Potentia

I hate when it rains. I walked with my collar turned up, head tilted down. I was trying to calculate probability.  What were the chances I’d be soaked by a passing car? It comforted me. Numbers always have.

I'm a man who loves routine – my alarm goes off at 6 AM, my morning run is precisely 3.2 km,  my coffee machine is on a timer.

I masturbate after the run. It’s part of the sequence. I’m efficient. No porn, no fantasy, just a release while standing in the shower, staring at the grout. I track the frequency in my health app. It's a variable I can control.

I go on one date every year, which is slightly higher than the statistical average. If you don't, people ask questions. I have no interest in sharing my personal life with anyone. Spontaneity gives me hives.

By the time I step out of the shower, my coffee has cooled to precisely 57 degrees celsius, and then an hour of respite with my book. This morning it was a biography of Carl Gauss, the brilliant 19th-century mathematician.

I've never liked fiction. Too inconsistent. I like an orderly life.

When I stepped off the bus, headed for work, I only took a few steps before stopping. My subconscious was sounding an alarm. There was an alley between two old brick buildings. I’d swear it wasn't there yesterday.

It felt wrong — not dangerous, just... off. Like a line of repeated numbers too early in a sequence. Worthy of investigation.

The alley was unremarkable, except for the fact it had appeared overnight. It was piled with trash and grime. And halfway down, there was a wooden door tucked into an alcove, ancient and dark, with a brass handle worn from use. A worn sign hung above the door.

"Potentia," it read. "Memoirs. Mysteries. Mythology."

A smile tugged at my lips. A bookstore. One I’d never seen before. For a moment I forgot the alley and got swept up in excitement.

I checked my phone. Eight minutes until work. Enough time to peek inside. Sure, you've seen one bookstore, you've seen them all... but I wanted to see them all! I wasted thirty second arguing with myself – if I walked through that door, my day might fall apart in an unpredictable way.

Still, curiosity won. It usually does.

The door creaked when I opened it. Enough to add gravitas. Rows of shelves stretched out farther than seemed reasonable.

At the front counter sat a man. Late 20’s. Curly black hair. Green eyes. He looked up from a worn paperback and gave a dimpled smile.

“Evan,” he greeted me. “Welcome. Please, explore.”

I hadn’t spoken yet. How did he know my name?

Maybe we’d gone to school together. I didn’t make a lot of friends, but... I guess he could have remembered me somehow.

Still, none of this felt quite right. I thought about turning around and going on with my day, but I felt awkward. I’d forgotten his name and forgotten to ask, so I just nodded and moved deeper into the store.

The clerk went back to his book, leaving me to browse.

The bookstore had a dreamlike quality. There were no categories, no signs, the shelves weren’t even in alphabetical order. Some spines had no titles. Some were handwritten. A few were blank altogether. The rows twisted and turned, forming a kind of labyrinth.

I scanned the titles, trying to force it all into some orderly system. Books on project management and math puzzles and history.  It felt like the store was stocked with my browser history.

One book caught my attention. The spine read *Strength for Beginners* in small, embossed lettering. It felt heavy in my hand. Not just in weight — in presence. I’m not prone to fantastical thinking, but... the book called to me. It needed me to read it.

I’d considered working out before. I knew the science: better posture, fewer health risks, maybe even improved focus. There were apps and routines and studies I’d bookmarked, but I never actually took acton. Too performative, maybe. Too vain. It wasn’t for me.

I flipped to a random page.

"Strength training should be an essential part of every man's life."

I rolled my eyes. It's such a trope – you're not a man unless you lift weights. But masculinity isn’t defined by your gym membership. Spartans didn’t have squat racks. A man is defined by his mind, by his ability to think and learn. It's always worthwhile to learn something new.

I flipped the page and my chest tightened.  Not anxiety, but something more physical. A slow, spreading pressure beneath my sternum. My breath came a little slower, like my lungs were adjusting to a new rhythm.

I shifted my shoulders and felt unfamiliar resistance. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just... different. I hoped I hadn’t strained a muscle.

"Progress is measured in repetition, not revelation."

A low, unfamiliar warmth stirred across my torso, rising up through my arms and neck. It was subtle—like the phantom sensation of having stretched, or the afterglow of a deep breath held too long.

My arms felt weightier, like they were holding just a bit more mass than usual. The base of my neck tingled, and I rolled my shoulders without meaning to. There was no pain, no tension—just a sense of something quietly reorienting itself inside me.

I flipped to the last page. There was no index or appendix. Just one final sentence, printed in a bold serif:

"You don’t become strong by thinking."

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t think. As I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, a slow, rising energy moved through my thighs and calves. There was a delicious kind of pressure in my quads and glutes.

My stance widened without effort, and I realized I liked the way it felt to take up more space.

A low hum of pleasure unspooled from the base of my spine. Not arousal, exactly, but adjacent. A kind of physical alertness. My pants clung tighter than they had a moment ago, and I found myself grinding slightly in place, shifting like I was settling into my new weight. 

My breath hitched, and a stray thought flickered—this feels good.

My knees felt more stable, my balance more deliberate. I rolled onto the balls of my feet, then back again. Something about the way I stood felt rooted. Strong, like a tree trunk.

For a moment I stood in confusion. Wasn't I the skinny guy? My slacks were tight, my butt almost splitting the open with muscle. And my chest... my pecs... had they always been so round?

I made a decision. Yes, I'd always had good pecs. I'm a natural at the gym.

I slipped the book under my arm and strolled down the aisle.

It felt really good.

-----

It sat like a dare among the other books — oversized, neon, almost vulgar in comparison. The shelves around it were lined with tasteful hardcovers, all navy blues and charcoal greys, serif fonts and restrained elegance. This one didn’t match. It wasn’t even trying.

Straight? Nah, Bro.

It was the kind of thing that I’d normally be embarrassed to even glance at. But now, somehow, it was pulling me in. It felt familiar in a way I didn’t want to admit.

I picked it up with a scoff, like I was above it. The kind of thing a queer studies major would write for attention.

I wasn’t poking at something deeper. I was just indulging a passing curiosity.

The first line punched me in the throat: "You always watched the other guys a little too long."

I flashed back to college. It reminded me of those confident guys — the loud ones, the ones who could slap each other’s asses and call each other bro and not worry what it meant. The ones whose ease with their bodies looked like freedom. 

I remember staring at their bodies, but looking away when they returned the stare. I was just envious... right? I never let myself explore the alternative.

Besides, this book... it wasn't talking about me specifically. There were thousands of books in the store. Tens of thousands.

"You told yourself you admired them. Their confidence. Their ease. Their size. But really, you wanted to be close."

My pulse climbed. I rubbed the back of my neck and kept reading.

"You were the straight guy who got hard in the showers. You thought that meant you were broken. You’re not broken. You're just... not straight."

I stared at that line for a long time, unwilling to put the book back on it’s shelf.

A warmth surged between my thighs, thick and slow, until it settled into a heavy ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. My cock swelled against the seam of my pants, pressing insistently. I let out a shaky breath.

My hips shifted forward without thinking, like my body wanted friction, wanted more. It wasn’t just arousal—it was heat, need, something deeper that had been waiting for permission. And now that I’d cracked open the door, it poured in.

"There’s no shame in being gay."

My cock throbbed, insistent and impossible to ignore. The words weren’t just describing me—they were knowing me. I felt exposed and embraced all at once.

I flipped back a few pages, found that line about the showers again. The words landed differently now. They weren’t accusing. They weren’t even questioning. They were just true. 

“Yeah," I said softly, admitting it aloud for the first time. "That was me too.”

My hand grazed the outline of my erection. I moaned softly.

The book stayed in my hands as I wandered on.

------

A paperback caught my attention. A romance novel with a glossy cover and flowery fonts.

Say Yes To Love.

But it wasn’t the title that caught me — it was the photo on the cover.

A twenty-something man stood waist-deep in the ocean, water glistening off his broad chest and shoulders. He was tanned, laughing, his arms open like he was daring someone to fall into them. 

He looked disturbingly like Tyler, this guy from my work. I mean... I’d never seen Tyler shirtless, but he wore these fitted dress shirts and... yeah, I could believe it.

My cock twitched, sudden and strong. Undeniable. I flushed and flipped the book open, just to get away from the cover. My heart was thudding like I’d just stolen something valuable.

"I see all of you. The parts you try to dim, the parts you fear take up too much space. And I want you, exactly as you are. You are not a burden. You are not lacking. You are everything I hoped to find, and more."

My breath caught. I didn’t know why. I turned another page.

"I’ve waited for you—for the moment you’d see yourself the way I always have. I want the real you. The messy parts. The beautiful, impossible truth of you."

Images fluttered behind my eyes—half-formed memories of somewhere I couldn’t place. Warm eyes. Laughing lips. The smell of salt and sunlight. My body softened.

"He wrapped a towel around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head like it was the most natural thing in the world."

My hand went to my pocket without thinking. I pulled out my phone.  My lock screen had changed.

It was a photo of me with a man I didn’t recognize — but I did. Tyler's arm was around my waist, our foreheads pressed together, grinning. I unlocked the screen. The gallery was full of him. Us.

In one photo, Tyler was stretching in a tank top, muscles taut and playful. In another, licking a popsicle with that playful smirk he wore when he teased me.

My breath came fast. I opened one of the photos—the one where he was in just a towel. My hand fumbled with the button of my slacks. My cock strained upward, hot and heavy in my palm, already slick at the tip. I stroked it slowly at first, savouring the heat. The panic. The sharp thrill of doing something so completely reckless. The risk only made it hotter...

What if someone came around the corner? But I didn't want to stop... look at those abs... who would ever want to stop...?

I wrapped my fingers around the base of my cock and dragged them up its length, slow and deliberate. My breath stuttered.

Each stroke revealed another memory of Tyler — the way his wet skin looked in the sun, how his laugh wrapped around me, both playful and possessive, how he always seemed to know exactly what I needed before I did.

The photos blurred in front of me as my focus narrowed to a pinhole. All I could think about was the thick cock in my hand. The way Tyler made me feel...

There was a soft creak.  A floorboard behind me.

I turned, flushed and panicked. The clerk was standing just a few feet away.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look shocked or judgmental. He just raised an eyebrow slightly, like he’d caught someone sneaking a second dessert.

“I—” I started, but the words didn’t come. My pants were still unbuttoned. My cock was still out, trembling with need.

He stepped forward slowly, gaze calm and measured. “That's your boyfriend now, huh?” he said, nodding toward the phone still glowing in my hand.

My mouth opened, then closed.

He just reached out and placed one gentle hand on the book I clutched to my chest.

“You’re waking up,” he said. “It’s beautiful to watch.”

He turned to walk away.

"Wait," I said, still breathless. "What is this place? What's happening to me?"

He stopped, turned, and looked at me—not with surprise, but with something quieter. Understanding.

"It’s the bookstore," he said. "Every book here is a piece of you, Evan. A curiosity you’ve had, a fantasy you never let yourself explore, a version of yourself that got stuck somewhere along the way. This place... it doesn’t add anything to you. It just lets you decide what to keep."

I swallowed.

"The ones you hold onto," he continued. "Those become part of you. The ones you put back — those parts can fade, if you want them to. It’s not a punishment. It’s a choice."

I looked down at the book in my hands. My heart was still racing.

He let that sit, then tilted his head with a smile. 

"I could check you out right now — a little muscle, a little honesty, a boyfriend waiting at home... not a bad haul for Monday morning."

I blinked, still trying to process. He looked me over, like he was admiring a painting halfway finished.

"But if you’re open to going further," he offered, "I know a few shelves you might want to visit. Some... deeper cuts." He waited a moment, then asked gently, "Would you like a few suggestions?"

My mouth was dry, but I nodded. His smile warmed.

"Good. Let’s look at some options."

----

The clerk walked ahead confidently. I followed close behind, feeling a little off-balance.

"You’re doing well," the clerk said without looking back. "Most people never make it this far."

"Most people?"

"We're open to everyone," he said, glancing back with a faint smile. "Everyone walks by this place once or twice in their life. Most people don’t even notice the door. And of the ones who do... it’s rare to see your level of curiosity."

We stopped in front of a narrow end cap. There was only one book on the shelf.

"This is for you," he said.  "If you want."

Obedience: A Beginner’s Glossary.

It looked like a reference manual. Slim. Simple. A matte black cover with white text. The kind of book you’d get for free at a training seminar. But when I reached out and touched the spine, a tremor went through me.

"This is just an option," the clerk said. "But it's here because there's a little part of you that wants it. I think it’s been waiting for you."

I picked it up and my pulse jumped.

"Simplicity — There’s just one rule: do exactly as you're told. Everything else fades away."

I let out a shaky breath. I’ve always loved rules and routine, but... they’re my rules. My routine. I almost slammed the book back onto the shelf – after what the last few books had done to me, I had no doubt where this was going.

"Relief — The quiet exhale when you no longer have to decide what comes next."

The tension in my shoulders — the same knot I carried through every work meeting, every social gathering, every plan and spreadsheet — unraveled by degrees. Would it be easier, without having to make the rules myself?

"Habit — A repeated behavior becomes automatic. Like kneeling when he enters the room."

I didn’t even think. I slid down to my knees, the book still open in my hands. The floor was cool through my slacks. My breathing slowed. My thoughts slowed. It felt right.

My cock stirred, thickening again in my pants. I shifted slightly, not to hide it — just to acknowledge it. I was hard, yes, but this wasn’t about arousal. Not entirely. It was also relief. I rested the book on the ground and stared at the words.

"Precision — Following every command exactly, not because you must—but because you can."

I nodded. I wanted that. Needed that.

My heart kept beating for... I don't know how long. The clerk scooped up the book, closing it gently.

“Get up now,” he told me.

I stood, shakily. It felt good, doing what he said. I’d been kneeling for... how long?

Did it matter?

"Thank you sir," I said, bowing my head slightly. It felt good to acknowledge him that way. I knew he wasn't my superior, but... he was willing to lead. To take that burden from my shoulders. He deserved my respect.

“You're taking that one,” he said, not asking.

I put the book in my pile.

"Yeah," I nodded. “Thank you, sir...”

He nodded his approval, then led us on in silence.

------

The clerk turned a corner, and I followed him into a wider aisle lined with display tables, each one holding a few neatly arranged books. At the end of it, a mirror stood propped against the wall—tall, simple, and unmistakably placed with intention.

I caught my reflection and froze. I knew I’d changed — my body had been feeling heavier, stronger — but this was the first time I really saw it. My posture was straighter. My arms looked solid. My chest filled out my shirt. I looked athletic. Confident.

I reached up and squeezed one of my pecs. It felt meaty. Powerful. I couldn’t believe it was real.

The clerk gave me a subtle nod – we were here. The book caught my eye immediately.

Dress Codes for Dummies.

The cover was electric pink with illustrations of crop tops, compression shorts, and jock straps. I nearly laughed out loud. But the clerk had led me right here, so...

"You’ve never dressed for attention. But what if you could?"

The first few pages were full of playful commentary — how to wear a crop top, how to sit so your bulge looks just right without looking too obvious, which days to wear spandex shorts at the gym... at first, I thought it was a joke.

Except... I was soaking it up like a sponge.

“Command attention, don’t avoid it!”

My hands moved to the hem of my shirt. It clung to me— I noticed the way it rode up when I flipped to the next page. My shorts felt snug too, hugging my thighs in a way I hadn’t noticed until that moment.

My cock swelled again. I adjusted it instinctively. I wanted it to sit just right.

"People are looking. Let them – and enjoy it!"

I imagined it. Walking down the street with thighs that stretched my shorts, chest bouncing with each step, the kind of sway you didn’t have to force — it just happened. I wanted to be seen. Craved it.

And as I turned the page, something else shifted. My thoughts slowed. Just a little. A warm fuzziness crept in around the edges. Not confusion — more like permission. I didn’t need to think about what I was reading. I could just feel the vibe.

"Don't worry about looking dumb – especially when you are! Cute beats clever every time."

The words sank deep. Not mocking. Not ironic. Just... true. I felt my lips part slightly, my head tilting to the side. I liked being cute.

Another line followed it, and this one felt like a key turning inside me.

"Smart guys show off their brains. You? You’ve got a body worth showing off. Go ahead and use it!"

I swallowed. That made a strange, perfect kind of sense. I’d spent so long valuing my intelligence. But here, in front of a mirror, I was prouder of how I looked... of what I had become.

"Not everyone has to be smart. You’ve got the looks, leave the rest to someone else.”

I looked over every page, studying the pictures more than the words. Guys sprawled on pool chairs in pastel speedos. Dudes in neon tanks at pride parades, their smiles lazy and knowing. One model wore cutoff jeans and no shirt – just a harness. Another stood confidently in a cropped hoodie and short-shorts.

 I lingered on each image, my heart thumping a little harder.

I was falling in love with fashion. Not as armour, not as a way to look smart or safe or respectable. It was something fun. Flirty. Hot.

The final sentence, printed in playful cursive.  I sounded it out.

"Own your reflection."

This time, I really took it in. My shirt was barely there — it hugged my chest and left my stomach exposed. My shorts had shifted into a tight gym-cut. Mesh, high on the thigh, low on the hips. The shorts cupped my ass and made me grin.

And I was smooth—completely smooth. Not just my chest, defined and hairless, but everywhere below the neck. My arms were bare and gleaming, my legs freshly shaven. Even my stomach, once lightly dusted with hair, was now smooth and tan. 

I had hair on my head, but the rest had vanished like it had never been there. I looked polished. Deliberate. Fuckable.

I looked like a guy who hangs out at the beach or the club. A guy who knew he looked good and dressed to make sure everyone else knew it too.

I used to roll my eyes. Now, looking at the mirror, I couldn’t imagine being anything else.

I didn’t remember the words. But I didn’t need to. I’d absorbed what mattered.

"Damn, Evan," the clerk said with a warm grin. "You’re really starting to get it."

I didn’t say anything, but I stood a little taller — and I added the book to my pile.

------

We walked a little closer to the mirror, just a couple of tables. The clerk angled his head toward another display, and my eyes landed on my next book.

Enough Thinking – Let's Get Big!

The cover was bold: a shirtless guy mid-flex, grinning like he didn’t have a thought in the world.

But... I was already getting dumber, wasn’t I? And like... yeah, it was hot, but... did I really need to lean more into that?

I looked at the clerk. He met my eyes and raised an eyebrow, like he could see the question forming beneath my eyes.

"This one matters," he said. "You don’t have to think if it's good or bad. Just trust me."

I opened my mouth to argue—but the words caught. He was right. I had to trust him. Hadn’t I knelt, willingly, because something in me needed to obey?

I felt my body soften around the resistance. My shoulders dropped slightly.

"Bigger isn't just better. It's the goal."

A slow throb built in my arms. Not painful, just... present. I flexed instinctively. My biceps looked fuller in the mirror. Rounder. Tight against my skin.

"Don't overthink your form. Just lift heavier. Let your body learn by doing."

The words flowed into me, like air in a balloon. My chest felt thick. My thoughts... not gone, but slower. Settled.

"You don't need to be smart. You just have to work hard."

I felt my jaw relax. My tongue pressed against the back of my teeth. A small, dumb smile started tugging at the edge of my mouth.

The book had photos, too. Pages and pages of guys mid-pump. Glazed eyes, open mouths, bodies swollen with muscle. They were caught in a hypnotic rhythm—pushing, growing, getting huge. They’d forgotten the camera. They just needed to flex.

"Every rep makes you dumber. And hotter. Good trade, bro."

My cock pulsed. I didn’t even feel embarrassed anymore. The final line was centred and bold.

"You wanna get huge? Act like it!"

I grinned at my reflection. My arms were like... huge. My chest jutted out, thick and solid and... like... big. My traps sloped up toward my neck, my reward for hours upon hours of focus. So big... so huge... I’d spent years grinding it out in the gym—and fuck, did that feel good.

I looked powerful. Built. Like a guy with one job – get big, stay big.

I ran a hand down over my torso, celebrating it, from my rounded pecs to my washboard abs. My crop top strained to hold together. The hem stretched across my pecs, exposing a pair of bloated nipples.

My shorts weren’t doing any better. They looked tiny now, practically painted on, the mesh stretched to its limit over the curve of my quads and the swell of my glutes. The waistband sat low, so low it felt like one deep breath and my cock would pop out. My bulge pushed forward, obvious and demanding. I adjusted it without shame.

I looked obscene. I looked incredible.

I looked like a gym rat. A meathead. A hot one.

And like... yeah, I might be on something. I didn’t know. I took what my trainer gave me. Shakes, shots, whatever—he handled the smart stuff. It wasn’t my job to ask questions.

Obedience. That’s what it was about. He told me what to eat, what to lift, when to sleep. 

And I wanted more.

I tucked the book under my arm. You gotta give ‘em what they want.

----

My legs felt heavy but powerful, each step making my thighs brush together in a way I hadn’t experienced before. My shoulders rolled wide with muscle, forcing my arms slightly outward as The tight mesh shorts clung to my ass and squeezed my bulge with every movement.

I could feel eyes on me—even though no one else was around. I wanted eyes on me. Every part of me was built to be on display.

And beneath all that muscle, beneath the vanity and heat, was something quieter. Hunger. To give in, not just to the look, but the role. Meant to serve.

The clerk led me to a shelf with two slim books, like the comic books I read when I was a kid. I groaned, shifting my weight as I stared at them.

"More reading?" I groaned. My voice came out low and a little whiny. "Haven’t I done enough of that shit?"

The clerk chuckled warmly. "These are the last two. I promise. You’re just about finished."

I sighed heavily. The sound deep and rumbled in my chest. Even breathing felt bigger now — like my lungs were wrapped in meat. My traps lifted slightly with the breath. The stretch of my pecs strained against the seams of my crop top.

Something about the way he said it — so certain, so calm — made me trust him. Besides, what was I going to do? Disobey? The idea was so silly I started to giggle.

"I guess I could do one more," I muttered, fingers brushing against the newsprint. “Two, I guess. Little ones."

Say Yes to Submission.

I sounded out the title slowly, lips moving around each word. It felt strange in my mouth — foreign, but hot. A little dangerous. Submission. The word made my chest tighten and my cock twitch.

The art was like something from a 1950’s comic.  Superman or Captain America... a muscular man with his hands cuffed behind his back, down on his knees, his mouth open and desperate. He seemed to be staring right up off the page, crystal blue eyes begging me to do whatever I pleased.

It thrilled me. I wanted to be him. Or at least tied up next door.

It didn’t feel like giving up. It felt like giving in. And I wanted to give in.

Instinctively, I got down on the ground, back on my knees like a good boy.

I didn’t care how I looked — no, that wasn’t true. I did care. I wanted to look good. I wanted to look useful. I wanted to look used...

“Please use me,” I whimpered, glancing up at the clerk.  He was staring down at me with a condescending smirk, the kind that made my hole loose.  He already knew what I was becoming and was proud of how far I’d fallen. Proud—and ready to push me further.

My cock throbbed against the mesh of my shorts.

“This first," he said, sliding the last comic onto the floor where I could look at it.”Read it... boy...”

 I didn’t feel like reading, but I needed his cock so bad... whatever it takes, right...?

"Lights, Camera, Camboy," I mouthed, reading the glossy cover.

“Your body is a brand. A gift. An invitation. Put it on display.”

I was already gripping my phone – it doesn't fit in my shorts, and besides... I like... never put it down! The screen was filled with app icons. My live stream. My OnlyFans. Some video editing stuff... though... don’t I have like... a team for that?

I opened up my socials – a closeup of my face, sweaty and grinning, cum leaking over my lips. I had a thousand videos like that now. God... I’m such a whore...

Whatever. It’s just instinct.

I flipped open my phone mount and thought hard. Did I want to show my face? My hole? It's so much easier when there’s a camera man... but these raw videos were like... my biggest draw.

I kept it simple.  I put the camera on a shelf, pushing a pile of books aside to make room.  "Advanced Mathematics", "News and Politics", “Grammar".

I laughed. Nerd shit. Who needs it?

I turned, knees apart, chest lifted, eyes wide. I flexed. I posed. I let my cock out and edged.

I was the fantasy now. Film-ready. Marketable. A product of desire and submission.

And I loved it.

The screen glowed with my live viewer count.  Dozens. Hundreds. The number climbed until there were like... lots!

I moaned from being seen. From being owned by an audience.

I swapped apps real quick and texted Tyler.

> Hey babe, doin' a livestream.  Mind if this guy fucks me in a  bookstore...?

It only took a second to get the reply.

> You? A bookstore, lol!

> Yeah... go ahead... i'm watching :D

> Make me proud 🍆💦

My body was soaked in sweat, every muscle thick with tension, every nerve pulled tight. My cock ached, full and ready, my mind glazed with obedience and need.

I raised an eyebrow at the clerk. All the invitation he’d need. A man like me... I’m only good for one thing, and guys never pass up the chance.

He stepped into frame, calm as ever, fully aware of the blinking light on my stream.

"You did well," he said. “Almost nobody makes it this far. But once you cum — once you give that last piece of yourself — there’s no going back. You’ll be locked in, body and mind. Your new life becomes permanent.  I have to make sure you're making a choice... that every version of you understands..."

Something flickered behind my eyes. Like when you’re at the movies and the projector lights up.

I blinked.

I remembered.

The man who walked into the store. The questions. The fears. The plans. I saw him clearly. Saw the bookish nervousness. The lean frame. The careful life he led.

And then I looked down at myself. My swollen tits, my bloated thighs, my leaking cock. My skin glistened. An impulsive flex and my croptop tore apart. I was hot. I was dumb. I was obedient.

And I didn’t miss the man I’d been.

I was strength made flesh. I was open, exposed, real. Every inch of me existed to serve and be seen. I didn’t need to protect myself with a careful routine — I just needed to obey. To be wanted. To be used.

Not smarter... but I’d stopped caring about that. Dumb is better anyway.

“Please, sir,” I begged, eyes wide, chest rising with shallow, eager breaths.. “I’m ready! I want this more than anything!”

The clerk smirked, stepping further into the shot.

“Then get ready,” he said, placing a gentle hand on my massive lats.  I shifted forward onto all fours. My back arched naturally, ass lifted up just enough...

I offered myself fully, where the whole internet could see.

He unbuttoned his shirt. Unzipped his pants. His cock was long, thick, perfect. I moaned as soon as I saw it, loud and unfiltered. Greedy for attention. My hole relaxed in anticipation, and I arched slightly more, giving the camera a full view.

He stepped behind me, slowly, deliberately, keeping one hand on my shoulder as he knelt. He ran his hand down my spine, and I tilted forward with the touch, presenting myself like I was born to.

"Use me," I begged. "Please!"

He lined himself up and pressed in—slow, careful, reverent. I gasped, trying to grip the tile floor, my whole body trembling. My first time.  My thousandth time.  More.  It didn’t hurt. It fit. Like the last piece of a puzzle.

“Good boy,” he murmured, loud and clear. “Take it.”

The camera saw everything. My lips parted. My lats spread. My eyes fluttered shut as he began to move. Every thrust was deliberate, steady, deep. My thoughts dissolved with each one.

Words melted. Ideas faded. There was only sensation. His breath on my neck. His cock sliding deeper. My body welcoming him, clenching around him.

“Yes, sir,” I moaned, louder now. “Yes… yes, sir…”

My cock throbbed between my legs. I didn’t care to touch it. I didn’t need anything but this.

He thrust once more, deep and final, and I came.

I screamed, loud and sharp, as the orgasm tore through me. My body locked up, every muscle flexed, pleasure exploding in my core.

“Thank you, sir…” I gasped, the words raw and full, delivered to the camera, to him, to the world.

My hole clenched around him. My arms shook. My vision went white.

And when I breathed again—when I came back into myself—I was complete.

I was the man I needed to be.

Forever.

------

The morning sun hits differently now.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my apartment — our apartment — wearing nothing but a pair of low-cut compression shorts and a grin. My chest rose with slow, deep breaths. My abs flexed as I adjusted my stance. I looked massive. Golden. Impossibly fuckable.

Behind me, the sound of running water drifted from the bathroom. My boyfriend — my boyfriend — was in the shower. I could still feel his hands on my hips from earlier. The grip. The praise.

I turned, admiring the round curve of my ass, the thickness of my thighs. I looked like a dream now. But it wasn’t just about how I looked. It was how I felt. Centred. Claimed. Whole.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

It was a reminder from my trainer. Legs today. He’d pick me up at 10.

Another buzz: a subscriber request. They wanted a flex video — just arms and chest. Easy. Fun. I’d do it after breakfast.

The life I’d stepped into was full. Not just with attention, or sex, or workouts — but with clarity. I knew what I was. What I was for.

I walked back to the bed and grabbed my phone. My lock screen glowed with a photo of us at the beach, both shirtless, my boyfriend’s arm thrown around my neck, his fingers tugging at the waistband of my shorts like he owned me.

Because he did.

I smiled as I opened the front-facing camera.

“Morning, boys,” I said, giving a lazy flex and a wink. “Let’s start the day right.”

And just like that, I hit post.

The old me would’ve hated this. But that version of me was gone.

This was better. This was perfect.

I was living my potential.