The Buzzed Barista

Hey guys! A few years ago, I wrote a series to test out the storytelling possibilities with AI assisted writing. The models have gotten a lot better since then, so I thought I’d try re-writing the same series, based on the same outlines, using the newest technology.

Here's the second one of the series. I'm also releasing them on GSS, so these ones are no charge for everyone on the Patreon.

I hope you enjoy!

I watched Nick and Trey walk away, the pair of newly kinky college guys were a nice welcome to my new town.  That said, they were no substitute for my caffeine fix.  I moved the last couple boxes upstairs, parked my truck out back, and went in search of coffee.

There was a small cafe down the street. It was small, charming in a Gilmore Girls sort of way. It looked family-owned rather than corporate. The rich scent of coffee drew me in.

The warm scent of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. The place had a cozy, lived-in charm—wooden shelves stacked with coffee bags, a chalkboard menu listing drinks in loopy handwriting. A couple in the corner whispered over their mugs, their heads almost touching.

Behind the counter, two baristas worked to take orders and pour drinks. One was somewhere around his 22nd birthday. Just starting to become a man. Handsome, with a powerful frame and long curly auburn hair that spilled down stylishly over one eye. He had dimples when he smiled.

The other barista was some girl.

I don’t know if you can tell, but I picked favourite. Lucky for me, he was taking orders when I got to the till.

His style was a little too hipster—maroon slacks and a baggy black dress shirt with all the buttons done up. Even under the loose fabric, I could catch a hint of wide shoulders and a solid chest. I could like another million years, and I’ll never understand why some guys try to hide their sex appeal.

“Hey,” he said, flashing me one of those beautiful smiles. Those dimples probably generated enough tips to pay his entire rent. Despite whatever shame made him dress like that, he clearly paid attention to his looks—between his hair and his charm, this guy had to be swimming in girls.

“Hey,” I said. “Could I get a latte? I’ve just been moving into my new place, and I totally skipped my coffee.”

“One latte, comin’ up,” he said, punching it into the cash register. “You moving into the apartment down the street? Above the convenience store?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m surprised you know it’s empty.”

“It’s a small town, man,” he said, flipping a switch on the machine. “Everybody knows everything about everybody. Word gets around fast.” He glanced down and frowned. “Hey, I’m sorry, but there’s some kinda problem here. The machine’s acting up again. Might take a few minutes to fix.”

I sighed and shifted my weight, glancing around the café.

“Darn,” I said, turning back to the barista. “I was hoping to get back to unpacking.”

He gave me a lopsided grin, brushing a stray curl away from his face. “Yeah, well, unless you’re good with straight espresso shots, you might be here a while. Want me to run your coffee up to your place?” the barista asked, flashing that easy, dimpled smile again. “It’s no problem.”

“That’d be amazing,” I said, pulling a couple of extra bills from my pocket and dropping them into the tip jar. His smile widened, clearly appreciating the gesture.

As he turned back toward the espresso machine, I watched him, letting my gaze linger. He was beautiful, but restrained—buttoned up, calculated, curated. Too much thought in every little movement. I wanted to strip all of that away.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Another perfect moment to shape this town to my liking.

I stepped out of the café, my mind already spinning with possibilities. What kind of man would he be if I had my way? He had the raw material—strong body, easy charm—but all that careful composure had to go. I pictured him as he could be: shirtless in the summer sun, tan and carefree, a dumb jock who wouldn’t overthink things, who let pleasure and instinct guide him.

He’d keep this job, of course—he had to pay for protein somehow—but he wouldn’t be the same reserved guy behind the counter. Instead, he’d lean into his natural charm, flirting shamelessly with customers, his clothes designed to actually show off those pecs, his confidence radiating off him in waves. After his shift, he’d hit the gym or the beach, letting his body become his greatest asset, his easy smile pulling guys straight towards his cock.

I grinned to myself. I just had to guide him there. And now, with him bringing coffee to my place, the process was already in motion.

------------

The knock on my door came a few minutes later. I had been toying with my cock and I was already dripping. I gave myself one last squeeze, letting pre-cum coat my fingers, then tugged up my pants and swung open the door. The barista stood there, coffee cup in hand, his eyes bright with curiosity.

“Hey,” he said, holding the drink out toward me. “One latte, as promised.”

I took it from him, letting my fingers brush his just for a second longer than necessary. “Really nice of you to bring me this,” I said, taking a slow sip before setting it on a pile of boxes. “I think I should thank you properly.”

He let out a small chuckle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You already tipped me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.  "You don't need to do anything –"

I clapped one hand over his mouth, grabbing the back of his neck with the other. He struggled, but it wasn't long before he inhaled my scent and then... he was mine.

“Come inside,” I said calmly, stepping back and holding the door open. There was a beat of hesitation, but then he stepped over the threshold. No argument. He couldn’t if he wanted – there’s not a mortal alive who can resist the sweet smell of my pre-cum.

I closed the door behind him, shutting out the world beyond my apartment. Safe away from any prying neighbours, I felt myself relax.

“What’s your name?” I asked, watching him sway slightly. I hoped I hadn’t used too much.

“Jon,” he finally said.

I could practically hear it spelled that way—soft, thoughtful, artistic. It was the kind of name that belonged to someone with a half-finished novel sitting on their desk. Someone who listened to vinyl records. Who drank wine instead of beer.

“Okay, Jon,” I said, gesturing to a sliver of open space in the middle of my living room. “Stand over here. Let’s see what I’ve got to work with.”

He hesitated but complied, moving to the centre of the room. Under the skylight his features became more defined—the strong line of his jaw, the broad set of his shoulders, the way his curly hair framed his face.

His face was flushed. My pre-cum has that effect too.

“What’s goin’ on...?” he asked, his voice wobbling. Uncertain.

I took another sip of my latte and studied him for a long minute.

“Just making you a little more interesting.  Don’t worry – you’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last...”

Jon’s lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. He shifted his weight, exhaling slowly, like he was trying to work through whatever was stirring inside him.

I studied him, letting my eyes trace over his solid frame, the broadness of his chest, the thickness of his legs. He wasn’t just some wiry hipster who sipped espresso and wrote poetry—now that his clothes were gone, he looked more like an athlete. If I had to guess, I’d say rugby. Maybe wrestling, but he didn’t have the cocky, squared-off stance most wrestlers carried.

“Do you play sports, Jon?” I asked, tilting my head, letting my words settle between us.

“Nah, I’m not really into that stuff,” Jon said, shifting slightly where he stood. “But everyone around here is super into football...”

“And you don’t like football?” I asked, tilting my head as I watched him.

“Nah. I mean, my dad made me play when I was younger, said I could go pro... but it just wasn’t the real me, y’know...?”

He let out a small chuckle, almost like he was surprised at how open he was being in this moment. He had every reason to be on guard, and yet, here he was, talking to me like we were old friends catching up.

“You’ve got the body for it,” I pointed out, letting my gaze drift over him again. Strong build, thick legs, broad chest—he would have fit right in on a field, knocking people over like it was second nature.

“Yeah, but I feel weird playin’ it...” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, like he was trying to steady himself.

“Why not?” I asked, taking another slow sip of my latte.  Thank god for caffeine. Best thing they’ve invented on Earth.

Jon held his breath for a second, but he was compelled to answer.

“My parents... they fought about it. Mom didn’t want me to play,” he said. “She always figured I was secretly gay, thought I’d get beat up or whatever.,,”

I smiled, amused at the confession. “Ridiculous, isn't it?”

“You’ve got that right...” Jon said, flashing me one of those dimpled grins. It was effortless, natural, the kind of smile that made people want to be around him. Even in this strange little interaction, he couldn’t help but be charming, like it was second nature.

“I’d love to see you play,” I offered, taking another sip of my coffee.

“Really...?” he asked, tilting his head, almost as if he were testing my sincerity.

“Sure,” I said. “Your mom was totally wrong—you’re not secretly gay. It’s obvious to everyone that you like guys.”

Jon scoffed, shifting uncomfortably. This was always the hardest part, adjusting the core of who they are. Once you can break through that barrier... you can convince them of anything.

“Oh yeah?” he said, mustering up all his resistance. “And what makes it so obvious...?”

I leaned forward, smirking. “The hair, for one.”

“My hair...?”

I nodded. “It’s perfect. Always styled, always just the right amount of effortless. You care about how you look.”

“That’s, like... just hygiene...”

“Is it?” I tilted my head. “Because straight guys don’t usually condition their curls.”

Jon opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.

I continued. “You work at a café, a quaint, artsy little café, surrounded by cute customers all day. And you’re good at it. You charm them. You like the attention.”

He swallowed, but didn’t deny it. I almost had him.

“And then there’s the football thing,” I said, watching his expression carefully. “You don’t play, but you watch. You notice the guys.”

“I watch the game,” he admitted. "Everyone does...”

“Do you?” I raised an eyebrow. “Or do you watch the players?”

His breath hitched just a little. He looked at me like he wanted to argue, but something held him back. Confusion was taking hold. Acceptance wasn’t far off.

“You notice the way they look in their uniforms,” I said smoothly. “The way the jerseys cling to their shoulders. The way they tackle, bodies pressed together on the field.”

Jon’s hands curled into loose fists. He swallowed hard.

“I just—”

“You’re into football, Jon,” I said, my voice soft but certain. “And football players.”

Jon exhaled, a slow, shaky breath. His lips parted slightly. No words came out.

I let the silence hang between us. I had him now.

Jon hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly. "I mean... they're just impressive, you know?" He forced a small laugh, but there was something raw beneath it. "They're confident, they know how to move, and—" he faltered, his eyes darting away.

I leaned forward. "And?"

He swallowed. "And they look hot as fuck in the uniforms..” he admitted quietly, almost like he was confessing something forbidden. "The way they fill them out, the way the fabric clings to their arms, their thighs... it's just..." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t know."

“You do know,” I said, smirking. "The way they move, the way they collide, the raw energy of it—it excites you, doesn’t it?"

Jon clenched his jaw, but he didn’t deny it.

Finally, after a long pause, he whispered, “I don’t know what that means for me.”

I smiled. “It means you’re figuring yourself out. And that’s a good thing.”

Jon’s face was as red as a stop sign. His ears were burning, his jaw tight with unspoken words. He tried to look away, but I wouldn’t let him.

"Jon, it's cool that you're gay.  It's cool that you love football.  But honestly... I think we’re gonna have to do something about that hair,” I said, keeping my tone light.

I glanced around at my moving boxes, quickly locating the one labeled ‘Bathroom.’ It didn’t take me long to pull out my electric clippers.  Praise be, the battery was charged.

Jon’s mouth opened as if to protest, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He knew it was inevitable.

The clippers buzzed and I got to work.

With the first pass, thick auburn curls tumbled to the floor. Jon stared with wide eyes but remained still. I moved quickly, shearing away the softness of his old look, reshaping him into something new. With each pass, his face changed—his jaw looked more defined, his features sharper. In two minutes, I took him from a carefully styled hipster to someone leaner. Tougher.

“Let’s have a look,” I said, stepping back. “Turn around.”

Jon did as he was told, slowly pivoting so I could take in my work. He looked like a completely different person. Without the heavy curls softening his face, his jawline was prominent, his cheekbones striking. He had the look of an athlete now, not some pretentious over-thinker.

"Do you like it?” I asked.

"I feel weird,” he admitted. He reached up, rubbing a hand over the short buzz, clearly unused to the sensation. “I can’t believe you did that. It took me like a year to grow it out.”

“It’s okay,” I said smoothly. “You needed it short to play ball. But don’t worry – I’ll leave you looking like a hot slut.”

"Please stop. I don’t want to be—” He hesitated, catching himself. "I just want to go home."

“You can’t go home yet, Jon,” I said, my voice calm. “You have to go back to work. Now… what do we have for you to wear?”

His old style had been built around softness, an attempt to keep himself from looking like a threat. I wanted his new look to showcase his body. Make him own that masculinity.

I rummaged through a box of clothes until I found the right outfit.

“Here we go,” I said, holding up a compression shirt and some grey sweats. “You might not have the hair, but you’ll still be eye-catching!”

Jon stared at the clothes, then at me. His lips parted, and for a second, I thought he was going to argue.

“This… feels wrong?” he asked, his voice quiet.

I considered the question for a moment, then shook my head.

“No,” I said. “It feels right. You're a fag Jon. A jock fag. This is how you want to dress. Show everyone you’re hot...”

Jon hesitated, then, almost imperceptibly, nodded. He ran his hand over his buzzed hair again, his fingers twitching slightly. The change was setting in. And he was starting to like it.

Jon’s eyes widened as something clicked into place in his mind. He was a football player. He wasn’t some timid artist hiding behind carefully curated choices. He was strong, confident, and unapologetic. He wanted to look good. He wanted to feel good.

"No, there’s something wrong…” he hesitated, his fingers grazing the new fabric of his compression shirt.

“There’s nothing wrong,” I said firmly. “You should feel good about who you are. You’ve always been this guy, Jon. You’re just letting yourself admit it now.”

Jon nodded slowly, his shoulders squaring slightly.

“And remember,” I prompted. “When you see a football player, what do you feel?”

Jon exhaled sharply, looking like he was still adjusting to the weight of his new thoughts. “I… I admire them,” he admitted. “The way they move, the way they carry themselves. There’s something about the strength, the confidence. They don’t second-guess themselves.”

I smirked. “That’s right. And that’s who you’re becoming.”

Jon’s expression deepened with realization, and suddenly, the words started spilling out of him. His new reality taking over the old.

“I mean, I’ve always kinda been into it,” he admitted. “I watch every game I can. Not just my dad’s team, but all of them. I love seeing the way guys play, how they train, how they push themselves to be stronger.”

I nodded, letting him keep going. He’d stuck his feet into the grey sweats and was tugging them up his thick legs. They were a size too small for someone that thick, but nobody would mind. They made his ass look magnificent.

“I started lifting because of football,” Jon continued. “Like, yeah... I told everyone it was for acting, but it was never about that. I wanted to be built like those guys. Strong, fast, able to take a hit and keep going. I’d spend hours in the gym, doing the same workouts they do. Bench presses, deadlifts, sprints—I learned it all from watching football players.”

He looked down at his body, pressing a hand against his pecs, then flexing his arm like he was seeing himself clearly for the first time. “I dress like them too,” he told himself. “I always have. I like the tight sleeves, the athletic fit. I like wearing jerseys, like I’m a part of the game. Even when I wasn’t playing, I wanted to look like I could.”

In a single motion he tugged on the compression top. It was red, with a reflective Underarmor logo that sat just below the neckline. A couple adjustments tiny tugs and adjustments to smooth the fabric and he was dressed. A slutty jock, just like I wanted.

“Shit, man,” Jon let out a deep breath, then looked up at me. “I really am a football player, aren’t I?”

“You always have been,” I said. “You just didn’t let yourself see it.”

Jon nodded. It wasn’t hesitation anymore. It was certainty.

“What’s your dad’s favourite team?” I asked.

“The Packers,” he said, almost on autopilot.

“Good. That’s your favourite team too,” I said. I could see the gears turning in his head. Now that his old sense of self was peeling away, it was easier to introduce small tweaks.

“Bro, Brett Favre is the coolest,” Jon said suddenly, testing out his new identity. "I mean, look at the guy—he’s the kind of athlete every dude wants to be. Tough as hell, always in control, just oozes confidence. And he’s got that classic, all-American look."

“Yeah?” I prompted, raising an eyebrow, watching him work through the realization.

“Well, he’s got this confidence,” Jon said, then hesitated. His grin turned sheepish. “And, I mean, dude’s built. Those broad shoulders, that thick chest, the way his uniform fits like it was made just for him. He’s strong, but not just gym-strong—like, real, functional strength. The kind you get from years of grinding on the field, taking hits, getting back up.”

“What?” I teased, smirking. “You paying attention... the way he fills out that jersey?”

Jon shrugged, laughing, but there was something a little more honest in his voice now. “I mean, whatever, man. Can’t help but notice. He’s got those thick legs, you know? Like, built to power through anything. And, I mean… those game-day pants don’t exactly hide much.  Great ass... bet he’s got a great cock too... man I’d love if he fucked me...”

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Bro, you’re really feeling this, huh?"

Jon’s smile was thoughtful now, like he was connecting something for the first time. “You know, it makes sense,” he said. “Football and being gay. A lot of football players are gay. It’s not some secret thing—it’s just how it is.”

“Oh yeah?” I leaned in, interested. “Why’s that?”

Jon rubbed the back of his head, thinking. “Think about it. You spend years training with guys, pushing each other, getting stronger together. You build this bond, this trust. And the physicality—it’s just part of it. The tackling, the roughhousing, the celebrating in the locker room after a win. It’s intense, it’s emotional, and yeah, it’s physical. I think a lot of dudes probably feel it but don’t know what to do with it.”

“So what you’re saying is...?” I smirked. “Football is the gayest sport?”

Jon laughed, shaking his head. “I mean, kind of? It’s about brotherhood, about being close, about trusting your teammates completely. And, I mean, c’mon—you ever see a post-game celebration? Half those dudes are practically making out.”

I grinned. “Damn, Jon. You’ve really thought this through.”

“Guess it was always there,” he smirked back, his confidence fully settled. “I just never admitted it.”

“And now?” I nodded.

Jon took a deep breath, standing taller than before. “Now? I gotta get back to work, man. Then after, I think I’ll hit up some of my buddies, see if anyone wants to throw the ball around. And, you know… maybe see where things go after.”

His dimpled smile was back, but this time it felt like a wave crashing over me.

“Do you think they’ll want to play?” I asked, watching his expression carefully.

Jon looked at me like the answer was obvious. "Football’s the best, dude. And it’s not just the game—it’s the whole culture. The training, the brotherhood, pushing yourself to be better every day. And let’s be real—some of those guys, they’re just waiting for the right moment to let loose. Locker room talk, those long showers, post-game celebrations… there’s more going on there than most people want to admit.”

“True that,” I grinned. “And if any of them start acting weird about you liking guys, just bring them here. We’ll talk it out.”

“Okay,” Jon nodded. “See ya bro.” He flashed a grin, then made a beeline for the door.

“Whoa boy,” I said, leaning back with a smirk. “Just two more things before you go. First off, I think we need to give you a little something extra. I always leave guys with a fetish.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Like what?”

I tapped my chin, pretending to consider. “How about… spandex?”

“Spandex?” he repeated, frowning slightly.

“Yeah,” I said. “You love the way it feels. You like it in your football uniform—the way it clings to you, the way it supports you. You like wearing it when you’re at work, under your clothes, just as a little reminder of who you are. And when you see a guy wearing it, you can’t help but admire how it shows off his body. It’s… exciting.”

Jon let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… kind of a weird kink.”

“Is it?” I asked, watching him closely. Even as he spoke, Jon’s hand had drifted to the hem of his compression shirt. His fingers traced the fabric absentmindedly, smoothing it over his torso.

I noticed the way his posture shifted, the way he seemed to be more aware of the way the material hugged his body. He ran his palm down his chest, over his abs, then paused, realizing what he was doing. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat.

“I mean,” he started, then stopped, exhaling sharply. “I guess I’ve always liked the way it feels.”

“Of course you have,” I said easily. “Why do you think you love football uniforms so much? Why do you think you like those tight sleeves, that second-skin fit?”

Jon hesitated, then chuckled, shaking his head again—but this time, there was no resistance. Just acceptance. “Damn,” he muttered, running his hands down his chest, his nipples obvious under the shiny fabric. “I think you might be onto something.”

“Of course I am,” I said, glancing at his crotch. His jeans were tenting out a little, his bulge obvious and visible. “You’re built for this.”

Jon grinned, a new kind of confidence in his stance. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think I am. Uh... you said two things... right?”

“Second,” I said, “I’m gonna change your name. You seem like a Johnny now.”

Jon frowned slightly, his confidence faltering just a little. “I don’t know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jon’s just… my name, you know? It’s who I’ve always been.”

I tilted my head, studying him. “Is it, though? Think about it. Jon was the quiet guy pouring lattes, the guy who kept his head down, who alway second-guessed. But Johnny? Johnny is a football player. Johnny is confident, strong, and ready to step onto the field like he belongs there.”

Jon hesitated, chewing on my words. I could see the gears turning, his new identity battling with the remnants of his old one.

“You love football, don’t you?” I continued. “What’s a classic football name? What do coaches yell from the sidelines? What name sounds like it belongs out on that field?”

Jon’s lips parted slightly, as if the realization was dawning on him. “Johnny…” he said softly. He blinked, then nodded more firmly. “Yeah. There’s a lot of great players named Johnny. Johnny Unitas, Johnny Manziel…”

He looked up at me, his doubt melting away. “Yeah… Johnny sounds like a football name.”

“Exactly,” I said, smirking.

“Yeah," he grinned.  "From now on, I'm Johnny. Got it?”

Johnny took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders like he was testing how the name felt. It wasn’t just something he was going along with—it was something that made sense. Like it had always been waiting for him to claim it.

“Enjoy practice tonight, Johnny,” I said, watching him absorb the final change.

“Thanks bro,” he said sincerely, his voice steady. “I gotta get back to work, but I’ll see ya’ round!”

I pictured him showing up at the coffee shop, his coworkers completely thrown by his sudden transformation. The quiet, artsy guy they used to know replaced by a broad-shouldered, confident athlete. They’d probably be too intimidated by his powerful body to say anything.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe someone would figure out what had happened to Johnny. It wouldn’t be the first time. People get suspicious when a man changes overnight. They’ll dig, they’ll question, and if they push hard enough, they’ll come looking for answers.

And when they do, well… I’ll be ready.

I went back to my boxes, a smile lingering on my face.