Hypno Sissy Roommate
Copyright© 2026 by Eros Alban
Chapter 4: Bare
Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 4: Bare - Ryan Nowood just needed a quiet place to live. What he found was Ken. A year of subtle conditioning, careful rewards, and relentless ownership later, the shy technical writer is gone. In his place is Kitty: soft, pierced, collared, permanently open, and completely devoted to the man who remade him. This is the slow, thorough story of how a straight, lonely boy was turned into Daddy’s perfect sissy slut—and how he learned to love every second of it.
Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Hypnosis Mind Control Gay BDSM Rough Spanking Anal Sex Cream Pie Masturbation Oral Sex Water Sports Body Modification
Ryan woke to the taste of salt and something thicker on his lips.
Morning light filtered thin through the pale-blue curtains. He lay still on the futon, the thick pad cool against his bare legs. The streak Ken had left across his cheek the night before was gone, but the memory remained vivid—the heavy, wet drag of that fat cock, the warm drip of pre-cum. Sometime during sleep his own drool had mixed with what was left, smearing it across his mouth and chin. His lips tingled with a low, persistent awareness.
The scent still clung to his skin and the pillow: leather, musk, spiced vanilla, sex. His cock was already half-hard beneath the soft shorts.
The brown noise was off.
Ryan reached for his phone and opened the Transforming Your Life page out of habit. The familiar thirty-minute track was gone. In its place sat a new file, forty-five minutes long—same deep character, but denser, slightly lower, with a barely perceptible rhythmic pulse underneath like a slow heartbeat. A brief flicker of unease crossed his mind. He started it anyway.
The rumble filled his ears, stronger and heavier than before. The residual morning pressure behind his eyes softened faster than usual, the new tone settling deeper into the places Ken’s thumbs always found. Within minutes the relief felt more complete. He already knew he would not go back to the old track.
He was still lying there, earbuds in, when the door opened wider.
Ken stepped into the room fully naked.
No towel. No shorts. Just the broad, dense body, the heavy cock hanging thick against his thigh, not fully soft. He said nothing about the open door or the way Ryan’s eyes dropped and stayed. He simply sat on the edge of the futon, pulled Ryan between his knees, and set his hands into Ryan’s hair.
The massage began—slow, precise circles at the base of the skull, thumbs pressing the nerves that always quieted Ryan’s thoughts. The new forty-five-minute track played on. Ken’s bare skin radiated warmth. The familiar scent wrapped around them. Ryan’s eyes closed. His breathing slowed. He melted, the tingling on his lips and the memory of the night before dissolving into the heavy, pleasant blankness that spread with every pass of those hands.
Neither of them spoke.
When Ken gave the final lingering stroke from crown to nape and the quiet “There,” Ryan stayed still for several extra seconds, head tipped back, the denser rumble locking the rewritten calm into place.
Over the next several days the last barriers of clothing disappeared.
At first Ken still wore a plain black jockstrap after the gym. The thick pouch did little to hide the heavy shape behind it. More than once Ryan watched the soft outline firm and lift; pre-cum darkened the fabric in a slow spread. Ken never glanced down or adjusted himself.
Then the jockstrap stopped appearing.
Ken walked out of the bathroom naked. He ate breakfast naked. He sat on the couch in the evening naked, the large cock resting heavy against his thigh or slowly filling without comment. After the gym he no longer bothered with a towel beyond a quick pass over his chest. Sweat still gleamed on his skin. The scent moved through the apartment with him like a second presence.
Ryan’s eyes followed every time.
The Track played almost constantly now. Under its steady pulse the headaches stayed gone. The calm felt native. Looking felt easy. Heat gathered low in his belly whenever Ken’s cock thickened or a clear bead of pre-cum gathered and stretched. Ryan’s mouth went dry. A dull ache settled between his legs. He shifted on the futon, never quite adjusting himself, the Track filling the space where a decision might have formed.
He told himself it was only because the sight was still new. The rationalization rose, thin and brief, then dissolved inside the low pulse. What remained was the pull—stronger each day—and the quiet certainty that watching was simply part of being in the apartment.
By the end of the week clothing had become something Ken put on solely to leave the apartment. Inside, naked was the default. Under the Track, Ryan’s gaze had become just as constant.
That night the Track carried him under faster than usual. The day’s images—Ken’s bare body, the weight of his hands, the constant scent—still moved behind Ryan’s eyes as the low rhythmic pulse thickened and seemed to part like heavy curtains of smoke.
Behind the sound he heard his own voice—calm, steady, stripped of hesitation—repeating a short list of words in time with the pulse.
Submit.
Serve.
Pleasure.
Hunger.
Need.
Want.
Good boy.
Over and over. The words were not spoken to him. They were spoken by him, rising from somewhere behind his own teeth until they became the only language left.
The pale-blue walls fell away. Ken stood in the center of the open dark, fully naked. Mid-forties. Six-four. Broad, dense, permanent. Silver-and-steel hair swept back, short stubble darkening the strong angular jaw. Deep-set slate eyes watched Ryan without surprise. The heavy chest, thick arms, solid thighs—the powerful frame that had always made the apartment feel smaller—were closer now, inescapable. Between his legs the fat, knobby cock stood fully hard, veins ridged along the shaft, the dark head glossy and wet. A clear bead of pre-cum gathered, stretched, and fell.
Ryan’s own voice kept repeating the words.
He watched himself step forward. Dream-Ryan’s hands rose and began to explore. Palms slid over sweat-slick skin, fingers threading through silvering hair, tracing the heavy curves of muscle. He felt the heat, the slow thud of pulse. His hands moved lower, around the thick waist, over the solid ass, then forward to cup the weight of the balls before wrapping around the shaft. Every wet, hard inch passed under his fingers—the ridged veins, the silky-slick head, the steady leak that coated his palm.
Then his mouth followed.
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