A Week in Indiana (Patreon)

I was exhausted. It’s weird, because on long haul travel you have done nothing but relaxing. First on the initial connection, then at the airport, then at the trans-Atlantic from Amsterdam to Chicago. I even napped a bit on it. Since that flight follows the earth's rotation, you basically land at the same time as you start. Queues, immigration, wait for luggage, customs, relax some more at O’Hare. Finally followed by a decidedly less comfortable regional flight to Indiana, wait for luggage again, and out. And there he was, looking even better in person than he had on Skype the day before, waiting to pick me up. He was younger than me but acted confident, cocky even. I like that.

- Hi there. How was the trip?
- Long. I’m exhausted, like I said I would be.
- It’s not far.

Americans have no idea what that word means. It wasn’t until an hour later we finally parked in his driveway. We had so much to talk about, but I made it perfectly clear that my mind wasn’t where it needed to be right now for anything serious. I quickly went online with my phone to cancel the backup hotel night I had, keeping some nights for the end of the week if things didn’t work out. Then I zoned out for most of the trip to his house.

- Let’s put your stuff in your room, head out for a bite and then you can go to sleep.
- Head out?
- I ain’t cooking.

The house was spacious living for a single dude, and probably the tidiest it been in a long while. Not that I paid much attention, as tired as I was. I would have preferred to just crash there and then, but I know from experience not to go to bed too early, or you’ll just wake up at midnight.

- Hey, can I get you something to drink? Coke, beer, water, absinthe?
- A coke would be great. It’s dry in airplanes.

A big, cold can of coke felt exactly like what I needed, despite the corn syrup. Rehydrated I carried my bags to the guest room, which doubled as a home gym. It’s silly, I know, but despite being so tired I found it kind of hot to be sleeping in a room where someone else had been working out. Well, I guess that’s the kind of shit we have in common, and the entire reason why I was here.

People really undersell the sheer amount of confusion when you wake up after having been drugged. Especially when you have been moved and things have been done to you. You didn’t plan for it, like going to sleep, and you have nothing to fall back to when you wake up to orient you. Everything around you is out of context. In addition to that, you still have residual effects and possible traces of the drugs in your system.

It’s impossible to estimate how much time it took to get a grip of the situation, but gradually I was aware that I was naked, tied to a bed, gagged and unable to see, possibly because of a pitch-black room.

- Did you sleep well?

How long had it been? No way to tell. I feel like shit. I can feel him touching my naked chest. But that means he can see me, right? Why can I not see?

- I thought I would surprise you with a little transformation for yourself. This is the garage by the way. It’s not quite soundproof, but I don’t really need that, do I?

I don’t know what kind of gag he is using, but I can’t move my mouth in any direction. It feels like he had put some clay-like plastics into my mouth, had me bite into it, and then have it harden. I want to scream. I don’t want any piercings or tattoos or whatever. I shout that whatever his plans are, I want out. The best I could muster was an agitated hum.

I feel something cold against first my left nipple, and then both. Some sort of gel. Then some object is put there. Are these suction cups? Then a motor sound starts and I feel a rhythmic suction on my nipples. Guess they are.

- You should just relax. I don’t know anything about hypno, and you said it doesn’t work on you, but just so you have something to listen to I’ve downloaded a few things.

He puts earphones on me with the typical nonsense with multiple voices all talking over each other that all hypno mp3 files are so fond of. Then I feel him doing something with my gag, and a small trickle of fluid at the back of my throat, and then everything gets fuzzy.

- And here is something to keep you stupid. Enjoy the ride.

I’m too tired and drugged to analyze what is happening. I’m swimming in black velvet soup of words. I should relax, I’m told, be calm and follow instructions. I’m barely even aware I have a body, but occasionally the senses intrude into the bliss and I can feel the suction cups removed, more cool gel applied, and then the cups put back. Everything just gets softer and softer until everything ceases to be.

There’s no audio anymore.

- Hello, sleepy beauty. Are you ready for something solid to eat?
- Yeah…

Wait? When did he remove the gag? Why can’t I see?

- Just be still, and I’ll remove the IV.

I could feel the short sting of an IV needle being pulled out, and felt him bandage the arm. What did he put into me? Where did he get an IV from in the first place?

- Now, just be still while I undo the restraints.

Any kind of resistance would be pointless. I was naked, in an unfamiliar room, and completely blind. I just followed along with his movements as he released my arms and legs. He then helped me on my feet and led me from the garage and through the house.

- So, I’ve prepared an outfit for you. Just put it on and we are ready for dinner. It’s all your size. Now, be very still and I’ll remove your black contact lenses.

So that’s what he had done. He was way better at removing them than I think I would have been, had he just asked me to remove them myself. As I blinked in the light I saw I was back in the guest room. My bags were nowhere to be seen, and on the bed was a small line up of clothes.

I turn to the mirror and see myself, but instead of my normal hairdo my head is almost completely shaved, save for a few millimeter Mohawk. Secondly, and more concerning, my nipples are huge. Like fingertip huge. He’s observing me from the door.

- Cortisone cream and a modified milking machine, and a few tricks. They will shrink a little bit, but not much. You’ll look like this from now on.

I don’t even have the energy to yell at him. If it is permanent, as he says, screaming doesn’t help. I need to get away from him before he can do whatever else he has planned for the week. It’s only day…. Actually I don’t know how long it’s been. One day? Two days?

- Just get dressed, and we can be on our way. Bring the ID so we can take a beer as well.
- OK.

I look at the items laid out for me at the bed again, next to my passport. One black tank top with white hem in some sporty mesh material with the text “PUMP!” printed on the front. Blue, short adidas polyester shorts with white stripes. White, calf-high socks with two black rings at the top. Black adidas shoes with white stripes. The only things missing for a stereotype bingo are a whistle, glow sticks and some molly.

No underwear, apparently. I put on the shorts. Like hell “all your size”. The shorts are tight and don’t leave my dick size to anyone’s imagination. Socks and shoes go on fine. I brace myself and put on the top. My tits feel like sparklers, shooting nerve signals all through my body. I can feel the tight shorts getting even tighter. I feel slutty.

On the way to dinner he is quite chatty. Talking about the buildings and neighborhoods we drive by, as if he hadn’t drugged and violated me for hours, perhaps days. He is casually dressed, Levis’ jeans and American Eagle polo. Still he manages to outclass me by an order of magnitude. Dinner is at P.F. Chang’s, so not at all fancy. Still I feel like everyone is looking, and judging. Everyone we pass on the parking lot, through the mall, at the front of house, on the way to our table. Everyone can clearly see my tits and my dick through the fabric. My haircut practically shouts for attention. My clothes even more so. And it’s not like I’m part of a group that has dressed up, or down. I’m lead here by someone dressed normal. A regular dude and his slut.

Sitting down feels better, with a table hiding my lower body, but it still feels like I’m in public in just underwear, having two flashing tits.

- Hey, relax. Calm your tits.

It was such a cheesy joke, I exploded in laughter. He’s right of course. It’s not like I’m hurt or massively disfigured. Most people will never even see it, once I’m in decent clothes. No one around me knows me, and I’ll never see them again. This is me experiencing something I could never have set up myself. Besides, I can’t really do anything about my situation except flagging down a cop, so I might as well enjoy it. I ordered the Dynamite Shrimps, the Singapore black pepper chicken and a steady flow of diet coke.

Man, was I hungry. It was tasty and I even managed to relax, though my tits kept rubbing against the mesh fabric, keeping me semi-erect. And every time someone passed by, I got a twinge of feeling exposed, feeling “slutty”. We chatted a bit about ourselves, kind of how I had imagined our first real meal would have gone. When we were both done we asked for a refill and the bill. I managed to hide it, but I got quite the shock reading it. It said Tuesday. I arrived Saturday afternoon, so I had been drugged for three whole days! I don’t think he noticed my shock, because he leaned over and asked me, in a hushed voice “Are you ready to leave, slutty fuckboi?”.

Right away my dick throbbed into almost fully erect, and it was very close to pump custard into the shorts. Of course! The fucking hypno loops! That’s why I have been so docile since I woke up. “Slutty fuckboi” and “Calm your tits” were trigger phrases. Tits?! They are nipples. I’ve even been conditioned to refer to them as tits. I’m sure there are some programming about feeling self-conscious and “slutty” as well. Who the fuck does he think he is! I must escape right now!

- Almost. I need to go to the boy’s room first.
- I bet you do. You drank quite a lot.

I need to walk through two-thirds of the restaurant to reach the restroom. Again I feel like I’m underdressed, overexposed and it would be hard to miss my raging erection in the hilariously tight adidas. I keep a fast but calm stride. Running would just draw even more attention.

I even have a hard time pulling down the shorts. They are almost locked in place by my swollen deadbolt. I stand feet together, slide the shorts straight down and turn to the sink to chill my dick in cold water. After the erection is gone I take a leak, pull up the shorts, and that’s when I feel the passport in my pocket. I had almost forgotten about it. I still have a reservation at the hotel. My credit card is on file and I have an ID to show. It must be within just a few miles, and if anything I’m dressed for exercise.

I don’t have a phone or a watch, so I don’t know exactly how long it took, but I guess about two hours to sneak out through the other entrance, ask mall information on the location of Holiday Inn, walk there without Google Maps, manage to check in with a receptionist who clearly didn’t approve of my attire, and have a lie down in bed. I should call Amex and have them block my credit card and send a new one to the hotel. Should I call him and tell him to send my bag here? Would it be risky to let him know where I stay? Would it be risky to even talk to him? That’s when the phone rang.

- Room 304.
- Calm your tits, bottom boy. Isn’t it time to continue your transformation?
- Yes, it is.
- Cool. Pick you up in half an hour.
- OK.

Shit. I’m broken.

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