Jackson had always been the straightest dude in our friend group , tall, cocky, ripped from the field, always bragging about the girls he pulled. But I’d been planting seeds for months. Subtle hypno audios mixed into his workout playlists, “bro” memes that slowly got gayer, late night talks where I’d tease him about how good it feels to just edge and let go.
Last night he finally cracked.
“Bro… this shit is hitting different,” he muttered, eyes already glassy after 45 minutes of the custom file I sent him. I told him it was just “focus music.” He didn’t notice when his hand slipped into his shorts, didn’t fight it when I told him to keep stroking.
Now here he is, shirtless, flushed red, sweat pouring down his chest, those pretty green eyes rolled sideways and crossed in pure brain-melted ecstasy. Tongue lolling out like a dumb horny dog, lips shiny with spit, chest heaving while his cock throbs untouched in his boxers.
“J-Jackson?” I whisper, stepping closer.
His only response is a broken little whimper, hips twitching forward desperately. The big straight stud is completely gone, just a gooning, leaking mess. I reach down and run my thumb over his swollen lower lip. His tongue instinctively curls around it, sucking greedily.
Fuck. He’s mine now.
I grab my phone and snap this pic, the flash making his crossed eyes flutter even harder. “Good boy, Jackson. Keep gooning for me. Straight boys always break the hardest… and look the hottest when they do.”
He moans around my thumb, eyes rolling back further, a thick string of drool sliding down his chin. The captain of the team. My new favorite hypno fucktoy.