Chapter 5: The Unexpected Visitor
The knock on the door came with a familiar, heavy rhythm—two quick pounds followed by a lazy third. Brandon knew it before the sound even finished echoing through his cramped apartment. Marcus. Only Marcus knocked like he was announcing the world's least important arrival.
Brandon didn't move from the couch. He stared at the television, static hissing across the screen in gray waves he hadn't bothered to turn off. Four days since Selena had left him curled on her chaise lounge, wrapped in silk and shame. Four days since he'd stumbled out of her building with his mind rearranged and his body still humming. He hadn't shaved. He hadn't showered. He'd barely eaten—the half-empty beer bottle on the coffee table represented the extent of his nutrition for the past twenty-four hours.
"Yo, bro, you in there?" Marcus's voice filtered through the door, muffled but cheerful. "I got us a six-pack. You've been ghosting me all week, starting to think you joined a monastery or some shit."
The silence stretched. And stretched. Brandon's tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth. He knew he should get up. Should plaster on his usual cocky grin, crack some joke about being buried in work, drink a beer, and pretend the past two weeks hadn't happened. But every time he thought about standing, a ripple of phantom sensation danced across his skin. The ghost of lace against his thighs. The echo of his own high-pitched giggle bouncing off the walls of his skull.
"Brandon, I can hear the TV through the door. I know you're in there, motherfucker." Marcus knocked again, harder this time. "Open up before I call the cops and report a missing hot guy."
The joke was so ridiculously typical that a small, involuntary snort escaped Brandon's lips. He stared at the door for another long moment, then forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like rubber. He crossed the cluttered living room, stepping over a pile of unopened mail and a discarded hoodie, and unlocked the deadbolt.
Marcus burst in with the energy of a golden retriever, all shaggy dark hair and easy grin, a red plastic six-pack dangling from his fingers. He stopped short, his eyes sweeping over Brandon's disheveled appearance, the dark circles under his eyes, the way he was gripping the doorframe like he needed it for support.
"Jesus Christ, man." Marcus set the six-pack on the kitchen counter with a thunk. "You look like you've been hit by a bus. A bus that backed up and ran over you again for good measure."
"Thanks for the ego boost," Brandon said, forcing his voice into something resembling casual. He slumped back onto the couch, gesturing vaguely at the armchair. "Sit down. Drink your beer."
Marcus popped two bottles open and handed one to Brandon, settling into the worn armchair with a frown creasing his brow. "Seriously, dude. What's going on? You've been radio silent. You skipped poker night. You bailed on the gym. Mandy said you stopped returning her texts, and you know how she gets."
Brandon took a long pull from the bottle, letting the bitter liquid burn its way down his throat. "Just been going through some shit. Personal stuff. Didn't want to burden anyone."
"Personal stuff." Marcus repeated the words like he was tasting them and found them lacking. "You? The guy who once talked a traffic cop out of a ticket by complimenting his mustache? You don't do 'personal stuff.' You crack jokes and charm your way through life."
"Maybe I'm tired of charming my way through life." The words came out sharper than Brandon intended, edged with a bitterness that hung in the air between them.
Marcus held up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. Fair enough. But that's why I'm here, bro. To drag you out of whatever funk you're in. We're going to get you drunk, maybe find you a girl, and remind you that you're still the same cocky bastard who once convinced a bouncer that his fake ID was real because you 'believed in yourself.'"
A ghost of a laugh escaped Brandon's lips. That had been a good night. A simple night. A night before silver pendants and hypnotic voices and lace underwear.
"Besides," Marcus continued, leaning back in the chair, "I've got some wild stories to share. Weird shit happens when you're out without your wingman. Remember that hypnotist chick we saw at Jesse's party a few weeks back? The one with the ice-blue eyes and the stick up her ass? Apparently she's got some kind of reputation in certain circles."
Brandon's blood ran cold. He gripped his beer bottle tighter, knuckles going white. "What kind of reputation?"
Marcus shrugged, taking a long swig of his beer. "I don't know, man. Just stuff I heard. People saying she's into some kinky mind games. You know, controlling people, making them do weird shit. One guy at the gym was saying she turned some corporate bigwig into her personal slave or something. Had him walking around on a leash, begging to lick her boots."
The words hit Brandon like a physical blow. His vision swam. The room seemed to tilt, the edges going fuzzy and soft. He could feel his brain short-circuiting, static filling the spaces where coherent thoughts used to live.
"Mind control sluts," Marcus said, shaking his head with a laugh. "Crazy world we live in, right? Imagine being so pathetic that you let some chick turn your brain into mush. Have you seen the way those hypno-sluts act? All giggly and stupid, walking around with their tongues hanging out, just begging for someone to..."
Marcus's words faded into a blur of noise. Brandon's eyes glazed over. His jaw went slack. A giggle bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, escaping his lips as a high-pitched, girlish titter that sounded utterly foreign.
Marcus stopped mid-sentence, staring at him with wide eyes. "Uh... Brandon? You good, man?"
"Oh, I'm perfect," Brandon said, and his voice had changed. It was lighter, airier, laced with a breathy, feminine quality that made Marcus's beer bottle pause halfway to his lips. "I just had the funniest thought. Isn't it silly to be so mean about people? Everyone just wants to feel good, you know?"
"Uh..." Marcus blinked. "Yeah, sure. Is that... is that your phone ringing? Somewhere?"
"Don't be silly, Marcus. There's no phone." Brandon rose from the couch, his movements suddenly fluid, graceful in a way that didn't match his athletic build. His hips swayed as he walked toward the hallway, and Marcus watched him go with a mixture of confusion and increasing alarm.
"Brandon, where are you going? The bathroom's the other direction."
"I know," Brandon called back over his shoulder, his voice lilting and sweet. "I'm just going to my room for a minute. I need to change into something more comfortable."
Marcus set down his beer, his brow furrowed. "Man, you're acting really weird. Did you take something? If you're on some new medication, you gotta tell me—"
But Brandon had already disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Marcus alone in the living room with the hissing TV and the growing sense that something was deeply, profoundly wrong.
---
Inside his bedroom, Brandon moved on autopilot. His hands trembled as he yanked open the bottom drawer of his dresser, shoving aside old t-shirts and gym shorts until his fingers brushed against something silky and delicate. He pulled it out—a wisp of pale pink lace, a thong with a tiny bow at the waistband. He'd bought it the day after his first session with Selena, sneaking into a lingerie store like a thief, his heart pounding as the saleswoman smiled knowingly.
He stripped off his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion, then stepped into the thong, pulling it up over his hips. The fabric slid against his skin, intimate and thrilling. He ran his hands down his sides, feeling the lace stretch over his muscular thighs, and let out a soft, pleased hum.
"Oh, that's so much better," he murmured, his voice a breathy coo. "I was so uncomfortable in those boring clothes. But now I'm pretty. So pretty."
He spun around, catching his reflection in the mirror on his closet door. The sight should have horrified him—a grown man, athletic and sharp-jawed, wearing nothing but a pink lace thong. But instead, his lips curved into a vacant, delighted smile. He tilted his hips, letting the light catch the delicate fabric, and giggled.
"Marcus is out there all alone," he said to his reflection. "A big, strong man who needs my attention. I should go take care of him."
He padded back into the living room, his hips swaying with each step. Marcus was standing now, his keys already in his hand, his face a mixture of confusion and alarm.
"Okay, dude, I'm going to call you a doctor or something, because—"
He stopped dead as Brandon rounded the corner. His eyes went wide, tracing the expanse of exposed skin, the lace thong doing absolutely nothing to preserve Brandon's dignity.
"What the actual fuck?" Marcus breathed, the keys slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor.
But Brandon didn't react to the shock in his friend's voice. He glided across the room, his movements fluid and sensual, until he was standing directly in front of Marcus. Then he draped himself over Marcus's lap, straddling his thighs, his arms looping around his neck.
"I've been such a bad boy, Marcus," he cooed, his voice dripping with fake sweetness. "I need a strong man to put me in his place."
Marcus's hands hovered uselessly in the air, uncertain whether to push Brandon away or catch him. "Brandon, what the hell are you doing? Get off me. Seriously, this isn't funny."
"It's not supposed to be funny," Brandon purred, grinding his hips forward, the lace of his thong dragging against Marcus's jeans. He could feel the heat building between them, the shock in Marcus's body telegraphing through their contact. "It's supposed to feel good. Doesn't it feel good, Marcus?"
"No, it feels insane. You're acting like a—" Marcus swallowed hard, his voice strained. "Like a girl. Like one of those mind control sluts we were just talking about."
A slow, knowing smile spread across Brandon's face. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against Marcus's ear, and whispered a single word.
"Showtime."
It was like flipping a switch. Brandon's entire body shuddered, then relaxed bonelessly against Marcus. His eyes rolled back for a moment, then refocused, glazed over with a dreamy, submissive haze. A giggle bubbled out of him—high, light, entirely unimpeded.
"You know what I am?" Brandon said, his voice now pure bimbo, breathy and empty. "I'm your little hypno-slut. I'm a stupid, needy cockslut who lives to be used. You can do whatever you want with me, Marcus."
Marcus was frozen, his hands still hovering, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and something else—something dark and fascinated. "This isn't you. You're not yourself. Somebody did something to you."
But Brandon wasn't listening. He was already sliding off Marcus's lap, settling onto his knees on the threadbare carpet. He looked up at Marcus with those vacant, hungry eyes, and reached for his belt.
"Let me show you what a good boy I can be," he breathed. "Let me worship your cock like I'm made for it."
Marcus's hands spasmed at his sides. The keys on the floor caught the sickly lamp light, glinting like an escape hatch. But he didn't move. And as Brandon's fingers found the button of his jeans, slowly, deliberately, he didn't tell him to stop.
---
Time lost its shape. Brandon surrendered to the rhythm of his own worship. He pulled Marcus's cock free—thick, half-hard, already straining toward the promise of attention—and wrapped his lips around the head with a moan of genuine pleasure. He took it deep, inch by inch, his tongue working along the shaft with practiced enthusiasm. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn't pull away. He kept going, bobbing his head, gagging with every third thrust, until Marcus's hands finally found purchase in his sandy brown hair.
"Jesus Christ," Marcus breathed, his voice wrecked. "You really are a fucking whore."
Brandon pulled off just long enough to coo, "I'm your whore, Marcus," before swallowing him down again.
Marcus's grip tightened. He began to thrust, shallow at first, then harder, fucking Brandon's mouth with growing desperation. Brandon took it all, moaning around the girth, his hands gripping Marcus's thighs for support.
"I'm going to come," Marcus warned, his voice ragged. "Swallow it. Don't waste a single drop."
Brandon nodded as much as he could with his mouth full, and when Marcus came with a guttural grunt, he drank every last bit, swallowing with a satisfied sigh. Then he sat back on his heels, licking his lips, a dreamy smile spreading across his face.
"I'm so happy," he said, his voice light and empty. "I feel so full."
Marcus stared at him, his chest heaving, the reality of what had just happened slowly sinking in. He zipped his jeans, stepped back, and ran a hand through his hair.
"This is so fucked up," he said. "You're so fucked up. I'm going to find that hypnotist and kill her."
"No!" Brandon scrambled to his feet, suddenly panicked. "No, you can't hurt her. She's my friend. She takes care of me. I need her."
Marcus grabbed Brandon's shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Listen to me, Brandon. That woman did this to you. She turned you into a mindless puppet. I'm going to fix this. I'm going to find her and—"
A giggle escaped Brandon's lips. "You can't find her. She finds you. She always finds you."
Marcus's face hardened. "Watch me."
He grabbed his keys off the floor, yanked open the door, and disappeared into the night, leaving Brandon standing alone in the living room.
The silence rushed back in. Brandon stood there for a long moment, wearing only the pink lace thong, his body still humming with pleasure. Then slowly, gradually, the glazed look in his eyes began to clear.
He blinked. Looked down at himself. A scream caught in his throat.
"No," he whispered, his voice his own again, rough and horrified. "No, no, no, no, no."
He collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, the taste of Marcus still on his tongue. And he could already feel the seams of his mind tearing, the cracks spreading, the hungry voice in the back of his head whispering a promise he couldn't escape.
Showtime, it crooned. Always showtime.
Always showtime.
The words reverberated through his skull like a church bell, each toll stripping away another layer of resistance. Brandon pressed his palms against his temples, trying to physically contain the fracture spreading through his mind. He could taste Marcus on his tongue—bitter, salty, a reminder of what his body had done without his consent.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up, casting a pale glow across the cluttered surface. He didn't want to look. He already knew who it was.
The phone buzzed again. Then again. The vibration crawled across the wood like a living thing, insistent and hungry.
Brandon reached for it with a trembling hand. The screen displayed a single word: Selena.
He answered, his voice cracking. "What did you do to me?"
"Me?" Her voice was silk wrapped around a blade. "Darling, you did this to yourself. You let Marcus's crude words slip past your defenses, and you triggered all on your own. I didn't even have to lift a finger."
"That's not—" Brandon's throat closed. "He's going to find you. He's going to try to stop you."
A soft, musical laugh filtered through the speaker. "Oh, I'm counting on it. Marcus is exactly the kind of man I love to break. Predictable, prideful, thinks he's the hero of every story." There was a pause, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "I've already got a chair waiting for him."
"No. You can't—"
"Can't what, Brandon? I can't do anything I want to you? To him?" Her voice dropped, becoming honey and venom. "You called me. You came back to me. You knelt at my feet and begged me to use you. And now your friend is on his way to my office with fire in his eyes and vengeance on his tongue." She laughed again, low and thrilled. "I couldn't stop this if I wanted to."
Brandon's chest heaved. He wanted to scream, wanted to throw the phone against the wall, wanted to run out the door and intercept Marcus before he reached her. But his legs wouldn't move. They were heavy, filled with lead, anchored to the floor by something invisible and immovable.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered.
"I want you to be honest with yourself for once in your life." Her voice was gentle now, mocking in its tenderness. "You loved every second of tonight. You loved the taste of Marcus on your lips. You loved the way his hands fisted in your hair and the way he called you a whore. You loved being his little cockslut."
"I didn't—"
"Say it, Brandon. Say the words I know are trapped in your throat. Admit what you are."
The word bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere dark, somewhere that tasted like surrender. "Showtime," he breathed.
"Good boy." Her approval was a physical warmth spreading through his chest. "Now get dressed. Put on something pretty. Come to me. We have a guest arriving soon, and I want everything to be perfect."
He hung up. The dial tone buzzed in his ear, a mechanical heartbeat.
Brandon stood. His body moved without conscious command, drawn toward the bedroom like a magnet finding its pole. He opened the top drawer of his dresser, where he'd hidden a collection of silky things over the past week—corsets and panties, a tiny black dress, stockings with lace tops. He chose carefully, his fingers trailing over fabrics with a reverence he'd never shown for anything else.
Twenty minutes later, he stood in front of the full-length mirror, transformed. The black lace corset cinched his waist, pushing up his chest, creating curves his frame didn't naturally possess. A pair of sheer black stockings hugged his muscular legs, held up by garters that bit into his thighs. He wore nothing else—no underwear, no shoes, just the corset and stockings and a collar of black velvet that Selena had given him on their second session.
He looked ridiculous. He looked beautiful. He looked like a stranger wearing his face.
"Showtime," he said to the mirror, and his reflection grinned back at him with vacant, hungry eyes.
---
Selena's office was dim when he arrived, lit by a single amber lamp that cast long shadows across the leather recliner. She stood by the window, silhouetted against the city lights, a glass of red wine in her hand.
"Punctual as always." She didn't turn around. "I do appreciate that about you, Brandon. Your obedience makes my job infinitely easier."
He swayed in the doorway, the corset digging into his ribs with every breath. "Marcus is coming."
"Oh, I know." She finally turned, her ice-blue eyes sweeping over his outfit with visible appreciation. "I can hear his footsteps in the parking lot. He's sprinting. How romantic."
Brandon's heart hammered. "Please. Don't hurt him."
"I won't hurt him." She set down her wine and crossed the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood. She stopped in front of him, close enough to touch, and reached out to trace the velvet collar at his throat. "I'm going to give him exactly what he wants. The opportunity to save you. He'll fight for you, Brandon. And he'll lose."
Before he could respond, the door burst open.
Marcus stood in the threshold, chest heaving, his eyes wild with a mixture of fury and horror as they took in the scene—Brandon in his corset and stockings, Selena in her immaculate scarlet dress, the entire tableau arranged like a stage play.
"Let him go," Marcus growled, stepping forward. "Whatever you're doing to him, stop it. Now."
Selena didn't move. She simply smiled, slow and satisfied. "He's not being held against his will, Marcus. Look at him. He came to me willingly. He dressed up for me. He put on that collar because it makes him feel safe and owned."
"That's bullshit. You brainwashed him. You twisted his mind until he couldn't think for himself."
"And if I did?" Selena tilted her head, a predator examining her prey. "What would you do about it?"
Marcus lunged.
He was fast, athletic, driven by righteous anger. But Selena had been playing this game for years. She sidestepped with the fluid grace of a dancer, and her hand caught Marcus's wrist, twisting it behind his back with a precision that spoke of disciplined training. He yelped in surprise, his momentum carrying him forward, and she used it against him, driving him to his knees on the hardwood floor.
"Such a brave little hero," she murmured, her voice low and amused. "Charging in without a plan. Did you think you could just shout at me until I gave up?"
Marcus gritted his teeth, struggling against her grip. "Let go of me, you bitch."
"Hmm." She pressed a knee into his lower back, forcing him flat. "I think you need to be taught a lesson about manners."
She pulled something from her pocket—a silver pendant on a chain, the same one she'd used on Brandon in their first session. The faint light glinted off its surface as she brought it close to Marcus's face.
"Don't look at it," Marcus spat, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Too late for that, darling." Her voice was silk and needles. "You already saw it. You already felt that flicker of curiosity, that tiny spark of—what was it? Wonder? Fear? Desire? It's all the same to me."
Marcus's jaw clenched. His body was rigid, every muscle locked in defiance. But Brandon could see the tiny tremors running through his friend's frame, the subtle loosening of his resistance.
"Brandon," Marcus called out, his voice strained. "Fight it. Fight her. Remember who you are."
Brandon watched from the doorway, his body swaying with an almost musical rhythm. Part of him—a small, drowning part—reached out toward Marcus's voice. But the waves of submission kept crashing over him, pulling him deeper.
"Who I am?" Brandon said, and his voice was light, empty, dreamy. "I'm a good boy. I'm Selena's good boy. I obey."
Marcus's face contorted with anguish. "That's not you! That's the programming talking!"
"And yet," Selena said, drawing Marcus's attention back to the pendant, "here you are, on your knees, unable to stop me. Tell me, Marcus. What happens next? What do you think I'm going to make you do?"
Marcus spat on the floor.
Selena's smile merely widened. "Such a dirty mouth. I think we need to wash it out."
She snapped her fingers.
"Showtime, Brandon. He's all yours."
The command hit Brandon like a wave of warm water. His body hummed with electric pleasure, his thoughts dissolving into a warm, liquid haze. He moved without thinking, gliding across the room until he was kneeling beside Marcus, his hands reaching for the button on his friend's jeans.
"Don't," Marcus said, but his voice was already weaker, already losing its sharp edges. "Brandon, please. You don't have to do this. You don't—"
"I want to," Brandon cooed, pulling down Marcus's zipper. "I want to make you feel good. I want to swallow your cock and taste you on my tongue. Doesn't that sound nice?"
"No. It doesn't. It's wrong. You're a man, Brandon. You're not—"
"I'm a pretty thing," Brandon interrupted, freeing Marcus's half-hard cock from his jeans. "I'm your little slut. I'm the girl you never knew you needed."
He leaned down and took the head into his mouth.
Marcus sucked in a sharp breath, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Fuck."
"He likes it," Selena observed, circling around them. "His body responds even as his mind rebels. Stay with me, Marcus. Keep fighting. Let's see how long you can last."
Don't let him hear you. Don't let him control you. Fight it.
But the words were distant, muffled, as if Marcus was drowning and his own thoughts were the water closing over his head. Brandon's mouth was hot and skillful, his tongue working along the shaft, his hands stroking gently at the base. Moans vibrated through the flesh in Marcus's mouth as Brandon worked him deeper, settling into a rhythm that was practiced and eager.
"You're so big," Brandon breathed, pulling off for a moment to press kisses along Marcus's inner thigh. "I bet you've wanted this for a long time. All those nights we watched movies together, sitting close on the couch. You thought about touching me, didn't you?"
"No," Marcus gasped, but his hips were moving now, thrusting into the wet heat of Brandon's mouth when he descended again.
"Naughty boy," Selena said, crouching behind Brandon. Her hands found the laces of his corset, loosening them with deft movements. The fabric fell away, exposing his chest, his back, the vulnerable curve of his spine. Her lips pressed against the nape of his neck, and Brandon shuddered with pleasure. "Let's see how much more you can take."
She slid a hand down his belly, finding his cock already hard, leaking against his stockings. "So excited," she murmured. "You love this, don't you, sweetheart? You love being used."
"Yes," Brandon whimpered, pulling off Marcus just long enough to answer. "I love it, Selena. I love being your toy. I love being his toy. Please, I need more."
"More, in good time." She pulled something from her pocket—a glass vial of clear lubricant, silver cap glinting in the lamplight. "First, I think Marcus needs to learn his place. Open your mouth, beautiful."
Brandon obeyed, and she poured a generous amount of lube onto his tongue. He swallowed, giggling at the cold sensation. Then she pressed a hand against his lower back, guiding him down onto the floor.
"Ride him," she commanded. "Take him inside you. Show him how much of a good boy you can be."
Brandon scrambled into position, straddling Marcus's hips, aligning their bodies with desperate, clumsy movements. He reached behind himself, gripping Marcus's cock, and guided it to his entrance.
"Look at me, Marcus," he breathed, his eyes glazed and hungry. "Watch me take every inch."
He lowered himself.
Brandon's mouth fell open in a gasp of pleasure as Marcus's cock pushed into him, stretching him, filling him. He took it slow at first, inch by agonizing inch, his own cock twitching with need. Then he began to ride, bouncing with growing enthusiasm, moaning with each downward thrust.
"That's it," Selena encouraged. "Use that tight little hole. Fuck yourself on his cock like the little whore you are."
Yes. Oh, yes. I'm such a dirty little whore.
The voice in his head—which for a moment had surfaced with a desperate plea from Marcus's direction—wasn't his own. It was the Bimbo voice, the empty one, the hungry one. And it felt good. So good. He wanted to feel it forever.
"Please," Marcus gasped, his hands finally gripping Brandon's hips. "Please, I'm going to come."
"Do it," Brandon cooed. "Fill me up. Paint my insides with your cum. Mark me as yours."
Marcus's body arched off the floor as he came with a guttural groan, his hands tightening to the point of bruising as he spilled into Brandon's heat. Brandon kept riding, milking every last drop, moaning with satisfaction as he felt the warmth spread inside him.
Then he collapsed against Marcus's chest, panting, satisfied, his mind a warm haze of contentment.
"I'm so happy," he whispered. "This is right. This is where I belong."
Marcus stared up at the ceiling, his chest heaving, his own mind reeling. He felt empty, used, disoriented. But beneath the horror, something else was stirring. Something that liked the feeling of being in control, of being worshiped, of being called a strong man.
"I don't understand what's happening to me," Marcus admitted, his voice raw.
"You're becoming," Selena said, kneeling beside them. She reached out and stroked his hair, a gesture almost tender. "You're learning who you really are. That's all I ever do, Marcus. I help people see the truth of themselves."
"And the truth is...?" Marcus looked up, meeting her ice-blue eyes.
"The truth is that you enjoyed it." She smiled. "You enjoyed being dominant. You enjoyed having your cock worshiped by someone you thought you were trying to save. And now you know that you're not a hero. You're just a man with appetites. Just like everyone else."
Marcus closed his eyes. His hand came up to rest on Brandon's back, stroking the sweat-damp skin.
"Showtime," Selena said.
"It's showtime?" Brandon asked, nuzzling into Marcus's neck.
"It's always showtime." Her smile was final, absolute. "Now, who wants to see what else I have planned for you tonight?"