The Himbo Merchant (February)

By Yourmind123
published January 24, 2020
8984 words
Published on:

February is a busy month for Harold

This is a gay re-write of part 2 of Limerick’s extremely hot story “The Bimbo Merchant”


February 1, 2014


I’ve been distracted with work and forgot to check in on Colt and Mason yesterday. Neither came back all day today. Now I need to go find them.

February 1, 2014


I found Colt, at least. And got some of the story.

Let me first say that this is totally my fault and is really inexcusable. I am a professional. There comes a critical moment where a newly minted himbo has a moment of clarity about what a gay cumslut he has become, and it is the controller’s responsibility to give him a cock to dive onto. And I failed at that.

Mason reached that point a few days ago now. The sexual feud between the two guys had reached a fever pitch. It culminated in a two hour three-way between the two of them and an effeminate pizza guy, where the two guys practically killed a teenage boy under their muscular asses and needy mouths and cocks.

Battle Pizza turned into a lengthy fuck-marathon between the two of them, the pizza guy escaping. Hours upon hours of licking each other’s cocks, fucking each other’s asses into oblivion, and masturbating to mindmelting climax. Finally, his mind temporarily sexually exhausted (albeit quite a bit dimmer) Mason saw every himboizer’s bete noire—a picture of his pre-jockslut, heavy-set, normal-clothes-wearing self. And realized something was up.

He tried to alert Colt, but, well, Colt is about as bright as a sack of hammers, by design. With him I was inspired by male forest nymphs, lithe, athletic, sex-hungry, but practically animal. Colt’s new favorite activity is to sit in the sun, tanning, a vibrator buzzing in his ass.

They went a ways together, but Colt got distracted by a group of soccer players returning from practice, and went away with them. I found him at one of the closeted player’s houses, covered in jizz, and sniffing one of their sweaty shirts. I brought him back here with me and Adam is taking care of him. Mason is still parts unknown.

February 3, 2014


I might be posting sporadically this month. It’s busy season. No one likes to be alone on Valentine’s Day. It’s even more lonely for the gays. I might do 40 himbos this month.

Just like Valentine’s Day, everything tends to be mass-produced and rushed. I even had one client simply write “a man” on the order questionnaire. That was it.

And on top of all the work I have to find the still-missing Mason and figure out what to do with Derek. What a month. At least Colt and Adam are having fun. Funny how the pecking order develops so quickly. Adam is the top and Colt is spending a ton of time on his knees between Adam’s legs.

February 6, 2014


Finished up a pretty big job today.

The coach of a major football team (no, I won’t say which one) wanted me to give triggers to all of his players. He wanted a separate trigger for each of the players that would turn them into cum-hungry guttersluts and then a trigger that worked on all of them.

The idea is, if they win a match, he would reward them by giving them all the main trigger and conducting a massive orgy in the locker room with happy endings for everyone. Afterwards, he would erase their memories, but they would vaguely associate that orgasmic pleasure with winning and playing hard. If they lost, he’d trigger them and have a little BDSM play (light spanking/caning, boot licking, exercising in nothing but their jockstraps and shock collars, etc.) and it would end with them masturbating for an hour without cumming. Then they’d be sent home, and no matter how much sex they try to have with their wives and girlfriends, no matter how much they try to cum, they’ll be forced to edge themselves until they win a game.

The individual triggers are there because the coach is gay, and if he ever wants some one-on-one time with a player, he can have it. Any time a player comes or leaves, he calls me to make the necessary changes. Its great because since they’re football players, I don’t need to do any body mods that would otherwise lead to worry or confusion amongst these people’s friends, families, and fans because their bodies are already amazing.

I won’t say what team it is, but I will say that the method has been working, so they’re one of the more successful teams.

February 7, 2014


Mason, Mason, where did you go.

February 7, 2014


Here is how I left my last harem.

I was in a big town, with two Universities, both a community college and a state school. And a sports school. It sits at the crossroads of two major highways and has easy air access. I lived in a large house—not a mansion but a large house—with a humidor and a large selection of wines.

I had twelve guys on a permanent basis and dozens of triggers scattered about town. I didn’t dictate who woke me up—the boys had some complicated system—but it was always with a smile and a bubble butt grinding over my erection for a morning fuck. Or just a blowjob if I was tired or busy. Then breakfast and coffee, with the news, my secretary taking notes while I dictated, wearing nothing but a tie, underwear, nylon socks with garters, and dress shoes. Next, off to work, sometimes bringing a few cumdumps along as assistants.

When I returned, cheers and adulation. A glass of wine on weekdays, a glass of scotch on Friday. Often I’d have friends over and they’d take their pick. Dinner was always superb (one of my boys used to be a sous-chef at a world-famous restaurant I visited in Italy). Carson, the alpha-jock, more or less, delighted in picking out sexy costumes and coming up with themes.

Writing it out like this, it sounds old-fashioned and a little trite. But it was very, very, very enjoyable.

A few months ago, I returned home, tired after a few days away. And one of my boys called me “Michael”.

I tried not to react to it too strongly.

I have fail-safes set up. And fail-safes on fail-safes. If one of my boys is tampered with by another controller, I have ways to tell.

I took a last, long look around, at the studs lounging shirtless with backwards baseball caps and pastel shorts. It was apparently fratboy night. Then I excused myself to go to the bathroom. First I pulled on gloves that I always keep with me. With them I opened the window, climbed down a reinforced trellis I had long ago reinforced, and ran for a good half-hour. Next I selected a random house with a pool, stripped, dove in, and then took a long shower. Finally I retrieved a few briefcases from a house I stored them in.

Stopped a car at random, drove off in it.

I know it seems extreme for a slipped name. But I am dealing with a very scary group of mind controllers. Paranoia is not a strong enough word.

A week later I set up a lengthy relay and called home. Carson answered. And over the line were the telltale clicks of a mind wiper device. Strong enough to catch me if I hadn’t been anal with my protection. In a way it was a relief. I had worried myself that I had fled over nothing.

And now I’m here, with two himbo-sluts in a nondescript apartment, with one suitcase of work materials and one of mementos and files.

February 9, 2014


Mason is over nine hundred miles away. I’m dumbstruck.

He called a number I’ve been monitoring. I had one of my devices on it and caught him.

After running away Mason waited until a car with a pride flag on it came and leveraged his excellent ass into hitchhiking a ride with the two gay college students as they headed out of town. His fuck-me pheromones did the rest of the work. When they reached their destination, he gave them both incredible head and convinced the twosome to keep driving. And then the couple finally tag-teamed them in a cheap motel room.

From then on he kept going, fucking and sucking his way across this great country, delivering handjobs to truck drivers, blowjobs to salesmen in renter cars. (You’d be surprised at how many truckers and salesmen are closeted guys trying to escape their families for some dick. Anyone who wasn’t gay was still no match for my chemistry, and the pheromones got them hot ‘n’ heavy). Eventually he stopped running and started enjoying it, traveling wherever he liked the look of a guy, and leaving new towns in a totally different wardrobe.

He said the highlight was sitting on the back of a motorcycle, his hands dug into the waistband of the biker he’d met a gay bar, and getting off whenever he revved the engine.

After awhile he ended up in a nice but very small town near the coast, where he was dropped off nearby a vacant storefront. Following his instincts, he moved in, decided to be a men’s personal fitness instructor, and put up a poorly-spelled sign to that effect. And now has a thriving business. “This town has a lot of guys that want to fuck me,” he said.

He’s going to call back in a few days, he has no choice.

I am honestly not sure what to do.

February 10, 2014

Anonymous asked: As far as Mason goes, there seems to be an obvious (and pragmatic) solution…let him stay where he is. I mean, he seems to be happy and seems to be making OTHER people happy so that’s nice, but more importantly it means that if you have to up stakes and move again (say, if someone you didn’t want to find you were to come sniffing around) then you have a pre-made himbo bolthole waiting for you elsewhere.

Agreed. Mason’s instructions will be: stay where you are, keep me posted, and send me polaroids of any particular good candidates that come his way. And even if everything goes fine here, it’ll be a great spot for a vacation. Or a getaway.

February 10, 2014

shkspr1048 asked: You’ve already spoken of Flynn; What about Mr. Wren? And am I correct in assuming that you are the gentleman mentioned in “Flyspeck”?

The gentleman being Damian’s predecessor, Mr. Vise? Am I the single most powerful himboizer and mind controller who ever lived?


But of course I know Mr. Wren, I’ve known him for decades. The man is a rogue and a cheat and one of my closest friends. We did the Orang Hotel together. He retired shortly before everything went to shit and helps keep me apprised of what is going on. I think he runs a chocolate shop now and is probably enticing some poor hot mailman into having a truffle as we speak.

February 10, 2014

Anonymous asked: What is protocol when a man comes to you seeking your services for himself?

Good question. It’s always a little awkward because he is the client, and clients get professional conduct. At the same time, I’m making him over into a raw squirming cum dumpster. So once he takes that first pill or shot or whatever it is he is fair game for my usual services, that’s the rule. I explain it ahead of time.

A lot of guys try to back out. Usually I just himboize them further during their explanation of why they can’t go through with it. A guy will come in expressing concern that his muscles are too large and he can’t read road signs and he’ll leave with a vibrating dildo in his ass and no underwear. If he’s really far along I’ll just inform him that a good cocksucking will cure everything and, in a way, it will. I’ve had reluctant clients bring boyfriends or husbands to beat me up which is a sure sign that their IQs are starting to plummet. I don’t take it hard. It’s actually a good opportunity to let the significant other fuck the guy giggly.

Or to gain a pair of new himbos to put up for sale if things get dicey.

But I’ve also had some very interesting male clients who have a very clear picture of what they want and a lot of kinky ideas. As a general rule they’re a lot more into control and submission and the emotional part of himboization than clients who want to change others, who often just want an easy lay. Lots of request for orgasm denial, which is something the others almost never ask of me. And they want their capacity for social embarrassment to get left in, which my regulars typically only want if they have a voyeur aspect. It’s a different perspective in some surprising ways.

The main rule is that there has to be some guy (or girl) there to act as the owner. I would say that 95% of the time this isn’t an issue. In the rare times that it is, we can typically work something out. I’ve delivered boxes full of jockslut to startled co-workers, I’ve even hunted down old childhood friends to give them a leash with a man on the end of it.

Overall, and this is strange to admit, I like having himbos as clients the most.

February 11, 2014

Anonymous asked: What happened to Peter? Did you have to abandon him during your last ‘move’?

When we left Peter I had just given him his first taste of bimbo. Literally. It was nice to see that buff body through those tight, revealing clothes but that’s all that had changed. click here

We both knew that I needed to crack into his head. Doing it at his office was repetitive and somewhere in the street was gauche. It had to be at home, when he had his guard down.

I puzzled on this for months. At one point I had his supermarket staked out, trying to figure if I could dose something likely to be carted out with him. Dumb. But then one evening, my harem at the time was clustered quietly around the television, ignoring me, and it became obvious. Television is already basically a himboizer.

A very willing young man at the cable company confirmed for me that Peter watched news irregularly, period dramas regularly, and, every so often, a couple reality shows on MTV. A guilty pleasure. Wonderful. After all that thought, all I had to do was get a tiny box from a technologically-minded friend and clip it to the external cable feed.

It was all oh-so-slow. First I had to get Peter into a more than occasional watcher. But slowly his viewership picked up, until he was catching repeats at 10 and even taping 2 a.m. rewatchings. Hooked. Sitting quietly, eyes wide open, watching these dumb hot people walk around in tight clothes and sleep around with each other.

Peter bought his first jockstrap just three weeks later. But after that it was a flood of new clothes, muscle tees and short-shorts and shoes with cleats. At first it was just better workout clothes, but it wasn’t long before he was experimenting with brightly colored thongs underneath tight mesh pants.

I explicitly made sure that he only wore all this at home and at the gym, around the time he watched the show. It was, to him, a release from the stress of being a mind controller, especially one being pursued by a talented himboizer. A way of just being a guy instead of Peter, forbidding hypnotist. And if being relaxed meant that he slipped a finger into his ass and jerked off from time to time, who could blame him?

It was thrilling watch him start to slip. His degrading vocabulary, the way he would panic and search for an easier word. The way he justified it to himself — overwork, the alcohol, fatigue. And then it would just become the new normal, that he was talking more and more like a brainless jock sexpot. And this in a trained mind controller! The mind can rationalize nearly anything.

I let it run for a long time. Peter got dumber, hornier, buffer, every time he sat in front of the television with his hand wrapped around his cock. His work was slipping, but he didn’t care, spending ever longer on the Andrew Christian site, forcing his big ass and huge dick into yellow and pink speedos in preparation for beach season. And never once letting on that he knew anything was up.

Towards the end he sauntered up to me on the street corner, in a mesh T-shirt two sizes too small and skintight rubber shorts that outlined his cock beautifully, and wanted to know why I had given up on getting in his head.

I told him I would get him someday.

I had a big ending planned but fate intervened. I left for a weekend to work and, when I returned, found him getting ridden bareback by the entire local high school swim team who he’d hypnotized with his last shred of intelligence. In a public fountain. Filled to the brim with jizz. click here


So I had to change him back — he didn’t have an owner and things had gone far enough for a fellow himboizer. Although he kept the ass. He coolly congratulated me and switched to a satellite dish.

In the end it was the hottest himboization I think I’ve ever done, and I never even ended up touching him.

February 12, 2014

Anonymous asked: Have you ever done a switch, where a guy is intelligent until the master or mistress says one word or phrase that, so that the himbo could still work if the controller wanted him to be normal?

I know this will seem strange, but that’s actually a very difficult challenge. Intelligence loss is such a deep and fundamental part of himboization, and hits on so many other areas, that it’s not just some graft. I make real, physical changes. A brain scan of one of my boys would show a deep silence, excepting only a red fury where pleasure and lust are controlled.

I can do the kind of overlay you’re talking about, it’s part of my specialty. But it takes the oomph out of it, for me at least.

It’s tricky when the client wants a himbo but without the intelligence loss. From my perspective it’s like asking for a car but no engine. But I am a professional and clients are clients. Early in my career I worked only with the kind of compulsion stuff above—you will not think too hard, you will be docile, you will work out, you will love the to suck cock. It’s artificial, and the edges begin to show. You’ll get the guy in some unfamiliar situation, like, say, an airplane, and he won’t know how to react correctly.

For a long time my strategy was to turn the guy’s libido up to 11. I still go this way if it seems like what the client wants. The guy can still technically do calculus but he is way too achingly horny to care about fucking math. He wants his next orgasm, and immediately. And his focus shifts to his urges—diet, exercise, working out, dildos, fetish gear, and men pretty much sum up his interests. Some clients LOVE this, but it’s really exhausting and you have to be committed.

Now, though, I can thoroughly turn a guy on and off again if I need to. It helps when the client wants his brand new fucktoy to still be able to hold a job.

February 14, 2014

motherfducker-blog asked: What’s the strangest trigger you have put into a man?

I’ve had some ‘act like an animal’ triggers that come close. But I think the strangest, stupidest trigger was from this idiot client who put in a ‘martial artist’ trigger. His concept was that he would say a command word and the guy would become a ninja assassin killing machine.

Did I mention that this guy was an idiot?

To make matters worse, the guy was a 5′2″ tiny little twink that weighed maybe 115 pounds. Probably not even that much. And of course he wanted him to have a big ass without a hint of muscle elsewhere. Do I even need to mention the twink was asian? Client was trying to put too many fetishes into one guy. I really do work hard for clients, but I punted on this one. If he said the trigger the twink would make menacing faces and shout hi-ya and do karate chops. I didn’t actually try to instill judo in him. It’s hard enough to put in a working knowledge of sexual positions. I justified it on the grounds that it wouldn’t be fair to the guy to have him actually try to kill someone, and that I’m in the himbo game, not the ninja game.

I never heard any complaints. God only knows what happened with them.

February 14, 2014


Valentine’s Day is over for me, finally. A long several weeks of work, sleeping alone in hotels, and dealing with clients. I brought along Adam for a few jobs as an assistant but I really need him home to manage house and keep an eye on Colt. I hate to admit it but it’s nice to have a smarter himbo around; what an oxymoron, right?

Something that always puzzles me around this time is: why do I never get any work from men on themselves? And by that I mean, I can do a very inexpensive workup, no intelligence loss at all, to really up a guy’s attractiveness and sexiness. A basic muscle package. Almost instant weight loss. Cheap upgrades.

For a bit more I can install a really amazing pheromone package that will make any nearby male weak in the knees, to the point where they’ll steal your shirt to huff your sweat. But no. Almost no takers. Sure, I get some demand for a bigger dick and sexual stamina, but almost always as an add-on to a himbo job. I suppose it’s more money for me, but for half the price I can make a gay guy into a rugged sex god that men regardless of sexual orientation will willingly fall to their knees for—any guy. No takers. Weird!

February 15, 2014

controlissuer asked: What was the most creative attributes/compulsion/quirks you’ve ever put in a himbo? Himbo’s are awesome but without personal flare where’s the fun

You have to be very careful and the himbo has to be very special, but there’s no attribute I love more than making a guy into a recruiter. I’ve only had a small handful that I trust to go out there on their own with a limited-release himbo pill, but their enthusiasm for the hunt and ingenuity in returning with moaning, horny guys makes it very worthwhile.

My favorite of these guys was Chris, who was an epic story of resistance in his own right, before striking a Scheherazade-esque deal that he would return with a hot guy once a week to keep me from finishing him off. Man, he really didn’t want to suck dick. He himself was a handsome, toned, English Major who wore glasses and wanted to be the next Edgar Allen Poe, and who I had targeted as a secretary.

And he delivered. In week one, he appeared at my door with two buff, confused twin brothers, their hands all over each other. And Chris had even dressed them up in matching but color-swapped outfits, an ink-black and dove-white set of rubber shorts. One was a co-worker of his and the other an added bonus.

I knew I had something special at that point.

From then on it was a steady stream of new himbos. Soccer players from the local team in uniform and sweating from their game, at my service. Construction workers still in yellow hardhats and orange vests, ready to let me use their naturally-gained muscle bodies however I pleased. All wrapped up with everything but the bow by my Chrissy.

I didn’t really play it fair with Chris. His physical changes continued and I kept his libido on a steadily increasing burn. Soon he was finding excuses to watch me sink my cock into his guys, explaining it to himself as making sure I was satisfied with the quality and enthusiasm of his himbos. Then he was masturbating in his car afterwards. And then just jacking himself in the room, moaning and panting as I was serviced by some former co-worker or friend or whatever.

Soon he was cheerfully converting even close friends and relatives. One of the highlights of my sex life was when Chris brought his younger brother, who was home from college, and eager to get my cock in him. That’s when he finally joined in, begging for my cock, taking it doggy-style while his brother laid on the bed dazed and leaking cum.

Chris moved in shortly after that. I never said anything.

The only problem with recruiters is that they feel like they always have to top themselves. So I had to call a halt when Chris drugged the holy water at his former church. It was hilarious but, ultimately, more trouble than it was worth.

February 19, 2014


People, please. Do not ask me to do a celebrity. I am not going to do a celebrity. No one in my line of work does celebrities. They’re CELEBRITIES. People will notice if their ass gets twice as big and they move in with some K-Mart manager from Tulsa. And don’t talk to me about triggers. It’s just not happening.

It says right on my materials, no celebs, in big block letters, but still the requests come in. I had one client show up with a list of over a hundred celebrities, the idea being we would go down the list until one was possible. Zac Efron was at #1. He had Brad Pitt at #83, which I think showed poor taste in movies.

Sadly enough, he had some high school crush in at dead last, and that’s who he ended up getting.

I am amenable to making a guy into a celebrity look-alike, although it really should not be an exact match. If you want a guy who looks like Chris Evans, that’s not particularly hard. I can even sort of match his personality.

But I’m not himboizing him! Stop asking!

February 19, 2014


One of the oddities of my work is that I have become an expert on things I never really expected to. In particular, clothing. I know far more about clothes than I ever expected to.

People think it’s enough to toss the jock in a thong and essentially change the colors. No. First of all, you only get one look with a thong, and that look is ‘cheap cum dumpster.’ Second of all, a guy in cheap thongs 24/7 is just going to get boring and same-y.

This is leaving aside the entire constellation that is accurate fetishwear. Leather police officer doesn’t just happen. You need to actually go out and buy rubber/leather boots, the harness, the leather underwear with zip on the bulge, and the stupid police hat.

AND sometimes you need your himbo to dress like a normal person. For someone who’s never once held down an office job, I know a surprising amount about collared shirts and fitted suits. Funnily I now have more of a thing for ties and sock garters than I do for leatherwear at this point.

Buying correctly sized pants alone is madness.

On the plus side, I can tell cock size at a glance.

February 20, 2014


Today I met with Derek. I put him off with some homework assignments while I got through Valentine’s Day—make a guy forget his own name, get a blowjob from a guy in a public place with no one else noticing, that sort of thing.

We met in the nicest hotel in town, where I always keep a room open for myself. He didn’t like what I was telling him.

“No more Master PC,” I said.

He looked like I had commanded him to lose an arm.

“That’s how I work,” he said. Derek had a way-too expressive face for a mind controller. And he wore ridiculously baggy clothes, teenager or no.

“It’s a crutch. And a cul-de-sac,” I said. “You’ll never improve your own mental skill if you just use the computer.” he still looked unconvinced. “Look, tell me this. You just received an anonymous copy of the program, right?”

“Well, yeah. I figured…” he trailed off.

“You didn’t figure. You just started turning guys into your personal cum vacuums.” I held my hands up, placating. “Hey, that’s fine. Me too. But think about it. Who sent it? What’s their agenda? You’re running their program on your hardware and your goal is to feed it more CPU so it’ll affect more guys. Think, kid.”

The “kid” thing slipped out. Oh, I hate getting old. But he was starting to think. “Okay… so… what do I do? Just delete it?”

“No, you develop your own ability. Try and get me to punch myself,” I told him, and even put my hand in a fist. There was a clumsy but respectable—and even better, immediate—assault on my consciousness. Perhaps the slightest finger twitch. Enough talent to tell me I wasn’t wasting my time.

Derek’s face turned mottled red, and he finally collapsed on the bed, drained. I didn’t mention the non-zero chance that his head could’ve exploded just then.

I deliberated how harsh to be and settled on honesty. “That wasn’t actually that bad,” I told him. “Showed promise. Now, here’s what you’re going to do. Did you see the redhead at the front desk?”

His name was Carson, and he was very toned, very attentive, and, under my direction, getting really into dildos and men. More of an occasional thing then a serious himboization. He had some nice back muscles and strong shoulders that really filled out his bellhop uniform.

“You’re going to bring him up here and fuck him,” I told him. I paused briefly for effect.

“And you’re going to do it without giving him a single command.”

February 21, 2014


I had challenged Derek to get a guy into bed without using a single compulsion on him. He had to be mentally untouched.

In a way, this is kind of a stupid challenge. Thousands of perfectly ordinary men talk gay guys into bed every single day, without any mind control powers or anything. I make a point once a year or so of going to a gay club or bar or something and talking a man up into my room. Just to show that I can.

But for a fat nerdy teenager like Derek, talking a 20-something professional into bed at his place of employment would be a challenge. I gave him a huge hint by showing him the basics of pheromones.

Derek did it. It took him a week.

The key was setting his mental sights on Carson’s fellow deskmate, Patrick, a gay guy with a cute butt and some nice lips and a surprisingly big dick. Not really my type, but Derek clearly has a thing for oral sex so it was perfect.

Pat started to talk up the guest staying in Room 110B.

He was handsome as hell, mysterious, a good tipper. Well-dressed. And charming, so very charming. Carson smiled and nodded and didn’t really care (he had his own crush, a guy named Harold)… until Patrick confessed that he had snuck into 110B and taken one of his crushes handkerchiefs. He practically pushed it into Carson’s face. Derek had been sweating into it on a treadmill for days. It reeked of male sex.

Carson wondered to himself what cologne the guest used.

It became a fun game for the two of them, Patrick relaying 110B sightings. Carson never seemed to catch a look at him [good move on Derek’s part!] but chalked it up to differing duties.

One morning Patrick walked up to the desk smelling like cedar and leather. “We made out!” he confessed. He stood close to Carson to whisper. He smelled so good. Carson didn’t try to move away. “It was my fault. I kept walking by his room. He noticed how much attention… fuck, Carson, it was hot!”

“You’ve got to stop this,” Carson told him, fiercely. They could get fired, not only because this was completely against the rules but also because potentially outing a guest would be very bad. But his heart wasn’t in it. He sniffed again.

From then on Carson was the recipient of every one of Pat’s ever-more lurid encounters with the intoxicating man in 110B. The illicit meetings in the corridor, the makeout sessions in his room, the way he had told Pat what kind of underwear to wear to work. A dirty romance story right underneath his nose, intoxicating, compelling.

“We fucked,” Pat whispered, right into his ear. He smelled like lengthy, hot sex. “For like an hour. I took his shirt, afterwards.”

Carson’s hard cock pulsed. “Can I have it?” he finally whispered.

That night he slept in the undershirt of Mr. 110B.

He sought out Patrick for more, reveling in his descent into slutiness, helping him wear tighter outfits, covering for him while he went to give Mr. 110B his morning blowjob. All for a hit of that musky scent, which Patrick was perpetually drenched in.

Finally. “I told him about you,” Patrick said. His eyes were glassy and dull these days. Carson put down his vacant eyes and dim smile to being so well-fucked.

“He wants you to come over.”

Carson’s heart leapt. So many fantasies had revolved around this moment. The two hard and squirming men walked away from the front desk, away from waiting customers, up the stairs, and into a room intoxicating and male. The smell was magnified a hundred times. Carson’s legs went to rubber.

Mr. 110B was waiting on the bed. Carson didn’t even notice his age, his pimples, his belly. Just that he was naked and had a hot, red penis waiting for him.

“Go ahead, give it a lick,” Pat encouraged.

Hard as he had ever been, desperate for it, Carson crawled towards Derek on his knees.

February 22, 2014


I’m putting the finishing touches on a statue.

Statues are hard work, and very, very difficult to do. I don’t think I’d call them himbos. Art, perhaps. Definitely furniture. Himbos? Well.

Tony is almost done. He is encased from neck to toes in skintight rubber (a small hole for his erect cock and balls to fit through), colored white. It’s perfect with his jet-black curly hair, which is short and treated to make it shine under the lighting. It’s a standing pose, very military, with his legs in A-posture, but his hands clasped demurely in behind him.

You can tell he’s not done from the very minute, very brief, shivering up and down his body.

The difficulty is in the absolute stillness. I work on the pleasure principle, but all my usual goads make men scream and writhe. So I had to rewire Tony’s entire pleasure system, and do a major resculpting of his nervous system as well. Now he can only feel the vibrating dildo very carefully positioned inside of his ass if he stands in his exact posture, unmoving. Then he’ll get a torrent of all-consuming pleasure as it brushes the prostate.

Tony is still moaning and bucking softly, so I missed a few neurons. I’ll get them in the next pass. But he has the pose down, standing on two short pillars in the entryway, staring at the front door. Just some minor muscle growth and I didn’t do anything to his ass—he has to balance.

He’s up on the plinth from 8 a.m. until noon, then 1 until 8 p.m. He’ll break at noon to go to the bathroom and whatever—I can’t really make him inanimate.

But at night he’ll probably fall into his pose again to sleep—they always do.

After I finish with him I have to revert Moe, the previous statue. He’s currently resting, taking off the leather police outfit for the first time in six months. You can tell he’s stiff and finds it hard to move, his eyes red from so many hours under a spotlight. Hard work. I usually do a full memory wipe.

Tony just now broke pose, thrashing and moaning as he orgasmed. I had to steady him. Missed more than I realized. But he’ll be perfect soon enough.

February 23, 2014


I sympathized with the client taking his time, but I wasn’t being paid by the hour.

“It’s just so hard to choose,” he said, again.

Rory sat on his little bed in his dorm room, dressed in a T-shirt and some sweatpants. His short, skinny frame was dwarfed by the two half-naked jock fratboys sitting on either side of him. Thad and Jackson were in a reverie, lost in the beauty of Rory’s mousy, dandruff-covered hair and scrawny, rail-thin body. Rory furrowed his brow, deep in thought while Jackson kissed his neck and Thad groped his erection through his sweatpants.

I finally felt like I needed to say something. “You know I can make the guy look like essentially whatever?” I said, deliberately calm. “If you’re unhappy with your choice, I can just make the one you chose look like the other.”

Rory shrugged. He was 19, attending university. His father Greg was exceedingly wealthy. He normally lived in a goddamn mansion, but came here for the “college experience”. Rory coming out had been quite a shock to his father, but Greg still wanted him to get married and have a kid, adopted or otherwise, to continue the family legacy. Enter me, coming in to give this kid an all-expenses-paid muscle god husband. If he would only make up his damn mind.

“Okay, it’s not just about the body,” he said. “Even though you drained the software engineer out of him, Jackson is still one of the funniest guys I’ve met. And Thad was such a goddamn homophobic asshole that keeping him as my personal cum dumpster would be so fucking hot!”

True enough. But I doubted he would find the novelty of fucking a homophobe to satisfy him for the rest of his life. Thad was a classic blond, blue-eyed muscular fratboy, with a vacant, dumb grin on his face before I even laid a finger on his mind. Meanwhile Jackson was a lean, flexible dark-skinned hunk from way down in Houston, a real beauty with a (previously) sharp mind.

It’s tricky when the client isn’t the one paying. You have to consider what the dad is up to. “Well, you could try both…” I said, and trailed off meaningfully. Jackson bucked into the air and grunted, while Thad had finally figured out the laces and gotten Rory’s cock out of his sweatpants.

“Yeah, maybe,” Rory grimaced, humping into Thad’s hand. “Shoot.”

I said what I had been thinking. “Are you thinking of something a little like that?”

Rory sighed in pleasure and melancholy. “Well, yeah, I guess. I’m not really into monogamy myself, but… dad… I don’t know.”

I thought for a sec. “Did you actually talk to your dad about this?”

“It didn’t come up.”

Geez. Multiple himbos were par for the course for the majority of my clients, but Greg was still getting over the fact that Rory was gay, much less polyamorous. It was a weird situation. Usually, I just kind of lightly hypnotized the general family to be a little more liberal in their understanding of relationships, but that wasn’t something I could feasibly do to someone as powerful as Greg, not to mention the added complication that Greg was the actual financer here, not Rory.

“I say go for it,” I said, at last. Thad had knelt down and started blowing him while Jackson massaged his shoulder. “You seem really happy with it, and I’m sure that’s what your dad wants.

“Oh man, this is perfect,” Rory said. His eyes fluttered. “Oh, definitely. Are you sure about this?”

“All you gotta do is sell it right. Not as polyamory, but polygamy, like in the Bible. Modern, but also traditional. I’ll make sure he—well, not like that, I mean I’ll take your side if it comes up. But I know Greg, he wants his family to have power over status, which is exactly what I would categorize this as.”

Rory nodded, resolute. “Okay, then. I’m going for it.”

Jackson leaned over Rory’s shoulder and kissed him deeply. Finally, Rory pulled away breathless, and decided to pop the question.

“Thad, Jackson, you guys are amazing,” Rory said. “Would you both marry me?”

“Of course!” Jackson exclaimed, and Rory grunted, cumming hard into Thad’s mouth and muffling the former fratboy’s moan of affirmation.

Young love, I thought, rolling my eyes. Odds are, I’ll be back here in two months to turn a whole fraternity into Rory’s harem once the honeymoon phase of his new marriage wears out.

February 24, 2014

jessie-palms asked: Have you ever made an asian himbo? I heard somewhere that they are quite difficult to produce.

Well yes and no. Making a guy of east asian ancestry into a fucktoy is exactly the same as any other. Guys are guys. If they have a cock and balls (and an asshole) it’s all the same to me from a racial/ethnic standpoint*. And if you’re thinking that it’ll be more challenging to give them massive dicks then let me assure you that you are dead wrong.

Now, where you do get issues is when the client is hellbent on jamming every asian fetish and stereotype into one himbo. I don’t know what the deal is with this. If you want a docile fuckdoll, that’s fine. If you want a hot senpai to command and fuck you, that’s fine. If you want a poor-english twink, that makes me pretty uncomfortable, but sure. But when you want all of that in one himbo who also needs to be very serious, but nonetheless says ‘me want sucky’ well good lord. Not to mention, I’m a lot more into big buff guys, and doing a thousand racist twinks is very taxing.

The weird demands made me frankly reluctant to do asian himbo work. I can’t imagine what it’s like growing up asian. Apparently you’ve got forty different types of fetishists howling for your used underwear.

*btw I can totally himboize a trans/nonbinary guy, its a newer field for me, but not impossible.

February 25, 2014


Derek is in the hospital. Auto accident.

February 25, 2014


Alright, I got some more information. The dumb kid broke his arm, is all. The car is totaled. Apparently one of his fucking football jocks was driving. Not sure what the hell that’s about. The guy is shaken up but otherwise unharmed.

They’re releasing him and he wants me to go pick him up. Doesn’t he have parents? I honestly don’t know. Did he cornfield them?

February 25, 2014


Drove Derek home. His arm is in a cast and his face is mostly bruise. Can’t mind control your way out of a car crash.

But I feel bad. In a way, this is my fault. I had made some offhand comment a bit ago about getting good enough at mind control to work the car through a subject. Derek decided to try it. To his credit, he got pretty far. Not to his credit, he tried at all.

I asked about his parents and he broke down crying and said he moved here to get away from them. And that he really doesn’t have many friends. I hadn’t known how broken he was, but I should’ve seen it. I guess I just wanted someone to talk to as well.

Dropped him off at his place with a few himboized soccer players to keep him company and left. I’m taking his boy who was driving the car with me, and will detox and release him. He’s been through enough. What a night.

February 26, 2014


Naseem had to admit it: he owed Alex a blowjob. A hell of a blowjob. A suck-out-your-brains, deep-throating, swallow-and-hum blowjob. And it was past time to be a man and get it done. He hated having it hanging over him.

Naseem decided on post-dinner, long, lazy, and slow. So first he got home first and put his heart and soul into cooking, decked out his casual kitchen attire: completely naked except for a white apron and chef’s hat, his bubble butt fully visible along with his bulging, muscular arms and shoulders. He flirted casually—leaning over to say hi, winking every so often, rubbing Alex’s foot with his own. The goal was to get his roommate full, happy, and comfortable for a truly mind-blowing oral experience. Naseem left him on the couch, peacefully nursing a cocktail he had mixed and reading.

Upstairs, Naseem tossed out the apron and the hat. Unsurprisingly, he was already stiff as a rod, flushed and horny from the lengthy anticipation of having a dick down his throat. He tried to put it aside. A blowjob was about Alex.

There were other things he could be doing. Work—he was way, way behind at work. Correspondence was piling up. And he was supposed to be praying and going to the mosque more—a New Year’s Resolution. But instead he had gotten so behind with Alex only an epic-level hummer would reset the balance. Naseem drank a glass of water and put on some lip balm (he didn’t want Alex to feel like he was rubbing sandpaper on his cock). He hoped that Alex didn’t get any ideas from this. It had been a horrifying surprise to find out his roommate was gay. Naseem tended to be on the conservative side, having been raised a conservative and traditional young man. Naseem had been mad, but he couldn’t find another room, so they’d learned to coexist.

“Alex hasn’t brought any dates over,” Naseem reminded himself, whenever he got annoyed at the effort. They’d struck a deal: Naseem would blow Alex and make his food and do all the chores around the house and let Alex fuck him as much as he wanted, and in return, Alex would stop being gay. Naseem had to admit, it was a fair deal. There was no gay sex occuring in the house, and Alex was a step closer to a healthy, God-fearing lifestyle, for almost nothing in return! And Alex hadn’t brought a single guy over. So he really owed Alex for that, and he needed this blowjob to be spectacular.

The last thing to do was to put on that black jockstrap and leather harness, as per Alex’s instructions. Naseem moaned a bit, eyes fluttering. He knew it was just a blowjob, but it truly felt like a religious experience.. Naseem checked himself in the mirror. Hot as hell, like a sexier Adam Jacobs. And he was downright thirsty for this, after so much anticipation.

Most of all, he told himself, it would be a relief to finally have the score evened up between him and Alex.

I gave him a discount on this one, after a month of speedy jobs, I got to convert Naseem slowly over almost 2 months. It was great.

February 25, 2014

Anonymous asked: Any amusing stories about clients who wanted accents and accent changes?

Well, there’s me. I’ve had a German chauffeur, who was sort of a cross between Arnold Schwarznegger in Terminator and Henry Cavill in this LA Confidential photoshoot, specifically this pic: click here.

I’m pretty much a total top, but I’m not always a dom, so while in the daytime it was all “Yes Sir” and “We’ve arrived, Master” whenever he drove me around, the actual sex was very different. He’d wear these aviator glasses and knee-high leather boots; then there was all the usual, licking his boots, worshipping his body as he told me what a disgusting pig I was (what can I say, it’s nice to not be in control sometimes). But what’s interesting is, I’m still a top (as I said), and you haven’t lived until you’ve had a big-dicked german muscle god dominate you while he bounces up and down on your cock.

It was also nice to come back after a hard day of brainwashing models to lie in his lap, using his pecs like a pillow while he slowly jerked me off and whispered sweet nothings to me in that crisp, throaty accent.

Sorry, that was a bit of a nostalgic tangent. I’ve done plenty of other accent-based himboizations. Lots of tall handsome strangers with spanish accents, a few hot young british butlers, like if Alfred from batman was played by Michael Fassbender and sucked you off after serving you dinner. I once made a hot, feisty, foul-mouthed scotsman with a rage as flaming red as his hair; turning that stubborn, arrogant, prideful young man into my docile, obedient cocksucker was so hot, it didn’t even matter to me that I was the one that instilled him with such rage in the first place. But yeah, accents are a lot of fun.

February 28, 2014


It’s the end of February, which means, every year, without fail, Valentine’s Day Refunds. I always keep my calendar clear.

I say refund, but I don’t actually give them any money back. In fact, I charge again for the reversion, on a sliding scale depending on how annoying the request is. Max charge to the dipshit whining that his boyfriend is banging the neighbor because he’s busy at work. Max charge to the idiot complaining that he needs his partner’s income after all. Double max charge if the client gets angry, threatens me in some way, or tries to work out some sort of ‘himbo-at-night’ deal.

Minimal charge to the guy who just wants his straight best friend back. Dude, you turned him into a dumb fuckslut. You burned out his memory and gave him a big ass, and it wasn’t voluntary. Now you miss his companionship? Whatever. Fine. Next time just ask for a soft job, so he just gets bi-curious and into blowjobs.

Call up, be a nice guy about it, work with my schedule, don’t give me a sob story, maybe I don’t charge at all. What’s it like for the guy? It’s kind of a ‘waken from a dream’ sensation, with a vague lack of memory of the past few weeks and a flat and total lack of interest. If the client is dumb enough to have video or pictures from when he was getting tag-teamed by his golfing buddies, at that point, I cannot and will not help you.

Remember: a himbo is for life, not just for February!

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