Bring Your Kid To Work Day

Bring Your Kid to Work Day

Not only was Timmy’s image of his father totally destroyed in the moment the announcer had welcomed "Dirk the DILF" to the stage, but something else dawned on him in the same instant: if word got out among his classmates of what his dad did for work, he knew that the “Tough Guy Tim” image he’d worked so hard to cultivate would be shattered.

Almost as though someone had heard that thought passing through Timmy’s head, it only took a second for a familiar voice to let him know how quickly that his new fear of irreparable reputational damage could become a reality: “Tim? That you?”

Timmy froze, hoping that, if he didn't turn around, then he could just slip out the back before whoever thought they recognized him could confirm it.

"Tim, hey! It's me, Freddy," the familiar voice continued, reaching out and grabbing hold of Timmy's shoulder to make sure he couldn't ignore him anymore.

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Of course it had to be "Freddy the Fairy" who spotted him here. Given how frequently Timmy had bullied this limp-wristed faggot, he had a strong suspicion that Freddy wouldn't hesitate to spread some reputation-destroying information among everyone at their high school.

"Uh, hey, Freddy..." Timmy said hesitantly, still not looking his classmate in the face as he tried to think of a way to explain his presence here without letting it slip that his own father was the one who'd just been shaking his ass in a skimpy little g-string on stage.

"So, I guess we have some common interests," Freddy said, clearly thinking that Timmy had come here to enjoy the show. That would explain why Freddy seemed pleased to see someone he normally recoiled in fear from: he evidently thought that he'd just discovered that Timmy was secretly as gay as he was.

While Timmy could have -- and probably should have -- used that as a cover story, he didn't think through his instinctive response: "Oh, fuck off! I'm not a fruitcake like you are you little --"

Timmy was cut off by another familiar voice coming from behind him. While not speaking to him this time, just hearing what it said was enough to knock him off-kilter.

"Hey there, hot stuff," his dad said, apparently speaking to Freddy. Noticing Timmy standing next to his #1 fan, Dirk added, "Oh, great, I see you've already met my son."

Timmy went bright red, a reaction caused in equal parts by humiliation and by rage.

"What the fuck, Dad?!" Timmy spat. "What is all this?!" he continued, gesturing at the sleazy male strip club around him. "And why the fuck are you calling Freddy the Fairy 'hot stuff'?!"

Dirk's face made an expression Timmy was familiar with: it was the one he'd worn when he'd told Timmy he and his mother were getting a divorce, when he'd told Timmy they couldn't take a summer vacation, and when he'd told Timmy he couldn't afford to send him to college next year. Normally, it was a gentle, fatherly look that helped to put his son at ease -- although, given that his dad was still wearing a g-strip with dollar bills sticking out of it, it was hard for Timmy to feel "reassured" by someone who looked like a cheap man-whore.

"Oh, wow, Timmy... I'm sorry," he started, putting a hand on his son's shoulder. "It's just, well... I thought you knew this is what I did for work."

Timmy's mind played back all the things his dad had said and done since getting a "job at the club" on the outskirts of town. The clues were all there, he realized now -- he'd just chosen to ignore the obvious because of what it would mean.

"And, well, I don't want to drop too many bombshells on you at once, but..." Dirk looked to Freddy and then back to his son. "Well... Freddy here is my boyfriend, son."

Timmy's jaw dropped. This was too much. It was bad enough to think that his dad would let all of those men grab and grope at his body for money, but this?! He'd just revealed to his son that he was DATING the weak twerp Timmy had terrorized for years.

"Listen, I'll give you some time to process that," Dirk said, looking to see where his fellow stripper was in his own routine on stage. "I gotta get back up there in a minute, so we can talk afterwards."

Stepping over to Freddy, Dirk continued (now in a sultry, seductive tone), "And I'll see you afterwards too."

It would have been hard for Timmy to see his father kissing another man -- but what actually happened was even worse than that. Freddy took Dirk's head in one hand and pressed the DILF's mouth forcefully into his own, his tongue obviously invading the older man's orifice as soon as they connected. Dirk eagerly allowed it happen, obviously enjoying submitting to whatever Freddy wanted to do to him. As though that weren't enough, Freddy's other hand reached around and gropingly manhandled Dirk's bare butt all the while.

The body language spoke volumes: twinky little Freddy was "the man" here, while Timmy's dad was nothing more than a fucktoy himbo.

Freddy gave Dirk's ass a firm slap as the older man turned to start walking away, his eyes then glued to those two beefy globes until he turned the corner to go backstage.

"So, uh, 'Timmy'," Freddy said, dropping the "Tim" moniker that his bully had used to make himself seem more manly than his given name of "Timmy" suggested. "I have a feeling things are gonna be different from now on."

Timmy felt sick. He'd just learned that the faggy kid he'd been pummelling with his fists was now going to be pummelling his own butt-slut father with his twink cock from here on out. How was he supposed to handle any of this?

"But, uh, hey, how about this," Freddy said, putting a sympathetic hand on Timmy's shoulder in an imitation of the fatherly gesture his dad had used on him only a moment ago. "I've been getting pretty sick of Dirk telling me we have to 'keep it down' when I'm plowing into his muscle-cunt on the other side of your bedroom wall. So, I'll keep quiet about all of this," he said, gesturing around him, "if you let me and your dad make all the noise we want at your place, hmm?"

As Dirk the DILF returned to the stage, Timmy swallowed hard and nodded in agreement to the conditions Freddy had just set. His reputation was all he had and he'd do anything to preserve it.

"Sure, Freddy," Timmy said sullenly to the dom top twink who'd be slam-fucking his own father with total abandon later that night. "Whatever you say..."

When he stepped into the living room wearing only a towel, Vince hadn't realized that his roommate was home -- let alone that Randall appeared to be hosting some kind of event, judging by the half dozen other men seated in front of him. He didn't recognize any of them, but they appeared to be uniformly all of the same type: fat, old, ugly, and seemingly fixated on Vince.

"Vince," Randall said, smirking like he knew something his roommate did not. "Can you come here for a second?"

Vince had two reasons to hesitate. The first was that this was the first time all week his roommate had looked at him with something other than a scowl on his face. Randall had been covering Vince's share of the rent for three months now -- something he had been doing on the belief that Vince had fallen on hard times. When Randall discovered earlier that week that Vince had actually been spending his rent money on a pricy gym membership -- alongside everything else that had helped him gradually build his body into a work of art -- suffice it to say that he was none too pleased to have discovered that his apparently self-absorbed roommate had been taking advantage of him all that time.

Secondly -- and most pressing in this moment -- Vince was wearing nothing but a towel in a room full of strangers (all of whom, he noticed now, were eying him up with a definite hunger in their eyes). Did Randall really need him right now?

"Uh, just let me get --"

"It will only take a second," Randall interrupted. "Really."

Reluctantly walking up where his roommate was standing, Vince hardly a moment to gauge the situation before Randall suddenly yanked the towel away from around his waist and casually threw it aside.

"What the fuck?!?" he exclaimed, not yet having processed anything more than the initial shock.

Acting as though he was trying to calm his roommate down, Randall pointed to the laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of him and said something which had quite the opposite effect: "Just look at the camera..."

"Camera! What?!"

Finally putting the pieces together -- and realizing he was now totally exposed not just in front of the strange older men sitting in the room with him, but untold numbers of viewers online -- a feeling of total mortification overtook Vince. Coming to his senses, he quickly attempted to provide himself with some level of modesty by cupping his hands in front of his crotch (something which mattered little to those who would replaying the recording of his exposure later).

"Yeah, you see, Vince," Randall said, smirking even more widely now as he took in the sight of Vince's stellar physique and petrified expression. "I told my friends here about our little predicament," he continued, gesturing to the other men in the room.

Adding more anxiety to an already nightmare-inducing situation, Vince noticed with horror that several of the men had risen to their feet, obscenely rubbing their crotches as the tents within their pants grew -- and grew, and grew, and grew -- in size.

"You've got to prioritize working on that body of yours -- best gym membership, a personal trainer, top-quality protein powders, the best supplements a body can buy..." Randall began, making no effort to hide the way he was sizing up Vince's body like a piece of meat he was about to purchase from a butcher. "You can't possibly pay your share of the rent when you're investing in all that..."

The men in the room were coming closer. Vince knew -- with sudden terror filling him up -- that, despite being big, strong, and manly, he was prey this pack was about to pounce on.

"My friends here, they're gonna help both of us make enough today to cover a year's worth of rent," Randall said, stepping away to make room for a creepy old man fishing a shockingly large cock out of his pants to get closer to Vince.

Randall dipped in front of the camera only briefly to say some concluding remarks before leaving the scene completely and allowing the hundreds of well-paying viewers to get a good view of today's unwitting star: "Enjoy the show..."

“Your country needs you.”

When Lt. Stevens heard those words, he didn’t hesitate to say he’d do whatever was necessary to serve his country.

Now, as he knelt in the skimpiest underwear he’d ever worn in front of a group of foreign dignitaries sizing him like he was their next meal, he was wondering if he should have asked a few more questions about exactly what his mission was going to entail…

The Anatomy Lesson

Howard normally dreaded the part of the day he'd have to spend in Mr. Kent's class. As the school's "physical education" teacher, time with Mr. Kent usually meant one thing: "gym class."

Fat and effeminate, Howard would naturally be the target of bullying from other the other boys his age — even at 18 years old, many of them still acted like children, after all. Perhaps that's something he could have dealt with. But the relentless taunting he received from Mr. Kent was on a different level.

It seemed every day Mr. Kent would single out Howard, either for his more-than-average weight, his less-than-masculine mannerisms, or a combination of the two.

Today, however, Howard was feeling very different about having Mr. Kent for second period. It wasn't just that this was a "classroom day" -- one of the rare times the meathead Mr. Kent had to pretend to be able to teach "health studies." Rather, it was that Howard had a feeling he'd finally figured out how to test the project he'd been working on for psych class.

Howard made sure to be the first one in the classroom that day, scoping out the best place to sit. Where his normal tactic was sitting in the back to try to avoid Mr. Kent's notice as much as possible, today he knew he'd want to be near the centre of the action.

The classroom gradually filled up, with every student eventually finding a seat. A couple seemed surprised to see Howard sitting right in the middle of the second row, but no one was fazed beyond that. Instead, most students seemed more interested in the empty space at the front of the room, with Mr. Kent normally being there well before the class began.

As the minutes ticked by, Howard began to worry that maybe he would not be getting what he had hoped for. He knew Mr. Kent had seen the hypnosis videos -- his IP address was all over the site he'd anonymously sent to the buff blockhead last night -- but perhaps the effect had not been what Howard had expected...? Mind control was tricking business, after all. Maybe Mr. Kent was still snoozing away in the "deep sleep" of a trance he must have entered into...

The high school senior let out a sigh of relief when the physical education teacher walked into the classroom, seeming like he was in a bit of a daze.

"Sorry I'm late," Mr. Kent said as the room of teenage boys quieted down and he took his place front and centre of the classroom. "As you all know," he began, mostly sounding and acting like he normally did (a certain vacancy in his eyes only visible to someone who knew to look for it). "We're supposed to have our human anatomy lesson with a model to demonstrate today."

This was, of course, completely untrue. The anatomy lesson, in reality, tended to consist of little more than a series of slides and some worksheets to fill in. But Mr. Kent spoke with such certainty, everyone in the class just accepted that this must have been something they'd already been told and which they'd simply forgotten about.

"Unfortunately, I was just informed our model has the flu," Mr. Kent said matter-of-factly. "But, thankfully, Principal Shaw has authorized an alternative."

Without missing a beat, Mr. Kent peeled off his shirt and casually threw it aside, revealing an impressive physique. With his clothes on, it was clear that Mr. Kent was a muscular man, but the details were always left to the imagination. Now, with bulging biceps, plump pectorals, and rippling abs on full display, it was apparent that whatever this man lacked between his ears was more than made up for with the body he possessed.

Acting as though his behaviour was not out of the ordinary at all, the physical education teacher undid his pants as he continued to speak normally. "Since I'll be the model today," he said plainly as he began pulling down his waistband and fully exposing himself to his class, "I'll need someone to walk us through the lesson plan."

Casually, he stepped out of his trousers and adjusted his ample package like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. "Howard, since you're the only honours student in the class, I'd like you to do that, please."

"Sure thing, Mr. Kent," Howard said, grinning widely as he got to his feet and made his way to the front of the class.

This bastard had spent years making fun of Howard's body. If it wasn't his rolls of fat, it was his limp wrists. If it wasn't how winded he got, it was his lisp when he spoke. In other words, he'd made Howard a laughing stock because of the body he moved around the world in.

Turnabout was fair play, right?

So far, no one in the class was objecting, so Howard figured he'd start out slow and gradually ramp things up. He didn't want to spook anyone and end things before they even got started.

A few muscle groups explained, a few poses from his puppet -- and Mr. Kent would gradually get an erection all the while. If the exhibitionist display on its own wasn't enough to have the class thinking Mr. Kent was a bit of a pervert, the pre-cum that would soon be oozing out of his rock-hard and throbbing cock any time Howard touched him during the lesson would send that message much more clearly. Eventually, the bare-ass beefcake would be blissfully blowing his load from his totally-untouched cock when the hands-on portion for the "buttocks and anal region" began.

Still, they were not there yet. Before any of that could get underway, Howard had a very important instruction for the class.

"No notes today, guys," he said cheerfully, looking around the room before returning his gaze to his totally-exposed tormentor standing next to him without a clue about what was really going on. "I'll need your full attention on Mr. Kent, so feel free to pull out your phones and record if you think you'll want to refer back to this later."

Based on the hungry look a few guys in the room had on their faces, Howard knew many of them would be "referring back" to this often. Still others, he was sure, would waste no time spreading the footage around, ensuring everyone got to enjoy Mr. Kent's anatomy as much as they did.

Howard was looking forward to Mr. Kent himself seeing the footage tomorrow and realizing that stripping, posing, and spewing buckets of cum in front of his students was not some bizarre nightmare he'd had the night before. Instead, it was just the first of many new lessons he'd be learning thanks to one student he'd made such an impression on...

It would be an understatement to say that the crowd was shocked when the football star shrugged off his ceremonial robes right before he began to give his Commencement address.

More shocking still was what Harrison was wearing underneath: a full slave collar around his neck and full steel chastity belt below the waist.

“I want to speak directly to you briefly because I think it is you, the ‘macho’ men like me who are graduating today, who have had the most diabolical lies told to you.”

Still caught up trying to make sense of what Harrison was wearing, most of the crowd was not listening to his words. Yet, as he continued to speak, more and more of them — especially the young men to whom he was speaking directly — started to listen.

“How many of you are sitting here now about to cross this stage and are thinking about all the promotions and titles you are going to get in your career? Some of you may go on to lead successful careers in the world, but I would venture to guess the majority of you are secretly fantasizing about a life of obedience, servitude, and submission.”

Not everyone could relate to what Harrison was saying — but a sizeable number of young men were now enraptured by every word he spoke.

“I’m here today to tell you it’s possible. It can happen if you want it to. If you are honest with yourselves—”

He paused to step out from behind the podium, allowing the crowd to get their first unobstructed view of his bare, beefy body and humiliating chastity belt.

“— like I am being honest with all of you today, then you can have the life you’ve always dreamt of.”

Harrison paused again, studying the faces in the crowd. Making eye contact with as many of the young men still captivated by his speech as he could, he concluded what he had to say.

“My life truly started when I began living my vocation as a servant and as a slave. I urge all of you who dream about that to do the same today.”

As Harrison turned to leave the stage, there was no raucous applause. Most still had no idea what to do in response to such an unexpected turn of events: the manliest football star the college knew not only just admitted to being a perma-locked and collared slave, but also actively encouraged others like him to pursue the same.

Still, even as Harrison walked away, out of the corner of his eye he could see what a difference he had already made: one, then another, and then yet another of the young men who had been hanging onto his every word were peeling off their graduation gowns, their shirts, their pants, and everything else that had been giving them a single shred of dignity and lowering themselves down upon their knees to where they knew they always dreamt of being…

Ricky had absolutely no idea why he'd stripped completely and totally naked when his roommate Ian had told him to. Normally, he would have told the fruitcake he reluctantly shared an apartment with to fuck off with his faggy fantasies unless he wanted to be eating a knuckle sandwich for his next meal.

Something had changed, though. Ever since Ian had shown him that strange video -- what had that even been, anyway? what were all those odd colours, shapes, and sounds? -- there was something about Ian's voice that made it impossible for Ricky to do anything other than exactly whatever the scrawny little poof told him to.

Just stripping down in front of him was humiliating enough on its own. Ian -- dressed like he had somewhere important to be -- had regarded Ricky with an almost clinical gaze as the beefy bodybuilder had peeled off each article of clothing, making him feel significantly more vulnerable and exposed than he did when undressing in the locker room or getting naked with a sexual partner.

But that was far from the end of what Ian was going to order his homophobic roommate to do for him. Before the bare-ass beefcake had even had a second to process what he'd just done, Ian handed Ricky a bottle and issued a simple command: "oil up."

"Heh, okay, come on, bro, you've had your fun," Ricky said nervously, trying to act like this was not freaking him out as much as it was. Despite his profound desire to escape this situation, he was nevertheless doing exactly as he was told, starting by rubbing the baby oil all over his meaty pectorals as Ian looked on hungrily.

"Don't stop there," Ian said, ignoring Ricky's words, openly objectifying him by paying attention only to his body. "Make sure to get plenty on your abs and biceps, too."

"Right... cool, but... uh, this is probably enough of this shit now, right?" Ricky asked with the same nervousness in his voice as -- despite himself -- he applied more baby oil to his well-muscled flesh.

"Dick too," Ian said plainly, gesturing to the nether regions where he wanted Ricky to continue oiling himself up.

"Fuck, come on, Ian," Ricky pleaded as he applied the slick substance to his crotch. "I know I was a jerk, but don't you think whatever you're doing has gone far enough now?"

"Arms above your head," Ian stated, again ignoring Ricky's words in favour of his body alone. As the burly bodybuilder lifted his arms, Ian circled around him, evaluating him like a piece of meat for purchase instead of a person he shared an apartment with.

When the slender, smaller man had finished his walk around the Greek god currently displaying himself like a cheap whore for sale, he finally looked Ricky in the face. The beefy meathead's hope for a response to his plaintiff pleas for mercy were dashed when Ian's next command came: "No more talking, got it?"

While not an order that came with a physical action like the others had, Ricky felt his body obeying, his tongue choosing a position to rest in and his jaw clenching shut ever-so-slightly.

"And to answer your question," Ian began, studying Ricky's oiled-up physique as he spoke. "I've barely gotten started."

Ricky swallowed hard as a vindictive expression came over Ian's face.

"You think I don't know the shit you get up to?" he said, contempt in his voice. "Date-raping all those girls you bring home?!" Ian spat. "Acting like a goddamn neo-Nazi at all those fucking far right rallies?!" he continued. His eyes narrowed and his voice went ice cold as he concluded: "Beating the shit out of my best friend and his boyfriend for holding hands in public?"

Ricky felt his stomach drop. Ian knew. Ian knew all of it. And, thanks to whatever impossible trick he had used to put Ricky into his current state, Ian was going to make sure that this malicious macho man learned an important lesson: karma's a bitch.

Ricky jumped when a knock came suddenly at the door to their apartment.

Ian glanced at his wristwatch, a sly grin forming on his face. "Looks like some of my guests must be early," he said simply.

Ricky, unable to speak, pleaded with his eyes, knowing he deserved no mercy but still praying that he might receive it.

"Not to worry, though. It won't take me long to set things up for the party..." Ian said, reaching down to start pulling items out of a sack that had been sitting at his feet. Calmly and methodically, he set the first few items down on the table in front of him: a leather flogger, shark-tooth nipple clamps, a full-sized wooden frat paddle, and a spiked chastity cage.

Ricky didn't know what mortified him more: the torture devices Ian had just spread out on the table, or the fact that the bag that these BDSM nightmares had come from still appeared to be three-quarters full.

A knock came at the door once more, this time louder and more insistent.

"Well, don't just stand there," Ian said to the white-as-a-sheet Ricky as he began to dig in the sack once more. "Be a good boy and let our guests in."

Dreading what would come next (answering the door -- naked, oiled up, and on full display -- to a couple of fags who loved his muscles and hated his guts) and what would come after (a night -- or more -- of sadistic sexual torment from every last homo Ian knew), Ricky still had to do as he was commanded.

As he turned the handle to let the first of Ian's guests inside, he heard his new master call out with words that told him things were only going to get worse from here on out: "Come on in, guys! The party's just getting started..."