re fucking them. Bending over like a bitch in heat.

C: [turning red] Oh fuck, Mason, don’t call me that. You know what it does to me.

M: [snorts] What, bitch? How about jockslut? Gym whore?

C: Okay, now I really have to go. Get someone else to spot you.

Jealousy was an obvious next move. So I encouraged Mason to strike up a conversation with a 50-year-old gay man who was only too happy to help the young buck use the free weights. Mason kept his legs nice and wide and his smile extremely bright. And so he ended up losing his anal virginity in the backseat of his aging VW Jetta, fucking like a pro as the windows fogged up.

He’s arguing with Colt now. I’ll sign off in case I need to intervene.

January 19, 2014

Anonymous asked: Black or Ginger?

Not having to choose is the very essence of my lifestyle.

January 19, 2014

Anonymous asked: Taking money out of the equation, what sort of men do you enjoy himbofying the most?

There isn’t a single ‘type’, but, in general, the boys that make me work the hardest and surprise me the most. And that can be anyone. I’ve worked on slutty college guys that resist losing their A-B-Cs with single-minded tenacity, that tape their hands behind their backs to keep from jerking themselves to gay porn. I’ve given conservative redneck homophobes a single dose of chemicals and returned to find them impaled on the mailman’s dick and braying brainlessly.

The single most fun himboization was Peter. Peter had a unique advantage—he knew all about my tricks, about the community, about methodology. He was himself a mind controller, of limited ability. One of the few straighties to join our ranks. Mostly he ran a business getting men to lose weight and get strong, without erasing their minds.

Himboizing a straight male practitioner is verboten—well, it was—but I always found him irresistible. His was the body of a God. He was naturally beautiful, with sharp features and beautiful lips. Click here. So when I was drunk at a party I asked his permission to himboize him.

He shrugged, displayed little emotion. “If you can,” he told me.

It took me over a year.

A contest of wills would be too intense and a technological solution overkill, so that left chemicals. Which he knew. I couldn’t break into his place to dose something as entering a mind controller’s den without permission is a bad idea. And he didn’t have any obvious routines—a favored coffee place, etc—that I could exploit. Peter seemed impervious.

Obsessed with the challenge, I hit on a plan more time-intensive than clever. Peter had his own clients. They weren’t hard to find, and a faded tennis player struggling with a Pepperidge Farms addiction was particularly weak-willed. I implanted one, teeny-tiny suggestion, and then dosed him with so many chemicals so that his dick grew about three inches during the drive to Peter’s office.

The suggestion was too deep to catch, and when my himbifying tennis player got close enough, he was overwhelmed with the need to give muscular, dark-skinned men open-mouth kisses. With tongue.

It was an indirect exposure, but enough so that the next time I saw Peter, he was jogging shirtless with tight shorts that, when he bent over (which he did a lot now), showcased the line of his jock and his perfect muscular butt. It was a start. click here

I’ll get to my next step with his some other time.

January 21, 2014


I made contact with the little teenage mind controller.

Did everyone think I was joking about killing him? I gave it very serious thought. He is, after all, a bad guy. He’s taking ordinary guys and turning them into mindless cocksucking musclesluts. True, so do I, but that doesn’t make him a good guy. He could be using his abilities to improve his town and put people to work. And his wild and poorly controlled work risks bringing the wrath of the association down on me.

On the other hand, I was young once. And really wanted to get my dick wet.

I wanted to make an impression, so I waylaid a slave of his named Adam, a former high school football player now spending most of his time at the gym or reading books upside down. He sat out front of the library, semi-discarded, with his legs casually open so everyone could admire his bulge packed tightly into the stained jock. The problem was obvious. He had made this guy over but had no idea how to teach him anything about sex and pleasing a man. I taught him a few tips about blowjobs and seduction and sent him inside.

Inside, Derek [I pulled his name out of Adam’s head] held court in a secluded part of the library, surrounded by computer hardware and monitors in a lair he had pulled out for himself. A matching pair of ginger studs waited around nearby, their eyes dreamy and half-closed.

“Adam?” he said, frowning, as my boy sashayed in. Like all of my boys, he knew how to use his ass to his best advantage. “I didn’t ask you to come in.”

“I wanted to,” he replied. Shocking him—he wasn’t used to any backtalk.

At this point an experienced himboizer would recognize a compromised guy and be out a window. But instead he let Adam kneel between his legs and fish out a red and very hard cock. Adam paused to wet his lips, and then gave Derek the most intense experience of his young life.

Adam was a quick study. He swallowed every drop. Then he looked Derek in the eyes and said “Mr. [Me] would like to discuss your activities at the coffee shop on 5th and Columbus at 5 p.m. this Saturday.”

Dumbfounded, his pants around his ankles, Derek watched Adam’s ass sway as he walked out. I had kept his jock before he left, of course.

I’m thinking about keeping him.

January 22, 2014


The pressure is off with Adam on board—I’ll talk about what I’m doing with him some other time—but I’m still very much into Colt and Mason. Their physical changes have gone well past what fitness could conceivably accomplish. Any guy with an unaffected mind would think: my butt could never have gotten this big, my muscles have grown far too fast, and where did all my moles and acne go? Colt’s skin has actually whitened, not to a Marilyn-Manson-goth exactly, but to a serene and ethereal milk. Mason is in such good condition and humming with so much erotic energy that he’s only sleeping a few hours a day.

But neither has noticed a thing—less even then most jocks—thanks to their efforts to fuck each other jealous.

After Mason’s ride in the backseat a little bit ago, they’re both wild to show the other up with some sort of obvious sexual gymnastics. First Colt ostentatiously brought home a date from Grindr and got banged by him until 2 in the morning, until the date collapsed, exhausted. Then Mason got ‘caught’ when Colt got home, fucking the hell out of some random guy from the gym on the wall outside his room. And then Mason saw where this was going and got a jump start by blowing a guy in the living room while Colt sulked in his room.

Then it got a little out of hand.

If my tally is right, Colt is ahead, 30 to 27. Mostly because Mason’s date one night got spooked at his forwardness while Colt was a three-way bukkake participant with two brothers. In the kitchen.

When not fucking and glaring at each other the two are changing their clothing style. Mason is more or less what I envisioned—bright colors, tight shorts, and muscle tees. Tight sweatpants for slumming. But Colt, who I figured for a bit of a goth, has gone instead for a sophisticated sexy secretary look. Tight, collared T-shirts and very fitted trousers that leave nothing to the imagination, and sometimes a tie. It’s fantastic.

I’m not too worried about the jealousy. Reason why is, the changes to their genitalia.

The chemicals completely redo a guys’ pleasure zones. Every time Mason and Colt cum, it’s harder, longer, stronger, more intense. Their cocks are growing and becoming more sensitive, the heads engorged. Their testicles are like ping-pong balls. Their holes tingle at the slightest brush. All of it bristling with new nerve endings. And every time they cum they erode a little bit more of their former personalities, memories, etc.

It won’t be very long now before the jealousy is gone, simply forgotten, and they’ll just be bringing back boys to fuck.

January 24, 2014

Anonymous asked: Any… “unexpected” side effects of bimbofication ever come up in the business? Not just any you’ve had, but for others as well?

Oh sure. Constantly. I even have a special phone number for emergencies. Just a month ago I had to run out because a former client had lost track of a guy, and was extra concerned because he had put a tattoo fetish in. By the time I found him he had tattoos covering his whole body from the neck down. All paid for with his mouth.

Client saw him and nearly fucked him right in front of me. Man liked his tattoos. He personally didn’t have a single one.

Most side effects come from implanted fetishes or inflexible needs that the client asks for special. These kinds of compulsions are fun, and often the point for the client, but it’s really better to get an on-off switch. Shopping fetishes are particularly bad about this—these guys will rack up thousands of dollars a day in fetishwear and dildos. There are only so many ball gags and sexy halloween costumes even the most dedicated jockslut can wear. Another guy, the client gave him such a strong rubber fetish, he refused to take off his full-body rubbersuit, and had to be mind controlled out of it.

Of course, on/off switches have their own problems. One client—not mine—had secretly given his straight married friend a trigger. The phrase “Banana Margaret” would turn this intelligent, firmly heterosexual man into a cock-craving and drooling cumslut. All was well until at his kid’s school play a little girl asked her mother, Margaret, for a banana. Whoops.

My own personal best was a man named Bill, who was a savage and merciless dom when triggered by the client. Who was hours deep into a session and both bound and gagged when he realized he couldn’t remember the safe word. It took him a day and a half of torture to reach a phone, and he was dangling from a staircase railing by his ankles when I got there. It cured that fetish. Bill was a dumb and cheerful muscle bottom when I left.

Careful with your bimbos, everyone.

January 25, 2014


Can’t believe I forgot perhaps the greatest unintended side effect story I’ve ever heard.

A himbo crossing the street—with the light—was struck and killed by a car. Pre-himboization he was an organ donor so… they donated his organs. To three men and two women.

The three men not only didn’t need transplantation medication, they found themselves with an overpowering libido, rapidly growing muscles, and all three suddenly had the need to take a dick down the throat twice a day.

For the women, one was unaffected entirely. The other had what must’ve been a very confusing six months before she-now-he made his debut on stage at a local gay strip club as the very brainless, well-endowed, sexy new talent.

January 26, 2014


Adam used to be a good student, a football player, a level-headed guy with a hot girlfriend. Then he made his major mistake in life, sitting in front of a young mind controller while possessing a tight ass and a homophobic mouth. And then it wasn’t long before he was fingering himself in the shower while his ass grew overnight.

It turns out Derek is using Master PC. That program finds its way to many new himboizers, it’s sort of the training wheels of this profession. I have a copy but never use it—too crude, very temporary work. There is a far better way to make himbos then the direct, searing commands: YOU ARE a jock, YOU ARE a slut.

It’s called Jafar’s Method.

Adam’s cock (and his ass) started to grown. He learned in a very awkward sex talk from his father that he comes from a long line of small-dicked men, and is resigned to his genetic destiny. But then every night it grows, and grows, and when it’s hard it reaches a good length. Meanwhile on his backside, it’s like a seat cushion has been glued onto his rear. At first Adam is pleased, then apprehensive, then worried at the snake in his pants. But there’s no stopping it—he eats voraciously for dinner and his cock and ass grows while he sleeps.

Jafar’s Method never commands. It convinces the guy that he was always a gay cumslut, was never not a gay cumslut, enjoys being a gay cumslut.

His girlfriend dumped him a couple weeks after he stopped wanting sex or anything else from her. Rumours spread and teenagers are cruel, leading to his ostracization and apparent outing. But that’s fine, there are plenty of boys (on the effeminate, unpopular side) who are happy to hang out with him, who apparently share his interests and are extremely pleased to play video games with him. But more and more Adam notices them watching him, intensely. Behind his back. Growing regular teenage boy hardons when he and his muscular ass are around. One day he goes into a “friend” ’s room and sees his wastebucket full of dried tissues, and realizes that he’s masturbating to him.

It gives him a very funny feeling.

While it doesn’t work very fast, Jafar’s Method is one of the few systems that is 100% permanent. And the best part is that the boy isn’t obeying—he’s initiating. This is who he is. A horny fuckdoll.

Boy attention is a turn-on, and it’s not hard to get, especially in a smaller town like this. Adam starts to dress up. At first he tells himself he is just letting go of his inhibitions—the loose pants he retreated into when his huge cock and ass became visible in everything else. But then he spends hours in front of the mirror, admiring his ass in tight black shorts. Going commando around the house to let his cock bounce.

He has an entourage. He keeps pushing it. Bending over to pick things up. Yawning and stretching so that his tight T-shirts pull up and boys can see his abs. There’s a stock story that is easy because it’s familiar, and I use it on Adam. The popular football player turns out to be the repressed homo who’s hiding a slutty gay wild side. But it’s customizable. Very customizable.

Very first date, with a stammering nerd he can’t believe got up the nerve. He wears shorts and a muscle tee and they go to the movies. At some point the nerd’s left hand slips down his pants and fumble around while his right hand explores Adam’s chest, pinching his pecs, stroking his abs. What to most guys is mild a mild sensation is an overpowering rush, and Adam ends up quietly grunting in his seat as the nerd explores. He comes twice from the groping alone. The internet confirms: that means that he is a very horny boy.

For specific fetishes you just insert certain scenarios. The grindr date who taught him to enjoy spanking. The sex shop that made him love leather. Adam is forced to admit that his body is in control. It loves to be touched, wants to be touched, needs to be groped and fondled. His grades plummet. He is spending way too much time on dates, earning a reputation, letting guys grab his package and squeeze his ass. He’s increasingly aware that he is the town bicycle, but it just feels too good to care. And how else is he going to keep up his gym membership and buy sexy underwear? Guys are happy to buy for him. A new date. An alpha male, for once. Unlike the awkward teenage guys this one is older, aggressive, intoxicatingly in control. He put his hand on Adam’s ass while they walk around, he pays for everything, he jerks Adam to orgasm at the movies. And in the car he expects a blowjob. Adam hesitates only briefly—he is so hard, so in love with his command. He puts everything into it, and is rewarded by his first gob of cum. It’s love at first sight.

I spent eight hours on Adam. Some of that was getting rid of old, shoddy programming. Some of that was me getting older. And quite a bit was me taking my time and enjoying myself.

Adam knows he’s out of control. Dropped out of school because he just wants to blow the teachers. Getting passed from guy to guy. And yet all he wants to do is get on his back and get his ass filled up with that wonderful spunk. The only idea that makes sense to his fuck-addled brain is to find some man who can satisfy him, take care of him, dominate him, be his owner. An older man, with stamina. He would milk his cock with his ass so hard the guy would have trouble standing.

Adam opened his eyes.

He looked perfect.

January 27, 2014

charleswallace82 asked: Everyone seems to love blonds. Or boring brunets. Anyone ever hired you to do a redhead?

I’m sure you’re expecting some tale of reworking some foul-mouthed ginger scoundrel but the truth is… not really. I mean, yes, I’ve done some redheads, but no one special comes to mind and I think they were mostly standard one-week himboization jobs.

Thinking on it, I believe most of the gingers went to clients on their fourth or fifth bimbo. As a sort of skittles/M&M “get the entire pack” sort of thing, but a lot more racist. It usually goes:

  1. dumb blond muscle jockslut
  2. A brown or black-haired white guy, usually less musclehead, more seductive, lip-licking, Edward Cullen style
  3. Sexy Arabian prince type, the dark stranger with a beast inside
  4. A muscular black guy with thick lips and a big dick
  5. Asian Twunk that clients use for their more bizarre fetishes
  6. Finally, a ginger, usually with a scottish/welsh accent

My guess is that the jocky willing-slut stereotypes don’t mix well with the ginger stereotypes, so the typical client isn’t looking for that direction.

Or perhaps it’s like buying suits—never buy a khaki suit for the first suit. Charcoal, Navy, Black, pinstripe… and then perhaps khaki down the line. If you’re going to sink a huge amount of money into making a guy into a sex slave, the client isn’t going to chance on a redhead. Imo its pretty weird and vaguely prejudiced, but who am I to say no?

So, no. Not really. Don’t blame me. Blame the clients. I like redheads!

January 27, 2014

Anonymous asked: Most expensive himbo upgrade you do? Or have been asked to do?

Good question. There are the big, big jobs I did as part of the association—the chapter of Alpha Gamma Iota, that hotel I did with Wren and the rest of the team, the college I helped the Calving weirdos do… but I’m guessing you mean by myself.

It’s not the most I charged, but I have to say Tanner.

Tanner’s himboization took FOUR YEARS.

I was totally taken aback by this client’s request. Clients want speed. Clients are impatient with a ten hour job. Clients call you up and say things like ‘when’s his butt going to be done?’ Clients would generally be happier if I waved a wand and poofed a lifelong soulmate into a brainless toy. This client asked for years and years from the get-go.

His reasons were considered and sober. He wanted a himbo, absolutely, but he wanted it to still be his best (straight) friend Tanner. That meant it had to be slow, and preferably seem like his idea. Being a himbo had to adjust itself to his life. He didn’t want some horny stranger plopped in. And besides, he thought the himboization itself would be the most fun. How could I argue with that?

So for the first year, all Tanner got was a once a week programming phone call and an extremely mild dose of chemicals. It was hilariously bizarre for me because I had to program with the most innocuous things—you want to move in with your rich friend [Client], you don’t mind when [client] calls you sexy as hell, you’re starting to get curious about blowjobs. It was four months before he told the client that he was questioning his sexuality and wanted to experiment. It was nine months before he began giving blowjobs instead of just receiving.

From Tanner’s perspective, he believed he’d always been a little bi-curious, and even then, having sex with the client didn’t really count. I really did almost no mental persuasion. He started to really love having anal sex, so he had more sex. Being horny became part of who he was. When he finally masturbated in a mirror that first time, it was because sex and jacking off was part of his daily existence. I don’t think I ever caught the slightest hint of resistance. I also convinced him to start going to the gym at least daily so he wouldn’t notice his growing ass and muscles.

After year one—and this was all part of the plan!—the client got Tanner to admit he was in love with him, and they began dating. I made Tanner increasingly more reliant on Client to get him to quit his job. And the slow degradation of attention span and intelligence was easily attributable to leaving the workforce. So it was.

Isolated and at home, we redirected Tanner’s increasing energy into making client the center of his world. And, the masterstroke, he started to look up himbos on his own. Not anything connected with the fetish—I felt like that was too much—but the himbo lifestyle and gay sex videos and everything about it. Tanner plunged wholeheartedly into it, convinced himself that he was being a good boyfriend.

After the initial coming out, I don’t think a single one of his family and friends ever thought there was something up.

Year four, the client had me over for drinks. Serving them on a tray was Tanner, in a tight black thong, his bulge as much on display as the rest of his bare, muscular body. While we talked he knelt between the client’s legs and gave him what even I could tell was one of the best, most considerate blowjobs of all time. The client showed me a picture of a guy in a hoody holding up his PhD in Law. Tanner, four years prior. Even I didn’t recognize him.

January 28, 2014


Today I met with Derek.

He tried to dress up. Who knows what he felt this was about. From the collared shirt and the borrowed sportscoat my guess he thought this was some sort of initiation rite. He was being tapped for Order of the Arrow, that kind of thing. At least, he wasn’t that nervous.

We were at a coffee shop, of course.

“So.. hi,” he said. He extended a hand. “Derek.” Yeah, no shit.

“I know,” I said. I didn’t mean anything by it, but his eyes got wide. Well, of course I knew his name. You don’t need to be a mind controller. Some light reconnaissance would be enough.

I had thought about my approach and decided to go with deliberately casual. “I just moved into town, saw one of your guys walking around.”

“Which one?” he asked. Derek did not offer to buy me a cup of coffee, which lost him Harold-points.

“Tan skin… huge ass.. Cartoon muscles…” no glimmer. “I guess I’m not narrowing it down.”

“Probably Mr. Evans,” he smirked. “He was my middle school history teacher.”

For me it was english. “How many guys have you done?” I asked, suddenly concerned. He looked away, so I took the answer from the top of his head. He had no idea how to stop me. “Twenty-three? Ah man. That’s too many.” I reconsidered killing him. Twenty-three. What an idiot. Twenty-three himbos wandering around. Did he think no one would notice?

“Well, just five are permanent,” he argued, suddenly afraid. I can be scary when I want to be. The conversation had taken a turn he didn’t expect. “The rest are on triggers? When I say…”

“Yeah, Kaleidoscopic is not a great trigger,” I told him. “They should be two, three words.” His lower lip quivered. I relented. He was only eighteen, he didn’t know anything. “Well, since we’re in the same town I thought I could teach you a thing or two.”

“I think I know what I’m doing…” he mumbled.

“Excuse me, sir?” a tall ginger interrupted us. His tousled hair and toned muscles gave him a relaxed but rugged look. A shirt with three buttons undone that was a size too small showcased his lean body nicely. He laughed. “I’m so sorry. Apparently they’re out of cream and… can I?”

“Sure,” I told him, affably. I scooted my chair aside a smidge, and he knelt between my legs and started to pull out my dick.

Derek was motionless.

“Not hard at all,” I assured him. I looked down. The redhead had it free and was working the shaft with long fingers. The rest of the coffee shop buzzed around us.

It gradually dawned on Derek that it was filling up with attractive young men, and not a single woman.

“So.. can I get you a cup of coffee?” the rookie asked, properly humbled.

I grunted, and unloaded a shot onto the ginger’s face. He smiled and licked at it, letting the remainder fall into his cup ‘o joe. “Thanks, man, that’s perfect,” he said, dripping with sperm.

A built and buff black guy with a red headband approached. “I’m fresh out,” I explained, “but I think the kid can help.”

He got on his knees and waited.

January 29, 2014

Anonymous asked: Have you ever had to turn the (mental) lights back on? Or at least partially restore a man’s mind to what it was before you, or someone else, worked on her?

I always make it possible to turn on intelligence again unless the client specifically requests a total snuff. You can always get the original person back, albeit a lot sluttier and a bit sillier. I actually charge extra for total snuff even though it’s easier for me to do. I feel a little better about it.

Intelligence loss is such a keystone to what I do that it’s funny to be squeamish about it. The slow and methodical dimming of the lights is a turn on in so many ways—the gradual changeover of magazines from The Economist to Iron Man, the new interest in sports and wrestling shows, the children’s books poorly hidden in the bathroom. That look of dulled panic when the guy realizes he’s struggling to do multiplication. And the way it’s replaced by attributes that make him not care—the libido, the adoration, the need to be stroked and fucked, and to exercise.

I once took a man I was himboizing to the symphony, just to watch him not give a shit. He had been a talented Violinist. Now he was an amateur flutist. I would estimate that about 5-10% of clients eventually request that I get the old guy back. This is of those that asked for a permanent job. And yes, I have had clients who got a full snuff want the old guy back. Sorry, no refunds. We talked about this…

Sometimes I will happen to run across a jock that has been ‘orphaned’ either because his client died or lost track of him or something. And if I can’t use him in some other way, I’ll turn his lights back on.

I did this to a priest’s son named Ezra who had been himboized around when he was 20 and had spent six years as a pseudo-prostitute for a client with a voyeur fetish. And then suddenly—woke up. He took it as a message from god and became a hard-bodied, big-dicked missionary for the lord, wearing a heavy black robe over his still-sensitive nipples and cock. He has a Sunday morning televangelist show if you want to watch, where he talks in lurid detail about his ‘sexual congress’ as a sinner.

He still has a trigger. I left it in. It’s not likely to be said but sometimes I’ll idly google his name, just in case.

January 30, 2014

Anonymous asked: Any experience himboizing a certain type of alluring distant beauty? There’s not a specific word for them—muses, maybe?—but you know the type I mean: artist’s models, PI’s, dark/handsome strangers. Most transformations are about amping up hot/cute guys’ already-present sex appeal, but I’m more interested as a potential client in having one of these mysterious-but-unattainable men turned into a happy stupid fuckdoll, his crooked smile and dark eyes replaced with a dumb blinking grin.

I know what you mean. I do have some stories like that but you’ve reminded me of a better one, from my early days. When I was hired by a man named Rob, a manager at a small startup tech company created by a group of gay coders (all kinds, right?) that needed to get a project out the door. They’d started out as a gay comp eng club in college, then decided to make a company together. I was hired by the CEO, but Rob thought I was his hire.

He was literally the only straight employee in the small office space, buy easily the most attractive. The rest were all computer geeks, pale and out of shape. Rob was hired to manage them. He didn’t know the first thing about computers, but he was a great leader and motivator. It didn’t hurt that he had a ruggedly handsome face and a body like the David. He was quiet and mysterious, kept to himself and didn’t talk about his personal life much; but whenever he did speak, he oozed the charisma of an A-list action movie lead. Too bad for the geeks he was all about the ladies. The geeks figured they had no chance.. Until Rob started to flirt.

Ever so slowly to start. Just touching the employees on the back, patting their shoulders, standing a bit closer to them then before. And smiling—he never had smiled much before—a very quiet and mysterious smile.

The CEO’s idea had been to make him into a basic cum dumpster for the staff to let off steam. But I decided to go the other way—to ratchet up the tension. Rob started to drop hints about his personal life. Hints that quickly spread all the way around the small office and back. That he went out dancing late at night, and lost his shoes in a penthouse overlooking the ocean. That he had gotten drunk with some guys and didn’t remember what he’d done with them. All painting the portrait of a sexy, fun, straight yet also sexually ambiguous Rob that the computer geeks wondered at as they slaved away long hours. And Rob was right there with them, always in the office, encouraging and smiling and cheering them on.

One of the programmers did a particularly good job. Rob gave him a backrub. I think he came in his dockers.

That was the cue to turn the dress code casual “until we launch”. Way casual. Suddenly Rob was in flip-flops and brightly colored tight shorts during the day, shirts unbuttoned enough to tease at the beautiful lean body beneath.. He was laughing at their coding jokes, now, whispering into the guy’s ears, increasingly free with his backrubs.

The poor guy was getting more revved up then the gay guys. And started to let off steam in the men’s room, stroking himself to hot, mid-day orgasms.

He didn’t seem to realize that every guy in the office could hear his guttural moans.

By this point, I don’t think the guys were ever going home. They programmed, ate pizza, and traded stories. Rob’s underwear casually strewn on his office floor. The way he saw Thomas’ hard-on and smirked and winked. The sly suggestion that maybe the employee that most broke performance goals would get to give him a backrub.

With days to go before deadline, Rob was a master of persuasion and seduction. He wandered the halls in tight shorts, occasionally stopping to pick some lint off the carpet. The two perfect round globes of his ass were the talk if the office. On the very last day he gathered every staffer into the conference room for a pep talk, which somehow devolved into a long discussion about blowjobs.

The product shipped on time, although kleenex consumption was way up for the month.

It was a needy, animalistic group of boys that gathered around the giggling Rob for the post-launch celebration. He had promised them all handjobs, and hummers, and anal, for their hard work and dedication. Because I didn’t want him to be torn to shreds, I sent in a dozen of my boys, and even these experienced cumsluts were savaged all night.

And in the end, all the tension of seduction in Rob dissolved beneath the weight and fluids of so many guys, banging him raw and stupid. He was just another himbo. But what a performance.

January 31, 2014

Anonymous asked: What do you think of that Pastor Flynn guy? Seems like kind of a douche.

Pastor Flynn.

If you’re not familiar with Flynn you can read about him at Calving Signs. Calving wasn’t even the first town he himboized, but it’s the most well known and his current base of operations.

I hope everyone is okay with stopping himbotalk and starting office politics. There’s a reason that I, a veteran mind controller, am friendless and alone in a boring town, nursing one and a half himbos in my collection. And it’s largely because of Pastor Flynn. And myself.

Not so long ago I and a few others started up The Association. At the time I conceived of it as a social club for himboizers and general mind controllers of men. A trade group. A newsletter, some social events, maybe a friendly “your best work” competition. And for some time it was that. We even had a club on top of a regular country club, sexy guys on leashes walking unnoticed among golfers and their wives.

But then we started to think big. Real big. Himboizing a man wasn’t hard, why not an entire hotel? Why not a cruise ship? Why not a town?

Why not the world?

Flynn joined several years ago. And I agree that he is a true believer. I’m fairly certain that he’s personally chaste (!). Still, I don’t see anything in the bible that says “turn thy neighbor into a cumslut” and I am sticking by that.

But Flynn isn’t just warping religion to his ultimate himboizing goals. It’s the other way around. He believes that two thousand years of conventional religious mission has failed, and it’s time for a new approach. And when he’s done with them, his flock does spend plenty of time on its knees. Now, Flynn doesn’t call the shots at the association because no one is that stupid. Damian does. Damian isn’t a BAD guy, exactly—he means his word and doesn’t go back on a handshake. But think about what kind of person rises to leadership in a group of ruthless mind controllers.


So he listens to the Flynn-faction that says “why not do the entire world? Why not mind control everyone?”

Now, I personally think an entire world of himbos would be, among other things, monotonous. Sex would be like going to the supermarket. All laid out for you, with all challenge and interest removed. And there’s probably a lot of other reasons a nation of himbos would be bad, too. Like, I don’t know, the end of human procreation. So I left the association when it became clear that my opinions were no longer necessary.

For years it seemed like I was ignored and could act independently so long as I didn’t get in the association’s way. But lately that’s changed. Now I am sure I am being hunted. And that doesn’t just scare me for my own personal safety. It means that there is a Plan that I could be a conceivable threat to.

And I’m certain Flynn is at the center of it.

So what do you guys think? Should I continue?

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