Secondhand

It had been a while since I needed to dress up last, so I was in need of some clothes. I had outgrown my suit from college and I hadn’t worn it since I interviewed for my job now. Being in inside sales, I could stay relatively casual—a polo and jeans most days. Still, the executives were coming to town and I was in need of something to wear to a business dinner.

The execs were always stodgy and traditional where I was more laid back and comfortable. I wasn’t willing to drop actual money on nice, tailored dress clothes to look on par with them; so, I was off to the secondhand store.

I just needed a suit that fit well enough and some shoes. It was wall-to-wall of poorly sorted clothes. I clearly had my work cut out for me. I decided to start with shoes since it was a smaller section. While there were two full aisles of women’s shoes, the men’s was only half of one, and sparse at that. It was mostly an array of beat up running and basketball shoes, but a few pairs of dress shoes—most of which equally torn up—were grouped toward the end.

Only one pair looked like it was in good condition and wasn’t meant for a giant: a pair of black tassel loafers. On further inspection, they looked quite expensive and roughly my size. They weren’t something I would typically wear—far from it. It was definitely something the executives would approve of, though.

So, I reached out to check the size on the inside of the tongue. When my hand finally grasped the shoes, I felt an unexpected and intense surge of sexual energy. Immediately, my manhood swelled and twitched. I was confused and my mind raced before landing on one thought that I would never admit was mine: Smell the loafer.

I had never wanted to sniff a shoe before, nonetheless a man’s. It was entirely out of the ordinary, and I fought the desire. I was straight. This was nothing like me. What if someone saw? I took a quick glance around—no other shoppers or cameras. No one would know. It was a shoe, too, not a man. It’s not like I was licking some dude’s feet or anything, so really there was no harm in it. I needed to check the inside for the size, so if I caught a whiff, it wouldn’t mean anything anyway.

I took one of the shoes and lifted it slowly to peak inside. The bottom of the shoe read Friedman and had filigree around the name. I’d never heard of that brand before, but I never wore dress shoes anyway. I started to rotate it and take it in on all sides. I just ended up staring, almost in a trance. It was well made, I guessed. I shrugged off the feeling and began to lift the tongue to look inside when my hand boosted the shoe much closer to my face and my nose dipped inside. I inhaled sharply and smelled musk, shoe polish, and expensive leather. My head was reeling from the rush and I was ecstatic. I failed, even, to suppress a light moan as my cock lurched inside my jeans. It felt like something had come over me, and it sent ripples of pleasure through my whole body. I wanted more. It was such a rush. So, I took another hit, this time slower—relaxing and enjoying it. Suddenly, I caught myself and had a quick look around. I blushed. Thankfully, no one was around to see. I lifted the tongue stiffly to look again. I took notice of the heavy imprints of the previous wearer, and I finally took note of the size: 9.5 D. They would fit just fine it seemed.

“Put them on,” I heard a baritone voice say. I jumped and immediately scanned the area. There was still no one around. I was starting to get creeped out when my other hand took the other shoe off the shelf and brought it to my nose. I couldn’t resist taking another sniff, noting the distinct masculine smell that enraptured me. I felt comforted and reassured; so, I took both shoes to a nearby bench, watching the tassels jostle ever-so-slightly as I walked. I was at full mast and leaking slightly by the time I sat down. Thankfully, no one was there to spot my confused lust.

Looking down and beginning to untie my favorite sneakers, I felt a sense of shame and arousal as another thought creeped into my head: “This is hardly appropriate footwear for a man.” It sounded like the voice I just heard, but clearer—more refined. It couldn’t have been my thoughts, but I felt strangely compelled to agree; a man’s footwear ought to reflect his sense of self-worth, and I wasn’t just an average Joe in some lazy-looking sneakers. I finally tugged the sneakers off, revealing my black athletic socks. “These will have to go, too,” I heard once again, the phantom baritone sounding more agreeable; “Proper shoes should have proper socks, but this is all I have for now.”

I reached for the right loafer, but caught myself. What was I thinking? There’s nothing wrong with sneakers and Nike socks. Everybody wears them. They’re comfortable. I needed some new dress clothes, but these feelings were something new to me. Was it worth it? I peered down at the old-fashioned loafers, my eyes first fixed on the tassels and slowly drifting to the inside of the shoes. I felt them calling me. I was lost in them once again as I felt my body move. Foot met leather and my member convulsed in pleasure. Feeling the worn loafer on the ball of my foot sent my head reeling as ecstasy flooded it. I came to understand my arousal did not attempt to resist the urge to slide my foot in deeper. My plain athletic socks slid in smoothly, filling the space in the shoe tightly. My foot felt good; it felt secure as I wiggled my toes, taking in every supple caress through my sock.

“Good. Now, the other,” the voice bellows in my head. It drowned out all other thoughts. The only thing I could think of doing was complying—not that I wouldn’t have anyway. Every point of contact with the loafer was orgasmic. I slid into the other loafer with a light moan. It was the most amazing feeling my feet had ever felt, and my cock began to leak in agreement. I stood up, uncaring of the damp spot on my jeans, and felt my full body weight on the shoes. I was stable and secure, the loafers hugging my feet intimately.

Then, I took a step forward. A rush came straight from my feet to my head. I began to walk just to feel that pure pleasure, step after step. Pulse after pulse of this amazing sensation aided in darkening the wet spot. I did not know where I was walking to, but I had to keep walking in these shoes.

The haze of pleasure ended as I stood before a rack of suits. It was next on my list to get, but I felt like I was there for something in particular. All of the suits were disorganized. Every color was mixed; sizing was in no order. An image popped into my head though—a grey three-piece suit with pinstripes. The image in my head seemed simultaneously foreign, but vivid and detailed. My cock responded gleefully. That was it. That was the suit I was after. My hands plunged into the racks haphazardly, groping and sorting through ever suit in front of me. Some were similar, but not what I needed. After each teasing disappointment, my desire for the suit I

pictured grew. As I continued searching, my hand plunged to the back of one of the racks and I felt it—the same familiar wave of pleasure from the loafers, this time on my fingertips as I grabbed at the smooth, expensive material.

“It is still here! Take it!” The voice erupted.

I obeyed, savoring the sensation of freeing the smooth woolen suit from the back of the rack. It felt better than the touch of anyone I had ever been with. As I freed it from the rack, I could see it was exactly as I pictured: jacket, vest, and trousers, all in a dull light grey with off-white pinstripes running down the length.

I opened the jacket to check the size, though it already seemed short for me. It was what I pictured, and I wanted it; but it seemed stuffy and formal—not my usual style by a long shot. As my hand brushed the silky lining, though, I knew this suit had to be mine, regardless of size. My hand slid from the inside label down the sleeve smoothly as pulled the jacket off the hanger, the rest of the ensemble still hanging in the other hand. As the other sleeve of the jacket hung off my frame, I felt incomplete; I placed the hanger in my sleeved hand and slid the other sleeve on with a suppressed moan. Even through a shirt, my nipples were responding to the fabric, hardening to stone. My fingers reached the end of the sleeves as excess material bunched behind my shoulder blades. The jacket hung a few inches higher than a proper fit as well. Clearly, this was made for a shorter, stouter man. My cock surged as the thought crossed my mind and I shuddered in pleasure.

I took a deep breath to clam my frantic arousal, noticing a familiar musky undertone. It reminded me of the shoes with less leather and mixed with an expensive cologne.

“Royal Muske. It’s been a while,” echoed in my head as if I knew the name of the scent. Fascinated by the knowledge that came from seemingly nowhere, I began to feel around the interior pockets. As my hand plunged into the silk-lined pockets, it was hard to figure out what I was feeling until I pulled it out, a silk polka-dotted bow tie, the maroon color matching the lining of the suit, and the off-white spots reminding me of the pinstripes running down my chest. I quickly pressed it to my nose, taking a strong hit from what remained of the cologne. I shuddered and put it back in the pocket, my hand touching another piece of silky fabric as I stuffed it in.

Looking up, I quickly realized that a few people were sneaking glances as I enjoyed the suit. I did not care, strangely. This was my suit. These were my shoes. So, what did it matter? I had become audacious in my search, consumed with pleasure and lust. Lastly, I checked the size of the pants. The tag read “42 x 27.” They looked far too wide for me, but the size sounded vaguely correct in my head. The pleats made them billow a bit more, but I thought I could use some extra room.

I reluctantly removed the jacket and placed it tenderly back on the hanger, savoring the liner’s touch. I had everything I came for, so I started toward the checkout line. It took me a few strides before I remembered my sneakers back in the shoe section. I hesitated briefly and focused on the warm embrace of the tassel loafers on my feet.

The voice once again urged me once again: “Do not go back to those ratty gym shoes.” It felt like a command, though I was inclined to agree despite them being my favorite sneakers. I’d had them for years; I felt inclined to fight the voice and turned back to the shoe aisle for my sneakers. Then, I felt something brush my ankle as I walked. The bow tie had fallen out of the suit jacket and brushed the exposed area. I instinctively reached down to pick it up, the thoughts of my old shoes leaving my mind as I picked it up and shoved it back into the coat pocket. Smiling lightly, I proceeded to check out with my new suit.

The woman at the register avoided eye contact after spotting the moist bulge beneath my belt. I exited without drawing attention to it and slung the ill-fitting jacket on as I reached the car. It was still mid-morning, and much of my day was free. The way home was a blur, but every shoe store, menswear store, and barbershop stood out to me as my crotch stirred in passing.

I walked into my apartment, still in a horny haze, wasting no time shutting the door and pawing at my crotch as I made my way to the bedroom. I couldn’t stop thinking about how good everything would feel on my skin. Placing the jacket, vest, and trousers on the bed, I began to strip.

“No more sloppy clothes,” I heard as I removed my t-shirt. I even repeated it to myself as I tenderly removed the loafers and yanked off my athletic socks. I unfastened my belt and lid my damp jeans down, revealing blue plaid boxers soaked with pre-cum. I hesitated again with my thumb in the waistband and sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment. The horny racing of my mind slowed and I could think a little more clearly.

“What on earth is coming over me?” I questioned, unsure of even my own senses. My boner began to retreat and clarity of thought came once again. Following clarity of thought came clarity of stomach, as it began to grumble. “Something to eat should help me focus,” I thought.

I hopped off the edge of the bed, careful to avoid even looking at the shoes that enraptured me and went to the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich for lunch. Once it was fixed, I cracked open a soda and sat, sipped, and munched. The whole morning made no sense to me. Only the shoes fit, yet I picked up an entire suit. Would I be able to find something better before the dinner on Tuesday? I had to. Though, it would probably involve fighting through weekend crowds if I didn’t do so today. I wasted an entire morning in a sexual haze, and my underwear showed it. I shuddered. I needed to change.

I went back into my bedroom, steering clear of the clothes on my bed. Something seemed off about them. I peeled off the wet boxers and flung them in the hamper by the door. When I turned around to walk toward my dresser, I kept my chin high, avoiding the enthralling outfit on my bed. As soon as I took my first step, I glanced my belt with my heel and stumbled forward. I regained my balance as my hands hit my bed, brushing against the soft fabric of the suit pants. I felt the same jolt of sexual energy as before: my cock jumped and I looked at the suit before me. It was irresistible and my eyes beamed with pure lust.

I picked up the pants, and unfastened them and slowly began sliding my legs into the oversized holes. The tip of my cock brushed the fabric, sending me wild once again. I buttoned and zipped the pants and went to look for a belt to hold them up, only to notice they had no belt loops.

“Good, Son. They’ll fit like a glove soon enough,” the voice echoed in my head. “Now, put it all on.”

I was helpless to resist and I began to slide my bare feet into the loafers. The leather caressed my feet, which had more room without the cushy socks. I could feel my feet shift slightly inside the rich material. My eyes caught the tassels again, and I smirked. They did make the shoes look proper. I wished to look proper myself. I moaned as I wiggled my toes and reached for the jacket containing the bow tie. I did not know how to tie one, but I wanted desperately to wear it. I removed it from the jacket and draped the silk over my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. Instinctively, my hands made quick work tying it into a perfectly even knot.

Next, I slid the vest over my shoulders. As the smooth fabric glided down my chest, my nipples began to harden more than ever before. Immediately, my cock began to dribble with pre-cum once more. I couldn’t help but moan as fabric and leather stimulated me.

“Just one more thing, and you’ll be mine,” I heard myself say. I was quivering in horniness and trepidation as I buttoned the vest and reached for the jacket. My smile widened to a dopey grin as I slid my right arm into the garment. The lining sent goosebumps down my arm as I saw my hand emerge from the end. My left arm had the same reaction as the jacket finally rested over my shoulders.

Lastly, I began to button the jacket, deftly pushing the button through the holes. As the second button was fastened, I moaned loudly and my mind went blank. For a brief moment, I couldn’t see or hear anything.

Then, the sound of hard-soled shoes on tile began to fade in along with my sight. I stood naked in a space that could only be described as blank. The floor was white and smooth; there were no walls in sight. In the distance, I could see a rotund figure in grey walking toward me.

“Hello!” I called out with a wave. “Hello, my boy!” He called back in a dignified baritone.

My cock stiffened and I remembered the voice as the on I’d been hearing in my head. I walked swiftly over to meet him. He would have answers. He had to have answers. He was deceptively far away, but I reached him without tiring in the slightest.

“Slow down, my boy,” he cautioned. “We have all the time we could possibly need here.”

As I approached, I was finally able to take the man in. He was quite portly with a round ball gut that was sure to enter a room before he did. He was around a good six inches shorter than me as well—perhaps 5’ 6”. He wore the very same three-piece suit and loafers that I found at the thrift store. It fit him perfectly. His hair was black and circled his bald crown like a wreath. He wore a thick mustache of the same color, and looked to be in his fifties or sixties.

I guess I was taking it all in for too long when his voice roused me and my manhood: “Something you like, Son?”

“No—I mean yes—I mean, what is this place?” I stammered.

“Just a place where you and I can interact face to face and perhaps sort out a few things. You took quite a liking to my shoes, Son.”

I stepped closer, but remained defensive. “No. No. No. You put some sort of spell on me. I would never do any of that stuff with shoes, especially not a man’s!”

“Relax,” he attempted to placate. “I may have awakened something dormant in you, but I certainly could not create something new. Why, look at yourself.” He gestured to my manhood. “You’re positively rock hard right now.”

With that, a full-body mirror rose from the ground in front of me, showing my tight, toned chest flecked with sparse hair and cock at full-mast.

“No! You’re doing this to me. I’m straight. Whatever this is, stop it now!” I demanded.

“I told you,” he said coolly, “This is just where we can chat, and I can’t make these feelings come out of nowhere, but I can certainly help them along.”

He took long strides for his short stature toward me, and locked eye contact as a wardrobe and chest of drawers materialized behind me. I began to back away, but was halted by the new furniture.

“Would you like for me to help it along?” He continued with a smile. “Stay away from me!” I shouted, but his advance never slowed.

As he came closer, he stretched out his hand for a handshake. “I’m Arthur, by the way,” he said politely, stopping a few feet from me.

I was confused, frozen like a deer in the headlights at full mast. He simply stood there, polite, but imposing. “Michael,” I said, shaking his hand hesitantly. I expected some sort of shock or wave of euphoria, but it was quite simply just a handshake.

“It’s a pleasure, Michael!” He happily boomed before lowering his voice to a business-like tone: “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here. I’ll assuage some anxiety and say you’re not dead.” He chuckled lightly. “This is merely my domain that I’ve brought your mind to. You shared enough of an affinity for my old clothes for me to welcome you here.”

“Okay. Well...” I trailed off, trying vaguely not to sound rude. “How do I get out? I didn’t exactly ask to come here.” I crossed my arms in passive defiance.

“Oh, but you did, my boy!” He stated excitedly. “I can’t force you to do anything you haven’t any inclination to do, whether it’s putting on my suit and shoes or bringing you here. On some level, you wanted to dress like me, meet me, and—if I interpret those horny thought earlier correctly—look like me.” He gave me a wink and a nod.

I resented what he was saying. I would never want to look like a bald, fat, old man; but my cock still seemed to betray me. Was he right somehow? Regardless, I would never say it. “You never answered my question, though. How do I leave?”

“But I did! You can leave when you no longer have any desire to stay. Or...”

“Or what?” I demanded.

“Or we can both leave together.” He grinned.

“Well, how do we do that? I get the feeling you’re not going to let me leave any other way, and I don’t particularly care if another old dude pops into existence anyway.”

“We’d be walking together, Michael. You and I would be one and the same. Just imagine getting to wear such nice clothes.” He smirked.

My cock jumped again. It sounded strangely exciting, but I was ashamed to admit it. I started to cover myself with my hands to hide the excitement.

“Oh posh, Michael! It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He stepped closer reaching beside my waist to open a drawer. “But you may as well cover yourself up with actual clothing.” He pulled out a large pair of white briefs—clearly his size—and offered them to me.

I reluctantly took them and attempted to step into them, but they were too big. I held them up by the waistband, which nearly hit my bellybutton.

“Would you like for them to fit better, Michael?” Arthur asked plainly.

I nodded and my waist began to grow to fit the briefs wrapped around them. “What are you doing to me?” I asked as my inflated figure formed a ball gut not unlike his.

“This way, they’ll fit better and you’ll become closer to your desires,” he chortled.

My gut continued to grow to match Arthur’s girth; my thighs followed suit, filling in the formerly- cavernous briefs. Stretch marks formed and lightened as my waist hit forty-two inches. My member became dwarfed by my large frame and I struggled to keep my balance.

Arthur eyed me up and down. “Looking splendid, my boy! Let’s have a good look at you.” He placed his hands on my shoulders to stabilize me and guided me to the mirror. I complied in total shock from my body changing so much in mere moments. He gave my shoulders a pat as we looked at our similar widths in the mirror.

“That, however, is not your waist” he said firmly, taking the briefs in his hands and hiking them up to my bellybutton. I moaned in surprised agreement as he gave my newly-formed belly a rub. He then cupped my balls through the briefs, sending me more and more waves of pleasure as they began to grow. My sack descended, farther, and I was left with two golf-ball- sized lumps straining against the white fabric as an obvious moose knuckle. My cock seemed even smaller by comparison.

I had to admit that I liked it, but I could not understand why. It felt correct—like I was meant to be this way. I stood still, staring at Arthur’s work, waiting for him to continue.

His hands gave my balls a final tug. They would be hanging much lower outside of he briefs. “You’re looking quite good with some meat on your bones. Wouldn’t you agree?” He directed.

I nodded in agreement, mouthing a “yes” without the words escaping my lips.

He rubbed my shoulders, locking eyes with mine in the mirror. His touch was electric, and I saw my heigh lowering to match his. Inch by inch, I shrank, my shoulders broadening and making me look rounder—just like Arthur. He then whispered into my ear: “Those are the right proportions for a man, Michael. Enjoy it.” His mustache bristled my ear and he gave me a wink.

A shivering “Yes, sir” and a squirt escaped my body, forming a small wet spot on my briefs.

His arms wrapped under mine, and he began rubbing my chest. The hair faded and fell from it as he covered every square inch. After he ousted the dusting of hair on my chest, the stretch

marks were more visible once again. His hands landed on my pecs, which began to expand into small flats of fat; my nipples hardened at the attention, becoming my main focus as he twisted and rubbed them. From each rub, they grew wider, expanding to the size of pencil erasers, then dimes. With each twist, they protruded more, lengthening to half an inch by the time Arthur relented.

Finally, he turned to the wardrobe again and brandished a ribbed athletic shirt. “Arms up, protege,” Arthur said with a smile.

I accepted the title without question and raised my arms up, curious about the prospect and afraid to disobey. He hoisted the shirt over me and draped it atop my portly frame. The fabric was silky and expensive-feeling. I relished it gliding down my face and chest. I let out another low moan as it brushed my nipples and settled into place. My nipples were clearly visible through the white fabric. My eyes were fixed on their bulges; my mind was fixed on their sensitivity.

My trance was broken: “Now tuck it in, Son. One should always be tucked and tidy.”

It was almost instinctual to obey now. Bit by bit, my hands tucked in the excess smooth fabric into the briefs. My enlarged frame made it harder than usual, but I felt oddly proud of the figure that would have disgusted me moments ago. As I tucked the last portion in, I turned briefly to the side, examining the girth exacerbated by my raised waistline. “Tucked and tidy, sir,” I reiterated.

“As you should be. You have quite the mature physique now. Shouldn’t it be clothed in more than undergarments?”

I met his eyes in the mirror again as he spoke this. I wanted to be just like this man. Maybe he did awaken something in me. I only knew what felt good and correct in that moment—him. “Yes, sir. Just like you,” I sighed wistfully.

“Very good! I think you’ll do quite well with me, then.”

Arthur opened the wardrobe’s doors, revealing a light grey three-piece suit with off-white pinstripes. Beneath it was a pair of the very same black tassel loafers he wore. To the right were all of the other accessories: maroon and navy striped socks, a maroon bow tie, silk braces in the same color, and finally the leather sock garters with two shiny metal clips on each. To the left, hung a fine white dress shirt with French cuffs. My cock leapt for joy at the sight, but I was speechless.

Arthur produced a chair and placed it behind me. “Now, sit, my son,” he whispered softly into my ear, his mustache brushing my ear once again as he spoke. A warm tingle coursed from my ear lobe to my spine as I complied. He took the socks and garters from the wardrobe and knelt down in front of me, eyeing my feet. I admired the scene repeatedly, swapping my stares from his shiny, smooth scalp ringed with thick, black hair, and the socks that my feet yearned to be encased in.

His hazel gaze met mine as he looked up and asked, “Are you ready, boy?” “Yes,” I replied, transfixed.

“You’ll enjoy my shoes much more with these. You’ll have more weight on them, too.” He placed the socks and garters to the side briefly, lowered his head, and grasped my right leg— one hand under the knee, the other just below the ankle. I felt a familiar warmth, though much stronger—almost burning—as he began to rub up and down my calf. As I looked down from his head again, I could see my calf thickening with a combination of muscle and fat as the hair faded away at his touch.

I moaned as he continued, “Yes, sir,” being the only words I could think to say.

His caress moved down to my foot, which felt amazing with its newfound sensitivity. My toes began to swell up like small sausages as his fingers worked through them. As his fondling continued, my hips began to buck and gyrate in the briefs.

“Not yet, boy,” Arthur said sharply. “You can cum when I say. That will be our grand finale.”

My hips lowered and my breathing deepened as I contained myself more. I only received a brief respite from the pleasurable onslaught as he switched legs and resumed. Wherever we were, I’m glad no one could hear my moans at the hands of a man—especially such and old and proper one. My self-consciousness aside, I was in ecstasy.

At long last, he picked up a sock and lightly brushed it over my sensitive soles. When he began to slide the silky fabric over my toes, I struggled to control myself. The sock gilded over my foot and graced my leg further up my now-denuded calf. I watched as it stretched and became ever-so-slightly sheer as the top was set just above the curve of my calf. The first sock was a warm and comforting pressure enveloping my leg; the second nearly made my feet have their own orgasms.

Arthur leaned back to let me see my socked feet. It looked proper for me. It was as if everything I’d worn before was horrible and uncomfortable. This seemed right. This is what I wanted. I bent over and caressed the silken beauties. I felt them on my calves and fingertips; I relished it. The socks wrinkled and creased slightly as I stroked them. Arthur moved my hands away and looked me in the eye.

“We can’t have them looking ruffled and untidy,” Arthur stated in a didactic tone while wrapping the cool leather of a sock garter just under my knee. He fastened the strap and pulled my sock up taut into the clip. My cock jumped as the first clip locked down, securing the sock. The second clicked down, and the spasming continued.

“Now you do the other, Junior,” He commanded through a grin, and held up the other garter, the length of it swinging back and forth seductively.

“Yes. Please!” I pleaded before taking it. I handled the leather and metal gingerly as I wrapped the cool materials under my girthy knee. I felt the embrace of the sock tighten as I pulled it up into the clips. After I secured it, I could not stop looking at my feet—my precious, socked feet. I wiggled my toes just to feel them rub my feet more.

“It gets better,” Arthur interrupted from the wardrobe. My eyes rose to meet him. He was buttoning the braces onto the trousers. They were the same colors as the socks—navy with a thick maroon stripe down the center of each side. He continued, placing the pants to the side and taking the dress shirt off its hanger, “It takes effort to look like a man should, but the payoff is entirely worth it, my boy.” As he concluded, he held up the shirt, unbuttoned.

I froze, remembering myself. What was I doing? I was sitting in a blank space being dressed by a man who made me as short and fat as he was—and I liked it? It was absurd. It wasn’t me; even if I thought the clothes looked nice, I wasn’t gay, I wasn’t his boy, and I certainly wasn’t fat. Still, it was undeniable that, despite it all, I felt good. I winced while mulling it over.

“I see you’re still in denial.”

He started toward me from only a short distance, a smile on his face. I panicked and began to try to stand up from the chair. I had barely lifted the legs of my larger frame when he lifted the rest and pulled me into a kiss and warm embrace. I tried to shake off the pleasure, but only for a moment. He pulled my head in for another kiss, this time plunging his tongue between lips that could not help but part. I even tried to fend off his tongue with my own, but he twisted around it with his as they danced in my mouth. After a moment, I relaxed as I felt his tongue beckon to mine and I obliged. I extended it out through his lips, settling it in his warmth. His mustache brushed my upper lip gently throughout. I closed my eyes and savored the moment. This is what I wanted.

He withdrew from the kiss, and my eyes opened, meeting his. “There you are, Son!” He chortled, rubbing his thumb above my lips to wipe off some saliva. I could feel bristling under his finger that was not there before. “You’re already looking much more handsome,” he said, ushering me toward the mirror, shirt in-hand. Immediately, I spotted it, a thick chevron mustache like his now adorned my face. It was brown like the rest of my hair, which was one of the few things distinguishing us at this point. “Very handsome and mature, wouldn’t you agree, Michael?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, exaggerating my lip movements to watch my mustache as I spoke.

“Good then! Let’s get back to it,” he said, opening the shirt for me to step into. I shifted back and placed my arms through the sleeves. I enjoyed the starched fabric sliding down my arms, with the small excess draping ever-so-slightly underneath. Arthur shifted around me and began buttoning the shirt, leaving the top button undone. My body filled the it completely with just enough material left over to tuck in over my ball gut. He then reached into my front pocket and

teased my nipple while he retrieved a pair of silver cufflinks. I lurched forward as his finger graced such a sensitive spot through the shirt. When I stared at the cufflinks, I knew what to do; I began folding the French cuffs to my shirt. Arthur fastened them with a nurturing smile.

I examined the cufflinks while he stepped back to retrieve the trousers and braces. Within the silver, a small “ARF” was engraved. “Sir,” I began. “What does ‘ARF’ stand for? Are they your initials?”

“Yes, my boy. Arthur Richard Friedman, named partly after the man that mentored me. You’ll be a Friedman soon enough,” he declared proudly, extending the trousers for me to step into.

I smiled, enjoying the thought as I looked into the trousers, the braces parted to either side, inviting me to enter into them. I took an oversized step into them as he began to lift them up— first over my knees, then my thighs, my manhood, my waist, and stopping below my bellybutton. He hiked them up to adjust them, my thighs looking like sausages in new casing. The fabric was thin but durable and high quality. The pinstripes ran from the cuff of the pants, parallel with the well-defined crease up to my midriff, the pleats barely breaking the vertical pattern. It did little to make me appear thinner.

Arthur stepped behind me again and began helping the braces over my shoulders, lifting the trousers even higher as the straps found their resting place on my shoulders. As the waist was pulled securely up to my bellybutton, a noticeable outline of my balls formed in the trousers. The braces framed my stomach as if to announce its presence to anyone that could see. I struggled briefly to zip, button, and clasp my pants closed before taking myself in again. The moose knuckle was incredibly prominent below my barely-contained gut. I touched the bulge through the fabric in curiosity and watched my balls leap in pleasure as I shuddered.

“Just as a man ought to be,” Arthur said warmly. “Although I wouldn’t leave the house without a tie at the very least. A man should always wear a tie, shouldn’t he?”

With growing confidence, I proclaimed “Yes, sir!” And began to flip my starched collar up. Arthur buttoned my top button and handed me the bow tie. It was very tight around my neck, forcing my neck straight. I draped the neckwear around my thick neck and tied an even knot just as before, despite it only being my second time.

“Just as I taught you,” Arthur cooed before flipping the collar back down. With a light wince, a small roll of fat formed above the top of the collar. Arthur ran his finger along the excess flesh, sighing in satisfaction; his touch brought relaxation and further horniness. The bow tie emphasized the gut much further—my girth now being framed on all sides. Arthur gave my gut a gentle pat, causing another visible spasm of my testicles through the pants. “Handsome indeed, but let’s finish this. Shall we, my boy?”

“With pleasure, sir!” I sounded off.

“Why don’t you address me properly if you’re going to be a Friedman, Son,” he commanded, the last word echoing in my head and taking hold.

Arthur was my father now. He made me into the man I had become and I was proud of it. I was proud to be unlike the rabble I was when I entered the thrift store; so, I grinned and announced, “Yes, Father.”

“Good boy, my son!” He replied.

His words were ecstasy to me, and I shivered in pleasure. Once he handed me the vest, I donned it proudly. I buttoned it up, my thick digits increasing in speed as it all became more natural to me. It sheltered my gut, its pinstripes blending in with the pants and presenting me as slightly slimmer.

Then, he held out the jacket. It called to me—welcomed me—and I pulled my arms through as Arthur embraced me from behind, resting his chin next to my neck. I breathed his cologne in deeply as I buttoned the suit, the minor illusion of thinness disappearing in the mirror as the top button was fastened. The cologne seemed to fit Arthur; it would fit me now as well. “Royal Muske,” I groaned, my eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“Yes, my son; just like we always wear. You’ll have it in just a moment. Now, take a seat for me.”

“Of course, Father,” I said with pride before sitting.

He went to the wardrobe again and returned with the loafers and cologne. He spritzed me twice on the neck and the smell overtook me. It was familiar, like something I had smelled my whole life. I relaxed even more as my father, presenting a loafer, instructed, “Look deeply into the loafer, Son.”

I looked inside and was lost in it once again. The inside of the shoe seemed to go on forever. I began to see it clearer as it was lifted toward my face. Inside, on the insole, the filigreed name “Friedman” came into focus. The smell of the rich leather began to reach my nose as Arthur pushed it closer to my face. My full view was nearly enveloped as it made contact with my face.

“Breathe, my son,” he commanded.

I took a deep breath, letting the scent of leather permeate my whole body. I was in a blissful stupor as he removed the loafer.

“It will all be yours very soon,” he assured. “There’s just one more thing we need to change.”

I looked back at the mirror and saw his scalp gleaming in the light and my thick disheveled mop. Noting the difference, I resolved: “My hair.”

“Precisely! All Friedmans lose their hair early,” he resounded. “You’re going to love it!” He continued before leaning over and planting a kiss on my lips.

“I will love it,” was the only thought in my head as he began running his hands through my hair. It felt warm, and tingled as he made stroke after stroke through my locks. He lifted my chin so my eyes met his as he gave three final brushes with both hands descending my crown to the nape. The top of my head began to feel much cooler. My father smiled wide and moved so I could see myself in the mirror. Standing next to him was his brown-haired twin. The top of my head shone brilliantly and was encircled by a thick brown wreath of hair that glistened itself, gelled to obedience down my head. This was who I wanted to be. I knew it now, but would never have admitted it just hours ago.

I finally had to say it: “I love it. Thank you so much, Father.” Arthur leaned in and I was ready to receive him. I opened my mouth wide and let his tongue explore every bit of me. Our mustaches brushed together and the fabric of our suits strained against our writhing, generating ecstasy in friction. We let that tension build as we embraced, touching every inch of each others bodies—the bald head; thick, supple neck; soft flabby pecs under the silky suiting; bulging balls thinly veiled under wool; even the loafers he wore with their intricate tassels.

Every touch was erotic and I was ready to explode as he began to unzip my trousers. He pulled away to look at me, eye to comforting eye, as he giddily whispered “It’s time to become a Friedman.” His focus shifted back to my crotch. He wrestled my engorged member from beneath my gut and through the fly of my white briefs. Once it was free, he toyed with it, stroking it gently with his hand before running the tip through his mustache. He gave it a brief lick before dropping it. I was the hardest I’d ever been when he picked up the loafer and brought it to my face again. I began to breathe deeply, taking the sweet leather scent through my whole body. I looked into the shoe and saw the name once again: “Friedman.”

Through his excitement, he asked me “What name do you see?” “Friedman,” I moaned. “Whose name is that?” He continued. “Yours.”

“And who am I?” “My father,” I declared.

“Good, Son. You will show me momentarily,” Arthur stated. I heard him pick up the other loafer and felt him brush my member with the tassels. “When I count to three, you will seal yourself as a part of the family permanently. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” I exhaled.

“Good boy. Now breathe in.”

I inhaled the leather, once again causing my cock to throb.

He began, “ONE... Who am I?”

“My father,” I moaned, feeling the upper of the loafer on my tip.

“TWO... What is my name?”

“Friedman,” I said with more intensity, my dick sliding over the tongue.

“Then what is your name?” He slid my cock down into the loafer, the soft insole comforting my manhood.

“Friedman!” I declared, ready to explode.

“Good boy... THREE! Cum, my son!” He boomed, shoving one loafer fully up to my nose and sheathing my cock to the base with the other.

I moaned a primal moan, spilling shot upon shot of my seed into the expensive shoe. In the mirror, I could see my balls pulsing from the volume of cum expelled. Pump after pump, deep breathe after deep leather-filled breath, I orgasmed with rapturous tingling within every cell of my body.

My father moved the loafer back and forth along my shaft, affirming me along the way: “Yes, my son. You’re a Friedman now. Let all of your old life drain from you.” Slowly, the torrents of cum subsided and I began to catch my breath.

Arthur lowered the shoes to the ground, looked at me with a tear in his eye and said gladly, “Welcome to the family, Son!” With that, he offered me the dry shoe and I slid my first foot into it, the silky socks providing a smooth glide. He then held out the second shoe, the interior of

which was coated with cum. Without reservation, I slid my foot in—a lubricated and sensual entry. As my heel popped in, I knew it to my core. I was a Friedman.

“Thank you, Father,” I said excitedly.

“No, Son. Thank you for continuing the family line. Would you like to return home now?” He asked calmly.

I stood up proudly, my foot soaking in my shoe. I tucked my manhood back in and adjusted my clothes. Eyeing myself up and down—bald head, mustache, neck rolls, girth, and fine shoes—I was a Friedman, the spitting image of my father. “Yes, Father,” I replied. “Let’s go together.”

When I spoke those words, Arthur’s proud grin faded to darkness and the ceiling fan of my room came into view. I struggled to lift myself up and became excited by the prospect that it had all been real. I rose to my feet, feeling the additional weight on my frame and walking to the mirror. I took a deep satisfying look into it and saw the spitting image of my father. Everything in the dream had happened. I was shorter, fatter, bald, mustached, and fully suited.

I began to hyperventilate; I was ecstatic; I was horny; I was worried. If all of it happened, what would others say? It was at that thought that I heard my father’s voice say to me “It’s okay, Son. Fear isn’t becoming of a Friedman, and I am here for you.” I was immediately calmed. I took a deep breath, catching a hint of Royal Muske, and smiled. I wanted this.

“Now look at your cufflinks, Son,” I heard. I turned the wrist outside of the grey jacket and saw engraved on the cuff “MAF” “Michael Arthur Friedman,” I announced. “My boy!” I heard Arthur say, causing my cock to twitch once again. “And proud of it!” I smiled, seeing Arthur’s eyes in my reflection.

Not Quite Nepotism

I made it through to the final interview. I needed this job, and since there was a huge influx of accounting grads, I thought my chances were slim. The first few interviews turned out to be mostly small talk and some experience questions. All of it was simple and easy. My family was all the way back in New York, and I came to Texas for a new start and a job lead. I was new. No one knew me, so there wasn't much I could talk about locally, but the managers seemed to like my disposition at the very least. Though, I had a feeling the final interview with the owner of the bank was going to be much harder.

I showed up like every other interview dressed sharply, a neat charcoal suit, white dress shirt, black tasseled loafers, and a burnt orange tie—I knew the owner was a longhorns fan.

I walked somewhat stiffly up to the receptionist and told her I was here for the interview with Mr. Richardson. She smiled warmly, "So, you're the one he's been so excited about! Let me tell him you're here and get you a keycard for the elevator. His office is on the top floor."

I didn't think I was a hotshot or anything, but apparently word had traveled up to the head honcho.

The receptionist grabbed a card from the drawer and dialed an extension on the phone before saying “He’s here.” She handed me a keycard for the elevator with a wink and said "He's ready for you now. Top floor. Good luck!”

I got in the elevator and tapped the card to the reader. I pressed the button to take me to the fifth floor. The doors closed, and I took the brief moment to make sure my appearance was neat in the reflective metal. My black hair looked immaculate with comb lines forming a neat side part. I took a few deep breaths after checking my hair, and before I knew it. I was at the top.

The doors opened, and I realized… His office wasn't ON the top floor. It WAS the top floor. I stepped out, and was greeted immediately by the smell of a citrusy cologne as I advanced toward him. Mr. Richardson, a rather portly man in a navy three piece suit, sat before me. His grey hair was in a neat side part that looked very thick for his other aged features. He spoke in a slow emphatic drawl: “Mr. Matthews! What a pleasure it is to finally meet’cha! My cohorts have told me quite a lot about’cha, son!"

He rose from behind his mahogany desk and extended his hand for a handshake. I took it, feeling his powerful grip on my hands as my eyes locked with his. Confidently, if not overconfidently, I replied "The pleasure is all mine! This is quite an office you have here."

He chuckled softly, "Well, it took a long time to build up. Please, have a seat."

I took a seat on the rather robust office chair opposite his, resting my arms firmly on the thick, cushioned rests. "Thank you," I said politely. As he sat opposite me, I could notice a thick sheen coming from the top of his grey hair. He seemed to have no sideburns either—an odd style choice, but I wasn’t there to question style; I had a mission.

I must have been looking too long, as he almost comically eyed me up and down in an over-exaggerated manner. I let out a nervous giggle as I realized. Ceasing to over-act, his expression turned serious. "I'll cut straight to the chase, son. From everything I've heard about’cha, I think you'll do real nice here with me. I trust those underneath me. They’re a helluva team.”

I was put off slightly by the boldness of his statement, but managed another "Thank you, sir."

With a slight smile, he taunted, “But…” He licked his lips like a wolf eyeing its prey. “Let me get one last look at’cha before yer career with me really gets started.”

With a snap and a few ripped arm hairs, restraints sprang from the armrests and held my arms to the chair. One ankle, being close to one of the legs of the chair, was caught as well. I began to panic and flail my free leg as I heard swift footsteps behind me. I turned my head as much as I could and caught a glimpse of two men in black business suits rushing up from behind the chair.

Mr. Richardson smiled even wider, speaking even slower: "Don't you worry, son. Your career has just begun."

I felt a sharp pain in my neck and everything faded to black. The last thing in sight was the glare from Mr. Richardson's grey hair.

…

I awoke in a dark room, unable to move my arms, legs, or head. All I could do was look forward. There seemed to be whispers in the background, though I could not make out what they were saying. Then, there was a small sting toward the front of my head as the dark room was briefly lit by a pinkish light. It startled me at first, but the stings kept coming and eventually my head became numb from pain. The flashes came to a steady rhythm, and slowly I could make out a something in front of me. It was the silhouette of a person.

Slowly, I could make out more details, and it looked like just a head with hair, but only on the top. It was light, but not quite white. After a few minutes, the flashes stopped. My head felt warm, and the room smelled like something burning.

A bright spotlight came from overhead and illuminated what I saw in brief flashes: a grey toupee on a wooden head form. It looked like Mr. Richardson's hair. I examined it briefly.

Then, I heard a slight hissing noise, as if gas was escaping from a pipe and was instantly flooded with euphoria. All I could do was look at the toupee before me. Blood rushed from my throbbing head to my member; it felt amazing; it felt erotic; it felt wrong in some ways. Soon after, I blacked out from the rush.

…

I awoke once again, feeling exhausted, unwilling to struggle to move. The room was dark once again, and the whispers seemed louder, and I could make out a few words. "Lionel Richardson…" "Bank manager…" "Tradition…" "Junior…" The words rolled around in my head at random intervals. When I finally started to hear them clearer, the stinging on my head started again; this time it was closer to the crest of my head. This time, the flashes lasted longer and were accompanied by more intense pain.

As the flashes accompanied stinging, I saw there was something else in front of me: Two cylinders. It continued, and I could see curves in them. The bottom of each one was flared and darker, and there appeared to be a line that separated the dark underneath from the paleness above. A faint glimmer of metal and a dark stripe caught my eye above that. I struggled to focus on it. Finally, I was able to understand what I was looking at. They were legs. The stinging stopped. The smell was far more pungent than last time, and the pain on my head persisted much more.

Then, the spotlight came on once again, illuminating a pair of wooden leg forms wearing dark socks and black leather sock garters with a silver metal clip.

Once I comprehended what I saw, the hissing began again and I was sent into euphoria staring at the socks and garters. My cock grew forcibly in response and even my nipples became erect. I lasted longer before passing out, but eventually the gleam of the silver clips on the garters faded from my hazy vision.

…

I have no idea how long I was out, but when I came to, the voices around me no longer sounded like whispers. I could make them out clearly, but it sounded like I was in a crowded room. I heard full sentences. "I am Lionel Richardson." "I am the regional bank manager." "I value tradition." "My dad calls me Junior." "I love my family."

The room was still dark, and I knew what was coming: another round of stings on my scalp and flashing lights. This time, the stings felt like they were on the back of my head, past the crest. The pain was very intense, and the scent was recognizable immediately. My penis betrayed me ahead of time and swelled in expectation of the erotic rush.

At first, the flashes revealed very little, other than something broad and white. Slowly, more details emerged and I could see what looked like a white tank top and briefs in front of me. The flashing and stinging suddenly became more rapid, almost like a strobe. The pain moved from the back of my head to the front over and over. It was excruciating. Just like before, though, it stopped, but only after light tears formed in my eyes from pain. Even my cock, eager for release, shrank from the discomfort.

The spotlight came on, and the object was revealed. It was a mannequin form wearing a tight, white a-shirt tucked into a pair of high-rise white briefs. As I examined the shirt and underwear further, I saw letters on the waist of the briefs: LR. I could see small ridges in the fabric of the shirt, as I began to hear the hissing.

The voices suddenly fell silent and my privates rose once again to full attention.

Then, I heard Mr. Richardson's voice clear as a bell: "A man should always dress traditionally, Junior."

A rush came over me, as endorphins flooded my system again.

He repeated: "A man should always dress traditionally, Junior." This time, it rang in my head.

As I fought to maintain consciousness, it changed: "You're nothing without your hair, son…"

It echoed in my head, ingraining the phrase on my horny mind as my eyes closed and time passed once again.

…

When I woke up this time, there were no voices. The room was bright, illuminated by an overhead light this time. I could feel something cold and smooth around my neck, but I could move my head this time. I looked around the room and saw only a dresser in the corner, and a full length mirror in front of me. On top of the dresser sat a wooden head with the grey toupee I saw in what seemed like a dream. I saw myself in the mirror, now pudgy, slightly erect, a metal collar around my neck, and fully nude. My head was bald with only a black fringe of hair around the sides. I understood what had been done. My hair was removed. Finally, I heard his voice again. “Get up, and get dressed, Junior.”

The restrains on my arms, legs, and chest were released. I sat forward with a gasp, and felt freedom for the first time in ages. I stood up, but my legs felt weak and shaky from lack of use. I looked behind me to see a metal chair with restraints fully opened. There seemed to be no door to the room behind me either.

I felt a strong shock from the collar I was wearing and heard him repeat: "Get up and get dressed, Junior."

Caught off guard, I stumbled from the pain. I nearly fell, but caught myself on the edge of the dresser. I took a deep breath and stood straight up. I reached for the top drawer and pulled it open with a slow creak. Inside were many pairs of white briefs, monogrammed "LR," ribbed white a-shirts, black socks that had a slight sheen to them, and three pairs of sock garters.

Feeling a slight chill, I decided to cover up my manhood with the briefs first. They were crisp and starched with a rise that I was sure could pass belly button. As I pulled the briefs up, I heard the hissing of gas again. I prepared to lose consciousness again, but the hissing only lasted for a moment; it was euphoria once again, albeit briefly as the waistband grasped my midsection tightly, leaving a clear silhouette of my enlivened tool.

Next, I reached for the a-shirt. Unaccustomed to wearing them, I thought it would be uncomfortable, but I pulled my arms through, and felt warmer once again.

I reached for the socks, but felt a shock from the collar before I could grab them.

I heard him say once more "A man should always dress TRADITIONALLY, Junior."

I was confused. I WAS dressing traditionally. I reached for the socks again, confused. Another shock.

He said, "A man must always be tucked and tidy, son." I understood what he meant as I glanced at my untucked shirt. I slid the bottom of the a-shirt into the high waist of my briefs, smoothing it out all the way around. It did little to hide my erect nipples, which rubbed the ribbed garment with pleasure.

A brief hiss, and another small rush.

I reached for the socks slower this time and felt the silky fabric as I finally made contact. I knelt down to place the first one on my foot and relished the smooth knit working its way up my leg to my calf. I had never worn socks like this before. They felt very nice. I slipped the other one on and enjoyed the feeling once more. Expecting another rush, I took a deep inhale and received nothing but air. I felt strangely frustrated, but intuited that there was more.

I looked to the garters and it clicked. I took the first one, wrapping it around my calf and clipping it to my sock. I cinched it tight and pulled the sock up taut. I repeated the process again, and when the sock was properly supported, I stood up. Another hiss of gas entered the room, and I was feeling great. I wiggled my toes as one hand drifted to my nipple and the other toward my cock. I thought to myself, “Is this what luxury underwear is like? It feels amazing. It feels so—“

"Now look at yourself, son.” Mr. Richardson interrupted. “This is how a man should dress."

I moved my hands away from my body in embarrassment. I walked to the mirror and took a long look at myself. I looked old and stodgy, like I was ripped out of some old sitcom.

"Look at your hair, Junior."

I stared at my pale, bald head glistening in the light.

"You're nothing without your hair, son."

His statement seemed to elude me as I looked at myself. Then, a small shock started from the collar. Very light, but persistent. I snapped out of my disbelief, and looked to the dresser once more to see the toupee sitting on the head form.

He repeated: "You're nothing without your hair, son." The shocking became worse, more painful.

I began to make my way to the dresser as he repeated once again and the shocks became nearly debilitating. Nearly within reach, he repeated one last time before I passed out from the pain, the object of reprieve inches my fingertips.

…

I awoke again in the chair, fully restrained, lights off, and head throbbing. I felt a ringing in my ears as a screen turned on in front of me. It showed a picture of Mr. Richardson; the image flickered every few seconds or so.

A small gust of air hit me, and I was taken back in my mind to the smell of his office when I had first walked in. This must have been his cologne. It smelled of light citrus and teakwood.

Then, the hissing began, and I felt the rush again, just breathing in the scent as my body responded.

I focused on the screen while taking it all in. The flickering seemed to speed up, as the word "FATHER" slowly crept into my vision and overtook the image of Mr. Richardson. It slowly faded away, as I was hit with another puff of air—more citrus and wood. The hissing began and continued this time until I passed out in euphoria some minutes or hours later, staring at Mr. Richardson's picture, "FATHER" creeping back into it all, as I faded to black. This time, I think I understood.

…

I awoke again, the room lit like before. The collar was around my neck again, and I could look around once more. I saw myself naked again and felt embarrassed, my face flushing slightly.

On queue, I heard him say "Get up and get dressed, Junior."

I was freed from my confines once again, and felt a strong shock after getting up.

He spoke: "Please respond to me when I speak to you, son."

I let out a meek, hoarse "Sorry, sir."

Another shock. "Please address me by who I am, not just 'sir.'"

"Sorry… dad?"

Another shock, but less intense. I clear my throat and muster a normal speaking voice: "Sorry, Father."

"Apology accepted, Junior, now please get dressed." He sounded almost heartfelt, but entirely formal.

I walked to the dresser again, finding a bottle of cologne labelled "LR" next to the head form this time.

I got dressed again, not waiting for the rush that he gave me for a good performance. My cock grew as I began the process: Briefs. A-shirt. Tuck it in. Socks. Garters. Then, I reached for the toupee—another shock of moderate intensity.

"Please go take a look at yourself, Junior."

I walked to the mirror once more and took myself in.

He encouraged me, "That is how a man ought to properly dress, but you're nothing without your hair son." The persistent shock began again, as I made my way to the grey toupee.

Instead of repeating, he said, "Don't you agree, Junior?"

The shock intensified until I yelp, "Yes, Father!"

The intensity lessened only slightly as he inquired, "Yes, Father, what?"

I hesitated, and the shocking swelled once again. "Yes, Father, I'm nothing without my hair!"

The shocking went down once again as I touched my hands to the grey toupee. I slowly raised it to my head and placed it on. It slid ever-so-slightly, but the shocking completely ceased.

Instinctively, I walked to the mirror once again to adjust my toupee. I cringed slightly at the grey toupee contrasting with my remaining fringe of black hair. I began shifting around the strands of fake hair with my hands, forming a rough side part that fails to blend in with my dark hair.

Father lauded me, "Very good, Junior! Now you're wearing it like your old man! Aren't you glad to have one just like me?"

"Yes, Father.” A shock. "I'm nothing without my hair."

Father responded, "Thank you, son! Now why don't you put on some cologne and make yourself presentable." I walked back to the dresser and sprayed some cologne on my wrists, neck, and toupee. Citrus and teakwood, just like Father.

The gas finally hissed in, and I felt the similar euphoric rush I felt when I have behaved correctly. A small wet spot began to form in the briefs as I stared at myself in the mirror, smelled the cologne, and passed out in ecstasy, my unsecured toupee falling inches from my head.

…

I was roused from my stupor by the sound of muffled crashes and booms. It was coming from outside the room. I was confused. The voice continued telling me who I am as the noises came closer. The lights were off and I was restrained still. I was confused. What was going on?

I heard a faint yell from outside the room: “Hallway clear, proceeding forward!”

Sweat dripped down my neck, and I began to struggle against the restraints. I wasn’t who the voices were saying I was. I was being held. The situation began to click for me. Rescue was on the way!

A light emerged from behind me as a door behind me was opened.

“Hold!” I heard an authoritative man shout as footsteps approached me from behind.

“Hello?” I questioned in a daze.

“There’s a guy in here,” the man boomed before trodding over to my front. Several sets of footsteps followed behind him.

They were clad in S.W.A.T. body armor and riot helmets. One of them removed his helmet, revealing a young but severe face and buzzcut. “Waco PD. Sgt. Mathers. Who are you?”

A softer “The fuck is this shit?” could be heard from another man, acknowledging the situation and the voice speaking in the background.

I was flustered, unsure of what to say. “I-I’m-I… Help me,” is all I could muster.

“Are you being held captive?” He questioned directly.

“Yes… Father!” I eeked, the ‘father’ leaving my lips involuntarily.

“He’s the one. Help me get him out of here,” he commanded to the men behind him.

The men started to work on the restraints as he turned to me: “I ain’t’cher daddy, boy. Now, identify yourself!”

“Li-Lio-I’on’t know.” I slurred madly.

The man held his hand up, signaling the men to stop. He seemed exasperated: “Clearly.”

The men stopped working on the restraints and backed away, their heads shaking almost dejectedly. I was even more confused. Were they here to rescue me?

The man stood straight and broadcasted, “Assessment failed. Recommending more extreme measures.” The lights cut on as the men began to exit as the unmasked one shook his head. He turned to me and said didactically “You’ll only feel good when you accept who you are.” He took a syringe from his vest pocket, flicked it twice and pressed it into my neck with a sting before walking off.

I was betrayed, crazed, confused, and hopeless as I struggled to keep my eyes open. I listened to the voice declaring “I am Lionel Richardson Junior” as I passed out.

…

“Wakey wakey, Junior,” I heard a familiar voice say as I struggled to open my eyes. I was still fully restrained, but the overhead lights were on. My whole body was sore—especially my head and groin. I finally opened them fully and was greeted with Mr. Richardson in front of me. He was dressed in a navy pinstripe three-piece suit with a red paisley necktie. My eyes immediately drifted to his silver hairpiece. He reeked of his expensive cologne, but it seemed comforting.

“There we are,” He said with a grin as my eyes finally met his. “Do you finally understand who you are?” he patronized.

“Yes… Father,” I hesitated.

“That doesn’t sound very confident. Richardsons are nothing if not confident, Junior.”

“Yes, Father,” I repeated without delay.

“Good, Junior. What is your name?” He asked deliberately.

“Lionel Richardson Junior,” I replied weakly.

“Once more with vigor, son,” He urged.

“Lionel Richardson Junior,” I stated at a normal volume.

“Good, son. Now get dressed,” he demanded.

My penis grew automatically at his approval. He moved to the side, and the restraints were released. I could see myself already in the mirror. I had gotten even fatter—not quite to fath-uh-Mr. Richardson’s proportions, but a definitive gut now hung over my substantial thighs. I groaned as I got up and pondered whether or not to make a move for him as I stood. As the thought emerged, a striking pain rapped my head. I reeled back into the seat.

“Precautions have been taken, Junior. You’d never disobey father, would you?” He challenged.

“No, father,” I said dejectedly before standing up again. “I apologize, father,” left my lips robotically as I moved toward the dresser. I had not intended to speak, nor to obey so quickly.

“Apology accepted, Junior. Now get dressed.”

It was hard for me to think of anything but obedience to him. I pulled open the top drawer to the dresser again and took the now-larger “LR” monogrammed briefs out. As I stepped into them, I felt a tingling sensation within my genitals, as if teasing an orgasm. I pulled them up to my belly button, and the sensation felt nearer and nearer to release but never came. It drove me mad to be so close to such pleasure, and I began to paw at my crotch though the briefs.

My father delivered a swift slap to my face. “How unsightly, Junior. Please, control ya’self and get dressed.”

I shook myself, still on the edge of nirvana, and slung the a-shirt over my head, immediately tucking it in to the briefs. My spine tingled and toes curled, as release felt nearer and nearer. I knew what came next. With haste, I grabbed the dark silken socks and pulled them over my feet, eager to fasten them in place with the garters. I let out a slight moan as I clipped each sock into place.

“Good, my boy. It feels good to be a Richardson, doesn’t it?” My father cooed.

“Yes, Father,” is all I could think to say, lost in the pleasure of it all.

“Now look at’cha’self,” he rang. “What’re we missin’?”

My eyes glanced between the mirror and the toupee repeatedly. I knew what was missing. I was lost in the thought of the pleasure that would come from placing the toupee on my head before he prodded: “Answer me, Junior.” The pain in my head began again.

“I’m nothing without my hair, Father!” I declared, the pain receding.

I approached the toupee on the form with a “Very good, son,” from Father. The tingling in my groin intensified as my hands touched the toupee. I lifted it onto my head with a moan. As my head made contact with the piece, a tingle went down my spine to my groin; I thought orgasm was near, but it never came no matter how much I adjusted my hair in a craze.

“Calm down, Junior. Let’cha father help ya’. Com’ere.” He beckoned me to the seat that restrained me for so long. “Let me show ya’.”

I did not have time to think before I moved in hope of release. I sat down and stared at Father’s hair in the mirror as he came around behind me. He took the toupee off of my head and removed tape from his jacket before applying it to the inside of the toupee and rolling the piece back onto my head.

“That should hold it in place now. Let’s get’cha lookin’ right like yer ol’ dad.” He removed a brush from his jacket as well before styling the toupee. As he dragged the brush through my hair, I could feel the tape pulling at my scalp. Even that felt erotic on my denuded pate. I cooed after each pass with the brush, watching him groom me. With several more strokes through my hair, my father had it looking just like his, save the ring of black hair surrounding the piece.

He put the brush back in his pocket and placed his hands on my shoulders. His palms electrified me and pushed me closer to the precipice without allowing any release. “Lookin’ better already, son. Whaddya’ think?”

“It’s perfect, Father!” I groaned in ecstasy, reaching for my hair.

“Now, now, son. Don’t want to mess it up now, do we?”

“No, Father,” I agreed.

“Exactly,” he stated with a smirk. “Now put’cher cologne on ’n wait for me here. I have a surprise I’m sure you’ll love.”

“Of course, father,” I said formally. I walked toward the dresser as he walked to the back of the room. As I sprayed the comforting Richardson aphrodisiac on my neck and wrists, I glanced behind to see a crack form in the wall behind the chair. The crack parted farther into a doorway as my father walked toward it, and into a hallway. The door stayed open as I applied the cologne and relished the scent.

I stepped back to the mirror, admiring my appearance once again. The more I looked, the more pleasurable it felt: the high briefs, that did little to hide my engorged, leaking member; the undershirt, that coaxed my nipples to the size of dimes; the silky socks that caressed my toes and calves; the sock garters that kept them taut and gripped my legs; and especially the toupee that covered my baldness and finished the family resemblance.

Eventually, my eyes fell to the door reflected in the mirror. The vague thoughts of making a run for it were met with the pain of the harshest migraine I could have imagined. Respite only came as I focused on obedience and my appearance; the pleasure soon followed, forcing a smile onto my face as I pawed at myself in privacy.

After a moment to myself, I heard the hard clacking of Father’s footsteps approaching and stood straight up, locking eyes with myself in the mirror. He approached from behind carrying several bagged hangers and a shoe box.

“Are ya’ ready, son?” He teased.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good!” He said, placing the hanger bags down on the dresser and removing a pair of pleated, navy pinstripe trousers. “These are for you,” he said cheerily. They were a matching pair to his own.

He handed them to me with a smile and I stepped into them hungrily, pulling the wool up to my bellybutton. Next, he handed me a white dress shirt with French cuffs and watched as I pulled my arms through and buttoned the buttons. Before I could finish, he reminded me “Tucked and tidy, son!”

I tucked the shirt in as he fished out a pair of gold cufflinks. I caught a good look at the engraving on them as he handed them to me: “Jr.” I blushed and fastened them with confused erotic pride. Next came the red suspenders that he fastened to my pants personally, peeling back my waistline to button them to my pants underneath. The braces pulled my pants up even higher, leaving a bulge for each of my balls—eager for release—visible.

He then pulled out a pair of shiny black penny loafers from the box he brought. He set them out before me with an expectant smile. I stepped into them, the luxurious socks sliding smoothly against the leather of the shoes. As my heels hit the insoles, a puff of pleasure emanated from the shoes like a wave until it hit my groin. Once again, release did not come, but I was desperate for more.

Father then revealed a red paisley bow tie. The pattern was the same as his necktie. “Like father, like son,” he teased before draping the silk around my neck and buttoning my collar button. He deftly tied it on me, and I nearly felt complete.

He took the last garment from the bag, a navy pinstripe jacket, matching his. “Arms out, Junior,” he commanded. I obeyed. My arms slid through the luxurious lining, and my hands and cuffs emerged at the end. He buttoned the top button before standing back to admire his work.

I looked at him, then at my reflection as a grand smile appeared on his face. A similar smile formed on mine. My cock was throbbing, aching for release and satisfaction as I looked at the two of us. “Wow!” Was all I could manage to say.

“Wow, indeed, Junior,” he punctuated. “Wow indeed.” He approached me and leaned in for a hug. The scent of his cologne and the feel of his his body against mine sent me reeling. I would do anything for this man. I would do anything for my father.

He rubbed my back with his hand as he embraced me, and I felt secure. The sense of danger I developed over the period had faded. He pulled back with a smile and locked eyes with me.

“What’s yer name, son?” He asked.

"I am Lionel Richardson, Jr.”

“What do ya’ do for a living?” He continued.

"I am the regional bank manager."

“What’s important to ya’?”

"I value tradition,” I said, as my balls began to churn like never before.

“Do ya’ have any nicknames?”

“My dad calls me Junior." It became hard to maintain my composure as the line of questions came.

“Is there anything else I should know about you?” His smile grew.

"I love my family." Everything became clear with this statement.

His smirk evolved into a wide grin: “I know the whole interview process was a bit of a formality, Son, but thank ya’ for goin’ through the steps with me. Consider ya’self promoted officially.”

I was in ecstasy. “Thank you, Father.”

“No. Thank you, Junior. You’ve grown up quite a bit at college.”

We paused momentarily, a tear of pleasure forming in my eye. He continued: “I’m proud of ya’, son. Real proud.”

His words echoed in my head and went straight to my core. A tingling emanated from the back of my neck and from my feet. The sensations met at my groin as I convulsed in pleasure. Stream after stream erupted from my cock as I fell back into the chair that once restrained me. The pleasure continued pulse after pulse as I soaked my briefs and then my suit pants with semen. I panted heavily, focused on my father’s proud face and shiny toupee as I passed out in pleasure.

…

The alarm clock blared. I was disoriented. My eyes opened and I found myself in a luxurious bedroom. I slammed my hand onto the clock, silencing the cacophony. I groaned, rubbed my eyes, and threw the silky sheets off. I was free? It felt normal. Was it all a dream?

I rubbed my bald crown, and heard a call from outside the room: “Get up and get dressed, Junior!” It was my father. I felt a slight pain in my head before I got up. I went to my antique wooden dresser and proceeded as I always did: White monogrammed briefs pulled up to my bellybutton; a ribbed white tank tucked into them; black silk socks, fastened by garters. I went to the en suite bathroom and looked at myself. I felt good and looked good. My cock grew within my briefs—morning wood, I thought.

I placed the tape in my grey toupee and placed it on my head. There was a light contrast from my black fringe, but there was some greying; no one would notice. I spritzed myself with cologne, taking a big inhale before walking to the closet. A charcoal grey suit would do for today, and an orange bow tie, I decided.

I got dressed quickly. My father was waiting. The growth in my groin could not be taken care of this morning, unfortunately. Pleated pants, white shirt, navy suspenders, black tassel loafers, burnt orange bow, jacket, and ready to go.

I emerged from my room and was immediately greeted by my father. He wore a charcoal suit and orange necktie today. We were nearly identical again. “Junior! I was just about to pop in and check on ya’. Ready to head in? I’ve got an intern pickin’ up breakfast this mornin’.”

“Yes, Father. I’m excited for my first day in the position.” I said giddily, but automatically.

“Great! I already got that corner office on the fourth floor cleared out for ya’. Make the best of it,” he advised.

We went downstairs past our housekeeper who waved us off and into a black car. A stern looking young man in a buzz cut opened the door and ushered us in. The drive was short, and uneventful. When we arrived at the office, the receptionist greeted us, welcomed me back from college, and passed me a wink as we walked toward the elevator. I pressed my keycard to the reader with a sense of deja vu as I examined my hair in the reflective elevator door. It was good to be the owner’s son.