The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Times like this, I really love my job. A dozen young men stand before me, eager and smiling, waiting to do whatever I told them. Ready and willing to obey.

Okay, to be honest, that’s not exactly what it sounds like, nor all I could imagine. I’m a photographer, and my subject for the day is the men’s honor choir of the local high school. There’s really nothing untoward involved in this shoot, but that doesn’t detract from the small thrill that comes of giving orders—regardless how politely—and having them followed immediately and without question. Stand here. You two, a bit closer together. Turn your head slightly to your right. Chin down. Eyes on me. Give me just a hint, the beginnings of a grin...there! That’s perfect. Hold that. Click. Good. Okay, take a breather.

Name’s Roger Wilke (pronounced will-key). To backtrack a little, I’m single, 34, with all that age usually implies—a little scrawnier in places I’d rather not be, a little flabbier in others, particularly just above the beltline. I’m also one of the lucky few who was fortunate enough to turn his favorite hobby into a career. I always loved taking pictures, portraits especially, ever since I was old enough to get my tiny paws around my parents’ clunky old Polaroid. Volunteer work on my high school newspaper led to extensive courses in college, and voila, I’m making a living without having to smack the hell out of my alarm clock’s snooze bar every morning. And for all the lengthy wedding albums, the tiresome family reunions, and bratty infant sessions, I do get my fair share of choice assignments like this one. A dozen gorgeous high school boys, all between ages 15-18, gathered together on a Saturday afternoon in their school choir room for special yearbook and front office photographs.

“Okay, you four take five, I’m doing—what is it, now?” I glance at my clipboard. “—the Octet. Alright, your four in front each grab a chair, you four stand behind them. Umm, you—Stefan, was it? (yeah, you with the arms like a weightlifter and the 29-inch waist, holy shit) You better stand in back, you’re too tall to be seated. Phillip (the one cute enough to have been a teddy bear in a former life), you switch with him.”

And since this little story is just between you and me, I’ll tell you I’m also a closet gay, in case you haven’t already figured that out. Just like with my love of photography, I’ve been gay almost as long as I can remember, though I suppose it didn’t sink in until junior high. Everyone’s hormones were bursting to life at puberty, and while I was surrounded by boys ogling the girls, I was left to avert my eyes lest I be seen ogling the boys.

I decided to go with the personal excuse that the idea of homosexual relations really didn’t sit well with me and that I’ve chosen celibacy. And while there’s some truth to that, I suppose, I realize that a big contributing factor to my decision is simply that I never had the guts to come out.

As the Octet got situated, I surreptitiously snapped a candid shot of the other four boys lounging by the nearby cabinets and chatting amongst themselves. One for my personal files. I quickly realigned my focus—literally and figuratively—back on the Octet to avoid feeling like a voyeur. The boys in front of the lens stiffened and unconsciously craned their necks, as so many do when posed before the camera. I make a silly remark suggesting I should mimic the mannerisms I know their choir teacher to have as I silently twist on the cable release. I take a step back from the camera, cable in hand, and do a brief impersonation of their director, causing the boys to break into broad grins and chuckles. Click. Gotcha. A few eyes dart up to meet mine, the question of whether or not they’d just been captured on film hanging unspoken in the air. Phillip’s mouth dropped open in disbelief as he realizes my ruse. A gave him a quick wink and his grin returns. I advance the film.

“Hey, Stefan, you switch with—I’m sorry, who were you again—?”

“Christian”, said the sleepy-eyed boy with the easy smile.

“Right. Stefan, you switch places with Christian and stand back-to-back with Lance. Good, good. That’s good. Now cross your arms. Phillip, you lean back in your chair. Jody, you and—Gabriel, was it?—you and Gabriel lean forward and rest your arms on your thighs. But don’t imitate each other, just sit whatever way’s comfortable.”

Stefan fidgets a little and adjusts his crossed arms uneasily.

“You okay back there, Stefan?”

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s just, well, I’ve never seen a school picture done like this before. They usually just line us up and have us look serious.”

“Well, if your teacher had wanted the usual boring pictures, he wouldn’t have hired me. Besides, it’s a lot more fun to cross your arms and stand like a choirboy badass, isn’t it?”

Stefan’s face breaks into a beautiful broad smile at that. “Freeze! Don’t move.” A quick focus adjustment. Click.

I happened on this job due to dumb luck. I’d been taking some adult night classes at the high school on computers. It seemed pretty stupid that I dropped some twelve hundred bucks to improve my business with what, for me, amounted to an oversized word processor and an elaborate way to play solitaire. One night as I was leaving class, as usual one of the last to go after having plagued my tired instructor with new variations on the same theme (yeah, but what if this goes wrong?), and I heard music from down the hall. It was the voices of high school students, to be sure, but unlike those I heard in my day, these were good.

I followed the music down a few corridors to find myself in the doorway of the large choir room, where a cluster of kids were singing their hearts out as their teacher pounded away at the piano, occasionally directing with one hand as it became free of the keys. I was taken in by the extraordinary harmonies, they rhythm, the tone. I leaned against the door frame and enjoyed the music. When they finished, I applauded reflexively. All heads turned with surprise to see me there. They were all so focused on their singing that they never saw mestanding there. The teacher turned as well, and I recognized him instantly.

“Greg?”

“Hey, Roger! What are you doing here?”

Greg Ebberstein graduated from the same high school as I had—this one—only a year or so before me. I had no idea he was now in charge of the choir classes. He shooed the kids out after a quick glance at the clock, and though they were clearly hesitant to leave, despite the hour, they picked up their folders, jackets, and whatnot, and bid him polite farewells.

“Solo & Ensemble competition rehearsals. They can run pretty late. Come on into my office while I get my stuff, we can catch up.”

As we talked I learned that just as I had followed my passion for photography, so had Greg pursued his passion for music. He had only recently taken over all vocal music classes from his now-retired predecessor of some 25 years on the job, and the results had been phenomenal. Greg spoke proudly of the combined choirs, which now numbered more than double in attendance what they were under the previous director. A point of particular pride to Greg was that the number of male singers had tripled from what it had been before. But what amazed me was how many of these choirboys were also involved in sports, including everything from football to hockey, as evidenced by the many graduation photos and game programs hanging about his office.

I asked about some of the photos, naturally, and Greg explained how he had expanded the singers’ repertoire from simple choral shows with robed kids standing on risers, to include stage productions and full-costumed musicals.

“Yep, the board was thinking of cutting vocal music altogether a couple years ago, due to lack of interest”, Greg said as he threw on his coat. “And I said, ‘Give me a year and we’ll see what I can do about that’".

“It sure seems to have worked.”

As Greg ushered me out the door I caught myself staring at a striking photo of one choir student’s senior portrait with him clad in a very becoming basketball uniform. I quickly jerked my head away, and if Greg noticed anything he kept quiet.

I made it a point to swing by the music room after my night classes to see if Greg was in. More times than not, he was. It was fun to reminisce about once going to the school in which he was now teaching. On subsequent visits, I brought along a folder with selections from my portfolio to show him. He greatly admired the work I had done with school classes and similar groups, as I’d often use unusual poses, lighting, and locales.

“Yeah, those things can get so boring”, I remarked. “Just about any yearbook photo is interchangeable with any other, so I try some different approaches to make each one unique.”

“It works”, he said.

As he flipped through pages, I admired more of the student portraits in Greg’s office, that seemed to increase with each week. A new addition as of that day, I was told, showed an impressive young man in wrestling gear, hunched over and ready for action, a caption below declaring him the winner of a championship match. Beside it within the same frame was the same boy in tights and ruffles with an enormous plumed hat, mouth open wide in song.

I pointed to the dual pictures. “What’s all this?”

“Madrigals. That’s Scott. One of my best performers. Going to Boston University. Gonna miss him.”

“How the hell do you get these kids to do these things?", I asked.

Greg turned my portfolio book around, indicating a photo of primly attired, bespectacled winners of computer science scholarships poised within their lab, flaunting ridiculous poses and silly expressions.

“I could ask the same thing of you.”

When we parted company, it was the first time Greg left when I did, rather than staying behind to do bookwork. As he got up from his desk, I noted that the main drawer in his desk sported no less than three large padlocks. All the filing cabinets and even the equipment room only had one built-in lock apiece.

“That looks secure”, I observed.

“Yeah, precautionary measures. Some stuff you can’t afford to have get ripped off. Sucks that you have to do it, but ‘sign of the times’ and all that.”

I asked what was in the drawer to require such measures.

“Oh, you know, some sound equipment stuff, collected money for trips and show T-shirts and videos. The usual valuables. It changes—I couldn’t even tell you what was in the inventory right now without checking.”

He quickly changed the subject back to my portfolio and locked the outer door of his office, then his classroom. Standard procedure in such a large building—or did he want to make sure no one uninvited got inside?

On my most recent visit, Greg let me know that he had gotten the go-ahead to use me as the official photographer for his various choral groups. The first would be Men’s Honor Ensemble. I was thrilled and told him so.

As I exited the music room that night, my mind was already working on the frame selections for the upcoming choir shoot, and I nearly walked right into someone. If he hadn’t taken a quick step back, I would have knocked both of us over.

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry, I didn’t even see you there—” But then I did see him. Tall and tan and young and lovely, as the song goes. It was a man of about his late twenties, with sharp, angular features, dazzling hazel eyes, and windswept hair. And there wasn’t even any wind in here. He held a long-handled mop-broom in one hand, and trailed an oversized cleaning cart behind him. He wore a blue-gray work shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow,revealing impressive biceps. His work pants were slate gray, and boasted some impressive legs underneath. I must have been staring pretty intensely, since he asked, “Say, you okay there?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah! Yes, fine, I just didn’t expect anybody’d be here this late.”

“Well, you are”, he smiled back.

I stumbled over my words, trying to excuse my awkwardness. “You too, it would seem. But I guess you have to work pretty late cleaning up and all, huh? I mean, don’t you? You must, since you’re still here this late.” God, he was gorgeous. If only I could stop my mouth from moving.

“Yeah, pretty long hours”, he said, looking past me into the choir room. “If you don’t mind—?” He craned his neck forward, toward the classroom.

“Oh! You have to clean—the kids were rehearsing before so you couldn’t—I get it, I—”

He stared, but grinned slightly.

“Guess I should get out of your way now or something.”

“It’d help.”

He rolled his cart into the choir room as I contemplated smashing my head against the corridor wall. Was there some high school curse that made you sound like an idiot whenever you met someone attractive inside its confines?

Greg walked out past the man, pulling on his coat. “Sorry, late night again.”

“Not a problem”, the janitorial angel sounded back, setting to work.

I bid Greg goodnight and set out for home, choral photos already composing themselves in my mind. I think I was going to like coming back here.

I heard the janitor guy humming as he worked. Yeah, I was going to like it a lot.

I popped out the exposed roll of film, and dropped it into its plastic cylinder container. I turned, saying, “Kyle trade me this for another roll of 400.” But I was speaking to empty air. I twisted back around to face the boys, one of whom was pointing toward the door. I followed the finger to see my assistant leaning out the classroom doorway, craning his neck to look down the hall. One direction, then the other. I cleared my throat loudly, twice, finally getting Kyle’s attention on the second ‘a-hem’.

He spun to face me. “Oh! Wassup?”

I flicked the roll over to him. “Spent. Need an unexposed roll of 400. Let’s go.”

“On it”, he said, zipping over to the film bag to rummage its contents.

Kyle is my occasionally-troublesome sidekick. A strawberry-blond, hyperactive 17-year-old with a love of photography that rivals my own at his age. His part-time work as my assistant helped demonstrate to me that I desperately needed to learn more about computers. While tending to be a bit flip, Kyle is more adept with computers than anyone else I’ve known. On top of his intuitive grasp of just about any new software and application, he’s also one of the fastest typists I’ve ever seen. In short order, he’d taken over all of my bookkeeping requirements, leaving me free to spend more time behind the camera. (But he won’t be in high school forever, so I knew I needed to learn something about the cursed machine before Kyle graduates. I didn’t realize how computer-illiterate I was until I saw him at work. Hence the night class.)

Kyle’s also a student of magic, and quick to master sleight-of-hand tricks. He’s taken many a year off my life by pretending to have lost an important invoice only to suddenly pull it—sometimes literally—out of his ass. He’s also starting to chatter endlessly about his new fascination, hypnotism. I don’t want to be signing the paychecks when he gets that one down.

But one of the things that solidified my working relationship with Kyle is his attitude. He’s upbeat and positive, and unapologetically gay. There’s nothing about his manner that’s remotely feminine, so there are no outward clues to his orientation. Nor does he offer any information unbidden. But all the same, if asked, he answers in the affirmative with conviction.

When Kyle brings me the next roll of film, I lean over and ask him, “What the sam hill were you looking for in the hallway?”

“That janitor guy you told me about. He’s gotta come around here sometime, right?”

I nudged Kyle away with a ‘giddoudahere’ and got back to work.

I had just set up the boys in a perfect huddle. Phillip was seated in the center beside Gabriel, the four of the other boys clustered around them. The remaining six waited nearby for a similar pose, so the two could be matted in one frame. I had it all set. Focus, light meter, and...

“Shit!” This from Kyle, behind me.

I clicked a perfect shot of six startled boys looking up to see what was wrong. I looked at Kyle. “What was that about?”

“I forgot to call someone. Said I’d hang with ‘em today, before I knew about this job. There a phone around?”

“I’ve seen one in the foyer”, I said, irritated.

Kyle turned to the closed office door behind him. “There one in here?”

“Yes, but it’s locked. I can loan you the change, Kyle.”

“It might be unlocked.”

“That thing’s always locked”, Stefan said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I’ll check, anyway.”

I went back to my huddle setup. Not turning around, I said, “Just get the change for the payphone out of the film bag. You won’t be able to get in there.” My smiling boys started smirking. Phillip giggled.

“What?", I said.

Gabriel pointed behind me. “Guess it wasn’t.”

I turned to see the choir office door wide open, the lights on. “First time for everything”, commented Stefan.

I frowned. “Hold that pose, fellas.” I walked into the office to see Kyle seated at the desk, swiveling in Greg’s chair.

“Hey, it wasn’t locked. How about that?” He saw I didn’t look too pleased and grabbed the telephone, adding quickly, “You think I have to dial 9 first?” He looked up at me with a nervous smile.

“You little shit, you broke into this office, didn’t you?", I demanded.

“I didn’t have change for the payphone.”

“I had change for the payphone.” He just looked at me. “How the hell did you get in here, Kyle?”

He held up a tiny kit of what I assumed were lockpicks.

“That what I think it is?”

“Well, the payphone’s way in the hell down the hall and around the bend—”

“Kyle, it would’ve taken less effort to walk down the hall than to pick the office lock. How did you do it so damn fast?”

He grinned. “Escape artistry. It’s my new thing. I’ve been practicing. If you were to, like, tie me up with chains or something and then throw me in a padlocked chest, I can get out in under five minutes.”

“That’s good, since I’m thinking locking you in a padlocked chest sounds like a good idea about now.”

“I’m shooting for getting out in under two.”

“You turd. You didn’t care which phone you used, you were bored and saw the excuse to pick a lock for entertainment.” He smiled. “Just make your stupid call and get out, alright?”

He swiveled back towards the phone. “How do you dial out? There’s only like a couple hundred buttons on this thing.”

I leaned over the chair to indicate what I thought was the proper button, balancing my hand on his shoulder. I felt an unmistakable strap under his shirt. I stepped back quickly. “Kyle...are you wearing rubber?” (On top of everything else, Kyle is a young rubberist. He first told me about it when asking me to take pictures of himself in some of his gear, particularly his full bodysuit. Since none of the intended shots involved nudity, I said it would be okay. And since Kyle works over the summers as a lifeguard, it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant experience for me, either. I think it was during that photo session that Kyle had the first inkling I was in the closet.)

Kyle smiled wider. He reached up and tugged back the collar of his loose T-shirt. Sure enough, there was a shiny black rubber strap across his shoulder visible beneath. He wiggled his eyebrows upon revealing it.

“What is that”, I asked. “A shorty?”

“More like a wrestling suit. One piece, short pants, tank top. No one knows you’ve got it on under baggy clothes. You wanna feel it?”

“No, I’m not gonna feel it”, I hissed.

“You know you want to”, he chided.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to, I said I wasn’t going to.”

He flashed his warm smile again. “Chick-kennnn.”

“Make your damn call, smartass.”

Kyle grabbed the receiver, propped his feet up on the desk like a Hollywood exec, and leaned himself back in the chair, chomping on a pen like a cigar. He reached down with one finger and hiked up his baggy khakis. He had on rubber socks, too. He laughed silently, and blew an imaginary smoke ring from his pen. I had to smile. But I started back out to my camera before I got drawn into his clowning. “Make the call and leave”, I ordered.

“Cool pictures”, he said, indicating the framed photos on the wall.

“Make the call, look at the photos, and leave.”

He swiveled back and forth. “Fun chair.”

I left before the conversation degenerated further. I lamented for a moment that there were no boys like Kyle around back when I was in high school. I dismissed the thought, knowing I would never have had the guts to ask any out if there were.

Kyle busied himself doing whatever it was he was doing in the small office while I organized the boys for their last couple pictures. Things had gone much faster than I estimated. Due to the quick rapport I established with the kids, to say nothing of their photogenic looks, we’d be done nearly two hours ahead of schedule. Amazing.

Kyle stuck his head out of the office and interrupted my next photo by jabbing a finger at the far right end of the boys’ lineup. “Say, curly, what was your name again?”

‘Curly’ wrinkled his brow a bit, but answered, “Gabriel.”

“Right! I knew that”, and then turning to the other side of the line he pointed to the fellow I began thinking of as ‘the happy one’. “And you were—”

“Timothy.”

“And the guy next to you is—”

“Willy.” The bashful Willy nodded in agreement.

“Good! Good, got it.” And Kyle disappeared back into the office. The boys and I exchanged odd looks and shrugs, then went back to our last photo. I may have made some facetious remark about Kyle needing to have his prescription refilled. I snapped the final group photo and checked it off my list.

“Okay”, I said, “that one pretty much wraps it up, but let’s snap a couple duplicates, just in case you’ve got some blinkers among you.” The boys grinned and straightened their stances.

And a terrible, screeching chord echoed from the office, filling the classroom, causing me to clench my teeth and groan. All of the boys stiffened at the sound, some with wide-eyed expressions.

I whirled around on the ball of my foot. “Kyle! What the hell are you doing in there?!?”

“Sorry! Sorry!", his voice came back. “That wasn’t what I expected. My bad!”

“Will you knock it off and get back out here?", I harped. I turned back to the boys, muttering, “Didn’t even known Greg kept an instrument in his office...”

Then, to the boys, “Okay, fellas, once more for smoothness. Let’s do a coupl—” and stopped. All the boys were standing stock-still, in the exact poses they’d struck when the shrieking chord sounded. Frozen expressions and all.

“What the...” They were pulling my leg. I smiled. “Okay, guys, knock it off. I get it.” They remained like statues. “Seriously, fellas, we’re on the last shot here.” Nobody budged.

“Uh, guys—?” I approached the line of statuesque boys and waved my hand in front of their faces. No response. There was no light in their eyes at all. “Guys!” I moved my ear very slowly up to Christian’s mouth. He didn’t even appear to be breathing.

“KYYYYYYYYYLLLLLLE!!!”

He skidded out of the office. “What?!” Then he saw the row of petrified boys. His jaw dropped open and he started rubbing his palms together. “Oh...my...GOD! The damn thing works! I can’t believe it, it actually worked! I did it! Jesus!”

“You did what? What works? Kyle, what the hell did you DO??”

He grabbed my arm and dragged me back to the office. “C’mere, c’mere, ya gotta see this! This is TOO cool!” He ducked inside and plopped himself down at Greg’s desk. He held out his hands like he’d completed one of his sleight of hand tricks. “Ta-daa!”

There, before the desk, resting on a sliding drawer, was a synthesizer keyboard unlike any I had ever seen. It’s casing was entirely cardinal red, and it was covered with a plethora of buttons and keys, not only the usual piano-style black and whites, but a typing keyboard complete with numbers and symbols, different silhouetted icons, toggles, and multicolored gain sliders. A bright red cable ran from the end of the keyboard into the underside of the computer atop the desk. On the computer monitor, a variety of desktop-style marquees filled the screen.

The one in the upper lefthand corner read, “List intended target audience:” and typed in beneath it was a list of the twelve now-frozen choirboys’ names.

I pointed a trembling finger. “What...the fuck...is that?”

“Near as I can tell”, Kyle said, interlacing his fingers across his chest, “it’s a magic synthesizer. Awesome, huh?”

I started to stammer, “Whu—whu—where the hell did it—how did you—”

“Oh, I gotta check this out”, Kyle went on. “Hang on a sec, hang on.” He typed at the keys and played the musical keyboard, creating more grating, high-pitched noises. Then he leaned forward to peer out the cramped office window. He lightly slapped my arm with the back of his hand and pointed. “Look, look!”

The frozen boys beyond the window all turned 45 degrees to the right in perfect unison. I stopped breathing. I turned to look at Kyle, horrified.

“Keep looking, keep looking”, he said, adjusting one of the sliding knobs. The boys continued to rotate. They stopped at another 45 degrees with their backs to us, then continued on to face on more turn to the right, and then back to their original position. Their frozen expressions of surprise had been changed to completely blank stares.

I looked back at Kyle, who was so giddy he was practically bouncing in his chair. “God, this is so cool! This is wicked!”

I looked at the desk again and saw the three padlocks all neatly piled up, out of the way. I realized that underneath the bizarre synthesizer was the fold-down facade to this drawer I had seen on previous visits with Greg. “You little sonofabitch”, I said under my breath. “You broke into his desk. You came in here to use the phone!”

“When I saw those locks, I knew there had to be something cool in there, but I never dreamed it would be as cool as this.” His eyes danced a moment. “I wonder...", he mumbled. Then he rapidly typed and played again.

“What? You wonder what?”

As his fingers played across the keyboard, he saw a volume knob and lowered the intensity of the wails. Then he tapped a final key and pushed past me back into the main room. I followed him.

He stood staring at the row of choirboy zombies. Then Stefan and Christian, who had been standing side by side, turned toward each other, away from their frozen comrades, and shared a lengthy, passionate kiss. Their arms wrapped in a tight embrace, their tongues plumbed the depths of each other’s mouths. In a twinkling they had gone from looking like two statues of high schoolers into two young men who seemed very much in love.

Kyle almost doubled over with joy. “Oh, wwaaoooww...”

I turned to him with acid in my voice. “Make them stop it, Kyle. NOW.”

Kyle zipped back into the office, seemingly happy to oblige. I should have known better. A few more keystrokes and I looked back outside to find everyone standing back at attention.

“Okay, now just turn the damn thing off and lock it back up.”

“You want me to leave ‘em like that?", he asked, jerking a thumb toward the frozen lineup a few yards away.

“Well, fix ‘em first”, I sneered.

“Let’s see what I can do”, he said. As he typed and played away, his eyes still darted all over the board. “This is amazing. It’s got settings for emotions, responses, interactions...God, even individual memory.”

“Reflect on the craftsmanship later. Just fix those kids!”

He typed a bit more in silence then got up, trying too hard to look innocent, and sauntered over to the door. His hands shot up and clasped over his mouth as he fell against the door frame. His muffled laughter leaked out from beneath his fingers.

“What the hell did you do now—?", I started. Then I saw Stefan and Christian. Complete with Kyle’s latest revisions.

The impressive Stefan stood at attention in a snug black bodysuit. The suit had ribbed edging that ran across the shoulders, and down both sleeves and the outside of the body right down the pantlegs. He wore a wide studded collar and matching armbands. On his feet were 18″ tall aigle riding boots. And you guessed it, the whole outfit was made of shining rubber. Christian’s gear consisted of a simpler crew neck bodysuit and knee-high wellies with side buckles. The tight suit showed that while he was thin, he was certainly still in fine shape.

“Kyle, no! You can’t do this! Fix it now!”

Kyle slowly approached Stefan and ran his fingers across the rubber-coated muscular chest. He let out a low whistle.

“Kyle, that’s enough. Change them back”, I said evenly.

He dashed past me back into the office. “In a minute.”

I tore after him. “No, NOT ‘in a minute’—now!”

He stood over the keyboard, perplexed. “Isn’t there some way to unfreeze them or something??” He toyed with a few switches and knobs, quickly referring to the computer screen each time.

“Kyle, I am warning you.”

“Got it.” Slight sounds came from the classroom. The boys were awake.

Kyle practically jumped back to the doorway. He pulled his fists back in triumph, “Yes! They still have on their suits!” The twelve boys were less jubilant upon waking up.

“What was that damn noise?", one of them said. “Almost burst my eardrums, man.” “Hey—where’d Mr. Wilke go?” Then, the inevitable. “Stefan, Jesus, man, what the hell are you wearing?” The whole group turned to look with shock at the stunned rubberized duo. “Chris, where did that come from? What the hell happened to your clothes?” The two rubberboys looked down in horror at their gleaming, polished bodies.

“I—I dunno”, stumbled Stefan. “Fuck, man, it’s all made out of rubber. I’m covered in rubber!”

Christian was faring no better. Kyle had apparently designed his bodysuits without any zippers. “How do I get this thing off?? There’s no way to get it off—it’s like it’s glued to my skin! What is this?!!”

Kyle’s jaw started moving but no sound came out. I grabbed him by the scruff and yanked him into the office. “Alright, playtime’s over”, I snarled. I tossed him back into the chair. “Fix it. Fix it fast!”

Kyle ran his fingers through his hair, looking at the keyboard blankly. Panicked voices from the classroom became louder. Kyle was clearly out of his depth.

“Freeze them again or something!", I ordered.

Kyle tried typing as fast as he could, but warning buzzes came from the computer. Two marquees appeared on the screen, one covering the other so fast we couldn’t read them both. Kyle muttered, “Oh, shit...”

“What? What??” I leaned over and read the first marquee while the flat buzzing continued. It read, “Cannot begin new program until current sequence is completed.” I looked at Kyle. “So what the hell does that mean?”

“It means I started something, and until I finish it all the way I can’t go back or start something else.”

“Then unplug the damn thing!!", I yelled, reaching for the cord.

“No, no, no, no, no!", he said. “I don’t know what that would do. This keyboard is magic or something—REAL magic, and I don’t know what a shutdown would do to those other guys!”

From outside, I heard “Mr. Wilke! Come here, help us!” Stefan howled. “Get it off me!” “I can’t! It’s got a fucking padlock, man! The collar’s locked on!”

I got right into Kyle’s face. “Well you better come up with something fast, computer whiz, or we are looking at serious psychotherapy bills for those other guys!”

Kyle turned back to the computer, and dropped the top marquee. The one beneath it screamed in boldface: “WARNING: G/A APPLICATION IS NOT ACTIVATED! PROCEEDING WITH PROGRAM IS NOT RECOMMENDED!!” Below that, two selections read, “Launch” and “Ignore”.

We both looked at each other. “Launch!” Kyle clicked the launch selection, and then a smaller marquee appeared in red. “Press key to initiate launch.”

I looked at the red synthesizer, laden with keys of all shapes and sizes. “Which key?!” Kyle looked the board up and down, his eyes wild. Then he stopped. His pointing finger darted toward one key at the top center of the board.

“This one!", he said. The key compressed. The computer chimed.

And all was quiet.

We both looked at each other, our ragged breathing suddenly very apparent within the still room. Then we heard the voices of the boys from the classroom. We peered out.

The twelve boys stood around chatting as they had all afternoon. Relaxed, smiling, joking. Stefan and Christian still wore their customized rubber uniforms, but no one seemed to notice or care.

I looked at the key Kyle had pressed. It was a bright red enamel—the only key of that color on the board—and was marked in white letters “G/A”. Kyle tapped the computer monitor, attracting my attention. The screen told us “G/A launched.” Kyle grabbed the mouse and rapidly clicked through a number of selections. Then he fell back into his chair when he found what he was looking for.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

I leaned over and read, “HELP FILE: G/A. General Acceptance. This application is highly recommended when running a program that alters a subject in mindset or appearance that is in any way contrary to the norm. The target audience (subject), as well as all those who come in contact with the target audience will accept without question any changes or alterations set using the SYNTHESIZER JX-4000. For FAQ scroll down.”

“...fuck me...", I whispered.

We paused unmoving for several minutes to get our bearings. Then Stefan, padlocked collar and all, stood in the doorway. “So, Mr. Wilke, we all done here or what?”

I looked at Kyle through tired eyes. “Are we?”

He leaned forward to cover the synthesizer from view, tapping the outer casing with his thumbs. “In a little bit”, he said.

I shuffled back to the boys. Then, over my shoulder, said, “Make it quick.”

Kyle cracked his knuckles and began to type.

In a startlingly brief time, I stood before twelve newly-attired rubberboys. But now none of them seemed oblivious to their shiny new outfits. Now they clearly loved them. Joy.

Kyle had dressed them in twelve distinct ensembles. And if I thought I had a cheerful group of photo subjects before, you should have seen them now. A snugly belted and wadersuited Jody rode piggyback on the laughing Lance who clomped around the room in heavy fireman’s boots. Cheerful Timothy stood in a large bib and brace suit strapped atop his high-necked bodysuit, one arm draped over the shoulders of short-haired Brandon’s baggy rubber sweatshirt. Baby-faced Miguel’s ringed chest harness rubbed against mop-topped Dennis’s rubber motorcycle jacket, with its intertwined double circle-arrow male insignias embossed boldly across the back.

Kyle’s suit designs were not without a touch of irony. Shy Willy wound up sporting an oversized dog collar, thick rubber gloves, and hip boots worn around a very form-fitting bodysuit with an easy-access snap-open codpiece. Smartalec Nick stood behind Willy rubbing his shoulders, a formidable hard-rubber chastity belt securely locked over his own catsuit.

Stefan and Christian were aiding Gabriel (now in a sleek one-piece wadersuit) in his play with Phillip. The adorable youngster was now so completely strapped into his own rubber bodysuit I doubt Houdini could have gotten out of it. His trappings boasted multiple D-ringed wrist and arm manacles, leg and ankle straps, and collar. The older boys were lifting the lad aloft with stout lines attached to his restraints, dangling his feet just inches above the floor, laughing as they manipulated his limbs at random, causing him to giggle with delight. Gabriel moved close as Phillip swung past his face, the tips of their noses bushing against each other.

“You’re not a boy anymore, you know”, Gabriel whispered with mock menace.

“I’m not a boy”, giggled Phillip.

“You are a puppet.”

“I am a puppet.”

“You’re my puppet—you can only do what I make you do.”

“I’m your puppet”, he responded, snickering. Gabriel leaned in and lightly kissed his boy puppet whose arms hovered out as his sides, hanging limp at the elbows, apparently thrilled to have surrendered his free will to become a teenage marionette.

Kyle was in ecstasy. He snapped photos rapid-fire, for which the dozen rubberboys gladly posed. They froze in place kissing, embracing, stroking each other, every boy’s arousal quite obvious from within their taut bodysuits. Stef and Chris held up the smiling Phillip in a variety of poses over which the youngster had no control and no objection. Gabriel tickled and teased his personal puppetboy as the camera clicked away. Kyle couldn’t get enough, going through two full rolls of film in less than fifteen minutes.

I was less thrilled. I stood back against the wall, arms crossed with a grim and condescending expression, praying that Kyle did not notice that I was hard as a rock. I had secretly browsed the internet in search of such images of happy rubberboys playing together, and now here it was being acted out for me live. I watched Timothy with his friend Brandon, silently dreaming it was me in that bib suit, gently stroking the smiling friend’s short-cropped hair. I watched as the two older boys manipulated small Phillip like a human puppet, wishing I were still his age, his size, and being toyed with by handsome young men I admired.

I could see Kyle felt the same way. He no longer wanted to restrict this to capturing the moment on film. He wanted—needed—to be a participant. His eyes betrayed the wheels turning in his head.

My gaze shifted from Kyle to Nick, who was now kneeling down in front of Willy, undoing the boy’s codpiece. Willy was blushing, but did nothing to stop his friend.

“Okay”, I said, stepping up to Kyle. “How much farther is this gonna go? Are we done here?” My interruption stopped Nick in mid-snap, thank God.

Kyle walked past me back to the office, saying, “A minute or two more.”

I stood waiting in the classroom among the twelve boys who didn’t seem to care much that their photographer had departed. They continued to play and joke, some stroking each other, others merely sitting and talking, acting as if being adorned head-to-toe in rubber was the most natural thing in the world.

Then, from the office, “Damn it!”

I looked in to see Kyle staring at the computer screen, as if challenging the letters glowing there to rearrange themselves. I walked over to read the marquee. I saw: “ERROR. The name entered is not listed among students or faculty of this learning institution.”

I looked at the frustrated Kyle. “I wanted to make myself a new suit”, he grumped.

“Well, that’s the way it goes”, I said gleefully. “Nothing’s perfect. Guess we should wrap this up and give these kids back their own clothes—and their own hormones—and be on our way!”

Kyle sat up quickly. “Wait a sec, I got an idea.” He typed away and then sat back, crossing his fingers. Then, reliable Stefan appeared at the door again. “Um, guys, I just thought...some of us have got extra rubber suits we brought with us. You want to borrow ‘em or anything? I mean, as long as you’re here?”

Oh, no, I thought.

“Sure.", Kyle answered. “Love to.”

We were going to be here all day.

I sat flush against the wall, my knees pulled close with my arms around them, rocking slightly back and forth. My crotch throbbed as I tried to keep my eyes on the floor and away from the 12...no, 13...glorious boys goofing around in their unique rubber playclothes. I repeated an impromptu mantra, “I am not going to whack off, I am not going to whack off, I am not going to whack off...”

A pair of boots came into view on the floor beside me. I looked up to see Kyle, now clad in rubber overalls, rubber work shirt rolled up to the elbows, and a pair of 17″ tall wellies—no doubt all pulled on over the top of his wrestling suit.

“You look like you should change your name to ‘Cletus’", I said.

“Here. Try these on.” He dropped a mass of rubber on the floor beside me.

Slowly, I picked it up, letting it unroll to its full length. It was a one-piece wadersuit, attached boots and all, that was topped with a basketball-style tank top.

“I would’ve preferred one with sleeves.”

Kyle smirked. “I wanted to show off your manly biceps. Luckily, Stefan wears the same size shoe you do, Rog. He’s loaning you this. Go ahead, put it on.”

“Stefan didn’t have a rubber suit to loan anyone before today, Kyle. You know this isn’t right.”

Kyle hunched down beside me. He nodded his head toward the suit and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Go on. What’s it gonna hurt? You know you want to.”

I did know. Just to hold the garment in my hands and imagine my feet within the thick-soled boots felt wonderful. I caressed the material between my thumb and forefinger. What the hell...

I stood up, unbuttoning my shirt. Kyle’s face blossomed into a broad smile. “That’s the spirit!” He ran back to the boys, announcing that I was joining them. The twelve kids responded with thumbs-up and encouraging whoops.

I stepped into the first pantleg, feeling the cool rubber against my bare leg, thinking, “I just know I’m going to wind up in jail for this.”

I stood before the boys in my newly-acquired rubber suit, every molecule of my skin alive with pleasure, every bit of my conscience crippled with guilt. It was all I could do to keep my hands away from the front of my wadersuit and massaging the throbbing bulge beneath it. Each step felt fantastic, as the pantlegs rubbed against my thighs and calves, as the boots molded to my feet, as the Y-back of the tank top pressed flat to my shoulders. Alive with these sensations, I watched as Kyle directed the boys.

He had them standing arm-in-arm in a long line, heads resting on shoulders. Then the boys huddled together on the ground, limbs draped around whoever was closest stroking one another sensually. I was starting to forget myself when Kyle spoke again.

“God, Rog, this is perfect. This goes way beyond anything I’ve been studying with hypnotism, man. It’s like that synth is tied right into their brains! I just tell them what to do, and they do it. Check this out.”

He started giving commands. “Nick, why don’t you start rubbing Brandon’s package?”

“Sure.” And he hopped over to his friend and started doing just that.

“Tim”, he added, “you kiss Nick’s neck and work his ass a little.”

“Gotcha.” And off he went.

Kyle was on a roll and was not stopping. The temptation was just too great. “Dennis, get behind Tim. Phil, get behind him. Gabe—” He was building a circle of fondling rubberboys, each one playing with the one before him. The boys caught on quickly, and soon all of them joined in, each boy placing his arms around the waist of his predecessor, fingers reaching downward, slowly stroking his classmate’s crotch. This went beyond kissing. This was too much. I shook off a chill as I decided to call an end to it.

“Kyle, enough’s enough. We’re over the top now. I never should’ve put on this suit. Let’s get back in that office and figure out how to fix this mess.” I rubbed my arm briskly against the recurring chill—most likely due to the start of perspiration beneath the rubber, but exacerbated by my own guilty arousal.

Kyle looked at me with disappointment in his eyes, but also some measure of resolve. Maybe I was finally getting through to him. He snapped his fingers. “Guys, hold it.” They all broke formation. And, as an afterthought, “Chris, grab that sweater you showed me earlier, Roger’s a little cold.”

“Got it.” He left the group and went to a backpack in the corner. Kyle’s expression of defeat did not escape me. “You’re doing the right thing now, Kyle. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot better for this.”

“Yeah, I know”, he answered, but wouldn’t look at me.

Christian returned carrying a rubber bundle with sleeves flopping at the sides. “Here, let me help you with this, it’s tricky. Got a back zip.”

Stefan and Timothy were suddenly on hand. “Oh, I’m good at these, let me get it”, offered Stefan. Timothy looked on with curiosity, saying nothing but appearing eager to assist.

I slid my arms into the sleeves as Christian pulled the sweater around my back. I looked down to see that even if I had the arms of a gorilla, I’d never push through to the cuffs. “Guys, these sleeves are way too long. Am I supposed to roll them up or—”

Instantly, all three boys were upon me. Stefan’s powerful arms grabbed the lengthy sleeves and yanked them around my torso, bending my arms and pulling them tight to my body. The tall Timothy held my shoulders tight so I couldn’t pull my arms free. Behind me, I could hear Christian rapidly working zippers and something metal, like buckles. “Hold him, hold him”, he intoned.

I tried to pull away, but then Gabriel was down on the floor, holding my legs fast. The next thing I knew, the boys had lifted me up and carried me to the far corner of the room. I heard the clinking of a chain behind me, felt the click of a catch of some kind at the middle of my back, and heard the cacading clatter of excess chain hitting the floor. I realized I had just been tethered to the wall.

“Rubber straightjacket”, Kyle said. “I kinda figured you weren’t gonna let us have any fun, so I made sure to supply one of the boys with one in case we needed it. Good call on my part, huh?”

I tugged my arms, which only confirmed that the straightjacket held me tight. What’s more, it made my arousal situation worse, as I found the restriction, the imprisonment, was turning me on. I continued to pull at my sleeves and lean against the stout chain even though I knew neither would give. The strain of the taut rubber wrapped around me, the futility of fighting against the unyielding metal chain, was making me harder and harder. I sank to my knees, twisting my shoulders back and forth, hearing the clank of the chain, feeling the harsh squeeze of the jacket. Kyle watched my predicament with what I thought was malice. But then he muttered softly, “Y’know, I’ve wanted to get you in a position like this for months now.”

My head snapped up. “What did you say?”

But Kyle suddenly had a renewed interest in the boys.

Kyle clasped a couple of the guys on the shoulders and they began chatting anew. It was a bizarre sight to see them talking in their rubbergear as if nothing untoward were going on, especially having just shackled me to the wall mere feet away from them.

Christian joked about supplying similar restraints for their choir concerts, to ensure a captive audience. The remark earned him a couple smacks on the shoulder and a groan or two.

Kyle’s face broke into a grin wider than he’d had all day, if such a thing was possible. He asked the rubberclad singers, “Hey, any of you guys like boybands?” I knew immediately where he was going with this. That’s all we needed—twelve rubbered youngsters gyrating and grinding like a teen music video.

“Kyle, that’s enough!", I said in my best authoritative grownup voice, while struggling uselessly against my bonds.

He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “Seriously, guys. Boybands. Got a favorite? I saw some of you came in with Discmans.” I looked up, expecting the boys to leap at Kyle’s question and begin shouting out pop favorites, but to my surprise (and delight), every one of them looked away, or studied their feet nervously while dragging the toes of their boots across the tiled floor.

“Naw, boybands are whack.", said Stefan, partially covering his mouth with his hand. “All’a them are gay.” added Gabriel, twisting the toes of his boots inward with a squeak. The situation was surreal. Here were twelve high school boys, dressed head-to-toe in sleek, shining black rubber, accessorized with a dozen different boots, collars, and restraints, who were embarrassed to admit any of them would be caught dead listening to a boyband. If I weren’t so busy trying to un-straightjacket myself, I’d have laughed.

“I don’t believe this”, muttered Kyle, and he returned to the office. I heard the keyboard of the magic synthesizer clicking away, followed by a quick chime from the computer, then another. As the strange music filled the choir room, I looked up at the twelve boys and watched in silence as their expressions slowly changed, their posture straightened, and their smiles gradually returned. They exchanged looks with one another, as if trading an unspoken phrase of “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Kyle returned from the office, arms crossed in authority. “Now”, he started dramatically, “any of you guys like boybands?”

Hands flew into the air, their gleaming arms reflecting the fluorescent lights from above. “Dude! Yeah! 98 Degrees rule!” “I’m totally into Backstreet Boys, but I didn’t bring anything with me.” “I don’t have any CDs, man, but I love to copy the dance steps from the videos and stuff.”

Kyle turned to me with eyebrows raised. “I actually had to alter them to allow them to admit to their fellow classmates that they really liked the stuff. Even then I could only limit it to these twelve.” Turning back to the boys, he asked, “Who’s got a disc with ‘im?”

Little Phillip, his wrist clinking slightly with the rings on his wristband, raised a tentative hand and said, “I brought two CDs with me to listen to on my bike on the way over.”

“Whattaya got?”

“NSYNC and O-Town.”

The guys all started nodding, smiling at each other, and Phillip got a few pats on the back. Kyle looked pleased. “You fellas familiar with their videos?” The boys couldn’t wait to get at it. A few quick “Yeah!“s were spouted, and in short order, the disc was loaded in the classroom stereo, and Kyle cued his dozen new rubbermen.

The spectacle was astounding. If not for the rubbergear, these kids could have stepped right out of a music channel video. And well, considering some of the videos out now, I suppose the rubbergear isn’t much of a stretch.

You could tell these boys had genuine talent. This wasn’t all the result of Kyle’s work on the synthesizer. It wasn’t for nothing that these boys were in honor’s choir. After a quick glance or two to check each other’s position, they broke into a perfectly synchronized dance routine as if they had been practicing it day in and day out for months. Their eyes gleamed with focus, their smiles actually outshone their polished rubber outfits. Every step was perfect. Their shoulders rocked back and forth as if they were all locked onto one controlling pulley system. Then their boots shot forward as if they had a life of their own. They spun to the side, one arm reaching skyward, the other clasping the shoulder of the boy in front of them. Bam! They hit the floor, chest-down, as if doing pushups, then a few quick pelvic pumps and they spun onto their seats, and backflipped onto their feet again. They began to repeat an earlier step, then broke formation and launched into individual impromptus.

Kyle was in ecstasy. His eyes were like saucers, his mouth hung open, the corners upturned in a massive frozen smile. He wheezed out, “Ohhh, my God...", never blinking, never taking his eyes from his beautiful young creations.

The boys ended their improvisations at precisely the same moment and returned to their synchronized dance moves. When they returned to a single line, facing us, they turned sharply to one side, and began an extraordinary series of pelvic thrusts, each boy’s crotch barely an inch behind another’s rear.

Despite my desperate attempts to the contrary, I felt myself becoming very much aroused. Yes, I had imagined—let’s be honest, fantasized—about something like this ever since boybands first appeared on the scene. And here it was, beyond my own imaginings, a command performance. But this was wrong, it was wrong. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, and turned my head away. But this only made my sensations of pleasure more noticeable. I grew hard, and the snug rubber of my constraining outfit held it close to my abdomen, throbbing, aching for release. If only I could touch it... No! I shouldn’t be feeling this, I should send my thoughts elsewhere... The dancing rubberboys let out a whoop of joy and Kyle began to applaud, shouting his approval. Involuntarily, my eyes popped open at the sound.

The boys were still caught up in their dance, but were spinning on the balls of their feet, high-fiving each other as they passed. Kyle looked back at me, and shouted to the boys, “Guys! Do it again! Rog missed it!”

Without hesitation, the twelve boys leapt back a step, then launched themselves into the air, one boot extended forward at their audience. The boys on the far ends of the lineup and one-off from the center, executed wide splits, their fingers reaching out to grab the toes of their boots. The next boys in, and those straddling the center pair, flipped forward , their rubberclad forms curling into balls. A couple remaining boys in the center locked elbows and spun each other horizontally. Every move was executed at precisely the same moment. The boys not only landed on their feet on the same beat, but instantly struck voguing poses, the center two with their arms around in each other in a solid embrace, their lips just inches from each other, frozen mere moments prior to a passionate exchange.

The music ended, Kyle burst into wild cheering and applause. The boys began slapping hands and bopping knuckles together in mutual congratulations. Then they began hugging each other. The rubber squeaked slightly with each embrace, the shining reflections blending here and there, connecting each couple on a strange visual level that transcended physical contact.

I let out a deep breath. It was over. Kyle had had his fun. I hadn’t...fully responded to my arousal. I felt the sweat from my brow run down into my eyes, stinging them and blurring my vision. A small price to pay for successful resistance. But then I looked up again.

No one had stopped the playing CD, and the next selection began. A ballad. The boys, some still in an embrace, some not, all of them still clustered close together, heard the music and paused. Stefan and Christian, the oldest as well as the tallest, were just about to release each other from their hug when the music began. Their eyes locked, they shrugged in surrender to the melody, and embraced again in a slow dance. The ten other boys caught on, and five pairs partnered off and joined their comrades in a romantic dance.

Kyle’s expression of awe matched my own. Clearly, he had not planned this. He had not typed this scenario into the magic synth. The little world he had created was taking on a life of its own.

Each couple moved in time to the teen ballad in perfect rhythm, but each with their own individual style. Gabriel led young Phillip, two years his junior, and gently stroked the lad’s mop of hair as they swayed. Lance held tight to Jody, his hands massaging his behind while the lanky dance partner’s arms wrapped around Lance’s neck, wavy blonde curls cascading over a luminous rubber bicep. Stefan pulled back from Christian for a moment, their eyes locked again, and their lips met in a sensual and extended kiss. The baby-faced Miguel lightly kissed the forehead of his spiky-haired partner, Nick. Brandon nestled his head beneath the taller Timothy’s chin. The final couple of shy David and Willy moved back and forth hypnotically, one head resting on the other’s shoulder, clinging tight to each other as if afraid to let go.

For the first verse of the song, all that could be heard was the music as the dozen rubberlads moved in time to the music. Finally, Kyle let out a whisper. “awesome...”

Then, he approached the muscular Stefan, tapping both he and his partner Christian on the shoulders. “I’d like to cut in here, guys.” The two obediently parted and Kyle took up Christian’s position, his face the image of contentment as he held to the incredible boy, their foreheads resting against each other, swaying in time to the music, which spoke in heartfelt tones of a teenage love that could never be.

For a moment, I mentally stepped outside myself and looked at Kyle as he danced with Stefan, and my heart went out to him. How long had he hidden his hurt and fear behind a mask of nonchalance, I wondered—wanting so desperately to share his true self with those to whom he was attracted, knowing the inevitable ostracism and ridicule that awaited him if he did. I could relate so very much. Memories of missed school dances and avoided celebratory events came unbidden to my mind. Boring poker games and implausible action flicks attended instead, rather than continue the painful charade of appearing with charming girls in whom I had no interest and to whom I felt no attraction. Unable to maintain such pretension, I spent my senior prom at home reading comic books. How I had ached to be able to appear proudly at an official function with another boy on my arm.

Kyle’s eyes squeezed tightly closed, and I thought I saw them grow slightly moist at the corners. He turned in Stefan’s arms, and then his back was to me, so I couldn’t be sure.

As Kyle and Stefan again turned slowly toward me, they saw Christian, standing obediently nearby, hands resting in front of him, fingers interlaced, awaiting his next command. Kyle beckoned Christian to him with a finger, and whispered something in his ear. Christian nodded, and walked purposefully toward me.

Christian stood before me, and slowly extended his arms around my shoulders. I looked into his sleepy eyes and they were perfectly clear. There was no evidence that he was under anyone’s control but his own. He smiled warmly and began to draw me close.

“Wh-what are you doing??", I stammered.

“I’d rather not sit this one out”, he said glibly. His rubbered arms reached around my shoulders and I could feel the moist perspiration that had been building beneath my suit press against me. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back. The slender boy ran his fingertips down my spine and caressed the small of my back. His legs moved with the music, his rubber thighs pressing against mine. I suddenly found it harder to breathe, my air coming to me in sharp, inward gasps. Christian stepped back, aware of my anxiety. He gently, oh-so-slowly, slid his fingertips down my shoulders to where my elbows bent inward beneath their unyielding rubber sheath, then continued his hands down the outside of my leg, pausing there to caress my thighs.

My gasping increased in intensity. I couldn’t be enjoying this, it wasn’t right. But it felt so, so good. My breathing became increasingly shallow and raspy. Christian saw the state I was in, and again took a step back from me, his eyes filled with compassion. He brought a finger to his lips and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “Shh, shh, shh, shh.” Then he gently pressed that finger to my own lips, silencing my gasps. Quietly, he said, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Relax. I’m here. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

My breathing calmed down a bit, and I looked into his bright young eyes, and saw there a sincerity I could not possibly doubt. But he was being controlled, wasn’t he? Surely this gleaming rubberclad figure before me was not the real Christian? But as his fingertips caressed my cheek, I found I did not care if this Christian was the real one or not. The sensations he sparked were genuine enough.

Softly, carefully, the rubbered high school boy cradled my face in his hands, the creak of his shining sleeves audible only to the two of us. He drew my lips to his, his mouth opening to better transfer his affections and accept my own in return.

“It’s alright...", he said, barely at a whisper, and his lips met mine, gently but firmly, and I felt my entire body surrender to his kiss. His arms wrapped around my frame, holding me with a strength that belied his slender build, and his tongue entered my mouth, probing gently. Though still inexperienced at my age, I instinctively knew what to do, and opened my mouth wider, my own tongue finding its place within his mouth. Our rubbered bodies pressed together and the tiny gap between bodysuit and flesh was eliminated, the moisture of our perspiration beneath melding skin and sheath into one smooth form.

I felt myself rising beneath my suit and pulled back from our kiss, slamming my back against the wall behind me. “I can’t do this”, I gasped, catching my breath.

Christian looked at me with wide, hurt eyes. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He reached out to clasp my shoulder, but I jerked away.

“No!", I said too loud, gaining the attention of the other boys, including Kyle, who turned to look at me. This went against all my established rules of ‘look, but don’t touch’. The music went on to a new selection, a techno dance song, but no one seemed to notice, all remaining still in their slow dance embraces.

“This is all wrong”, I said. Then, looking at Kyle, “I can’t do it—he’s just a kid. I’m more than a decade older than he is, for God’s sake. It’s sick.”

Kyle looked annoyed, and said to Christian, “How old are you, Chris?”

“18.”

Kyle looked at me with raised eyebrows. “That’s legal.”

I felt my knees buckle, and Christian stepped forward to support me. I let him. “I don’t care. He’s just a kid. Just a kid, dammit...” My chin dropped to my chest. “What the fuck am I doing??”

Kyle let go of Stefan and walked over to me. “You didn’t do this, Rog, I did. Why the hell can’t you just enjoy it?”

As the guilt at feeling such extreme pleasure over this subversive situation flushed through me, Kyle gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Alright, okay. You win. I’ll fix it. Hang on a minute.”

Kyle went back to the office and I heard him busily working at the synthesizer. Christian stood over me and lightly touched my shoulder. “You okay?”

My body trembled slightly at his gentle contact. I looked up at his handsome face and began to say something, but there were no words, so I let my head drop back down.

As the CD’s boyband music rose in volume, I couldn’t hear the notes of the synthesizer, but Kyle’s continued absence told me he was still at the keyboard. After a few moments, he returned, and reached behind my back to the straps of my straightjacket. “Stand up straight”, he said curtly. With a clank, the chain fell to the floor. To my relief, he then undid the straightjacket and peeled it off me, showing the now-reversed rubber sleeves to be soaked with perspiration. The cool air felt good on my bare arms. And my neck, exposed by the tank top, seemed to lose its tension and allow me to breathe easier.

Kyle tossed Christian a white towel (where had that come from?), and gestured that he should dry me off. I took the towel hastily from Christian, saying quickly, “I’ve got it.” Christian took a couple steps back as I dried off my drenched arms and neck, saying nothing but looking as if my tone had hurt him. My entire body felt exhausted, and I slumped slightly against the wall as I toweled off my hair. As my exposed skin dried off, I felt a slight chill that caused me to shiver. Two hands reached around me offering a jacket. It was similar to a leather cycle jacket, but made of rubber. But there were no restraints on it, and the cool, dry material felt good on my arms. I dropped the towel from my head to see if this was Kyle or Christian who had brought me the jacket. It was neither.

Standing before me was the glorious school janitor I had seen before. He was dressed in a sleek, tank-topped rubber bodysuit with attached wellies. He had on rubber armbands and a heavy chain necklace ending in a padlock pendant. His hard, muscular skin, burnished by long hours of outdoor groundskeeping, was perfectly accentuated by his uniform. His angular features rounded only slightly as he flashed a warm smile and asked, looking directly into my eyes, “That better?”

I said nothing as he slowly pulled me toward him, one powerful hand supporting my back, another tracing the slope of my arm beneath the jacket’s sleeve. This time, I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to. I glanced over at Kyle, who had stopped the music and was cueing up a selection on another CD. He then walked over to the two of us, and said to my janitor friend, “Before we get started again, buddy, how old are you?”

The janitor looked at him oddly, but answered, “31. Why?”

Kyle just looked at me. “That old enough for you?”

He then went back to the other boys as another slow song started. As he rejoined Stefan, Kyle waved Christian over. “C’mon, man. Three-way.” The three boys spread their arms around each other in miniature circle and continued dancing. The other boys did the same.

My companion and I began dancing as well. His arms made their way around my waist, which seemed terribly small beneath the form-fitting rubber when encircled by his massive arms. “I’m Hank. You?”

“Roger.”

“Roger. That’s nice.” I had never been spoken to this way before. Never by another man, anyway. Well, never, really. He went on, “You gay, Roger?”

For the first time in my life, I said it. Aloud and without hesitation. “Yes. Yes, I’m gay.” Then, I added, “Are you?”

Hank smiled again. “Well, like Dad always said at the family picnics, ‘At least try everything once’.” Then he stroked my hair and kissed me gently. I no longer cared whether or not this was right. I let myself melt against his awesome chest and swayed to the singing of teen idols, suspended in time within a dream, momentarily freed from my self-imposed straightjacket of shame and inhibition.

By the next song, also a ballad, I leaned up and kissed Hank. He kissed me back. And we continued to dance.

I lost track of time. I allowed myself to meld into Hank’s arms, closing my eyes as he repeatedly kissed my face softly. I could hear the other boys pleasuring themselves nearby, but it seemed so very far away. A voice inside me urgently reminded me that none of our companions were acting of their own free will, despite their calm and outwardly willing behavior. The quiet exhalations of my ragged breath were enough to drown out the voice. It felt too good to go back now.

Hank reached down toward my crotch, and I made no effort to pull away. Then, instead of feeling his hand pressing against me, I felt a cool, viscous fluid spreading out around my erect member. I looked down to see that Hank held a small bottle of something, with it’s spout inserted into a tiny valve in my suit which had escaped my notice.

“Hank, what is that—?", I began to ask.

“Just wait, little buddy”, he said, emptying the bottle in the pinprick hole. With its contents spent, he pulled me closer, laying his palm against my crotch and slowly rubbing in a circular motion. The gelatinous liquid allowed my member to move more freely within my suit, rubbing against my abdomen. My breath came in more ragged gasps and I held tight to Hank’s shoulders. The fluid began to grow warm, then increase in temperature steadily.

“I-it’s getting hot—", I began.

“It’s supposed to”, Hank assured me. He continued to rub, slowly, oh-so-slowly. The warmth became heat, and the burning sensation was intoxicating. It was getting hotter, wetter, and I was breathing faster. Hank started rubbing me in faster and faster circles. My entire midsection was alive with a passionate heat. I could feel the first beads of perspiration form on my brow. Hank began to feel the bulge in front of me with strong, probing fingers. He grasped it in a loose fist, stretching the rubber of my suit under his fingers. He pumped up and down, faster, faster, hotter, hotter. My fingers dug into the backstraps of his tank top, my lips brushing against his shoulder. My breathing quickened again, warmth radiated outward from my midsection, igniting my chest and shoulders, spreading completely around me to my backside. My entire body had never felt so alive. My whole frame was shuddering, every muscle tensed, my body spasming.

“Hang on there, pal”, Hank whispered in my ear.

My body stiffened, my shoulders locking in place, my mouth frozen open in ecstasy. Hank’s hand flattened into a palm and he pressed me firmly against myself. And I came with such force, such fury as I have never experienced. I shot upward into my suit, feeling my own thick juices coating my chest, my sternum, and running freely down and around my sides, mixing with the arousing syrup Hank had put there. Hank held his palm firmly in place. My pelvis tensed, and I fired again, harder and fuller than before. The exhilarating sensation shot through my body, causing my extremities to tingle and grow numb. A jolt like electricity suddenly lanced down the length of my arms to my fingertips. The second ejection shot through the first clinging discharge, spreading over and across my chest, leaking past the top of my open-necked suit to curve over my shoulders and course into the arms of my rubber jacket. Two more sharp involuntary thrusts from below, and I could feel thin streams crawling up the front of my neck. I gasped with exhaustion and an overwhelming sense of fulfillment, collapsing against my partner.

My gasping slowed a bit, my breaths coming to me more steadily. I was so overcome by the experience, I failed to notice that Hank had not removed his palm from its position. He pressed down once more, forcefully.

And I came again. The heat of the lotion was reactivated, and I fired again with as much force as the initial blast. My entire body had become a cannon, and I could feel the ejections strike against me again and again, running down my legs to puddle behind my knees, oozing over my shoulders inside my jacket, filling the pocket below my elbow. As my body stiffened again and again, I realized what I was feeling. Ejections. Plural. I fired again. And again. And again. The semen never seemed to stop. This wasn’t possible, was it?? How could I be so full? How could I have withheld so much? And as I began to fight the feeling, I thought...how could I have denied myself such joy??

I started to pull back from Hank, desperate to halt the orgasms which exceeded all control, but he pulled me back to him roughly. He took my face in one hand and began to kiss me with newly unleashed passion. His tongue entered my mouth with a force I could not resist, and he wrapped his other arm around me, pulling my body tight to his. He continued to kiss me fiercely, holding me against his powerful frame, and I knew further resistance would be wasted effort. I surrendered. I was...I am a rubberboy. I was his to do with as he wanted. Another voice echoed distantly in my head, different from before. “I am a puppet”, it said. I may have been recalling young Phillip’s earlier pronouncement. It may have been my own. I no longer cared. And I came again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The world faded into a sensuous black and I fell into it, my forward motion cushioned by what felt like the firm chest of my lover. And I knew the all-encompassing blackness was rubber. And I was wrapped within it. And I never wanted to leave.

I was awakened by a steady rocking sensation. I could feel soft, warm rubber against my cheek, and began to pull back from it to see where I was. But I could not pull back. Something held me where I was. Something strong. Something warm. Something that felt like somebody’s arms.

“Hey”, came Hank’s soft voice. He stroked my hair as he loosened his hold around me. “Welcome back, Roger. You okay?”

I was more than okay. I felt so very much alive. Utterly and totally exhausted, but very much alive. I could hear the soft ballads of the boybands still playing in the background, the volume turned down low. I could hear nothing else. Where were the boys? Where had they gone? I found I was not particularly concerned at the moment.

Hank was rocking me slowly in his arms. We were slow-dancing, almost imperceptibly, and had been all the while I was spent. I began to speak, but no words came, just a slight rasp from my throat. I was so dry, so thirsty. I swallowed and tried again. Then, softly, with some effort, I asked him, “How long was I out?”

“Not that long.” He continued to rock me, a bit more fully than before, helping to rouse me and bring wakefulness back to my weary legs and back.

“How many times...how many times did I...”

Hank laughed, a small snort. “Oh, hell, I lost count.”

I smiled, a bit embarrassed at how pleased I was with his response, and felt my body waken within his embrace. I readjusted my hold around his shoulders, the placement of my boots on the floor. I began to realize that my whole body was coated with the glaze of my passionate explosions. Some areas still moist with fluid trickled about slightly as I moved. Then I became aware of another sensation.

“Hank, let me go, okay?”

“What’s the matter?”

“I have to pee.”

Hank grinned at me. “I think I can allow that.” But he kept his arms around me.

“No, seriously, Hank. I have to pee really bad. I really have to go.”

“So go ahead and pee”, he said. He kept swaying to the soft music, but didn’t release me.

“What, you want me to just whip it out and go on your leg?”

“You’ve got boots on. They’re attached to your suit. Go ahead. You’re going to have to clean it out, anyway. Besides, do you really want to leave me?”

I didn’t. But to just wet myself...

He stepped back, but kept his hands on my shoulders. “No, really. Go ahead.”

The idea had never occurred to me. But now that he mentioned it, it seemed strangely attractive. And holding it in was starting to become painful. What the hell?

I let go. The warm fluid hit the interior of my wadersuit and spread outward in dual directions. I felt the streaming piss run down my legs and puddle within my boots, warming my thighs, calves, and feet. Some of it arced around my back and moistened my behind. It felt fantastic. The liquid held an intense warmth, but one that faded quickly. The release felt so good, and was intensified by the bizarre thrill of happening within my enclosed waterproof suit. Soon, I was up to my ankles in pee, which sloshed around my boots when I moved. Hank and I both laughed at the sound.

He leaned in close to me with a big smile. “You do know you just pissed yourself, don’t you?” Then he hugged me, both of us still laughing.

As I rested my chin upon his shoulder, I looked out at the large choir room. In the far corner, well past the chairs and instruments, the choir boys lay clustered in a heap on the floor. They all appeared to be asleep. Tiny Phillip was curled into Gabriel’s arms. Stefan and Christian clung to each other, their foreheads touching. Arms and legs entwined, they all breathed softly and steadily, some with looks of contentment, but all of them clearly exhausted. Kyle rested among them, dozing with his mouth hanging open. His arms were wrapped around the shoulders of Brandon and Timothy. (Hadn’t he started out with Stefan and Christian?) I didn’t want to think about how many boys he’d played with.

“Hank, we need to finish up here”, I said, pointing at the prostrate boys.

“Aw, someone’s all tuckered out, huh?", he observed, looking back.

“I gotta get these kids home. And clean them up first. Myself, too.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose I better do something I was hired to do here today, anyway. You do what you gotta.” He kissed me lightly on the forehead. “See you around.” I leaned up and gave him a quick peck on the lips. He flashed a dazzling smile and was gone.

“Kyle, wake up.” I shook him by the shoulder. “Kyle!” His eyes fluttered, and he pulled one arm from behind the giant Timothy, rubbing his eyes with his palm. Timothy didn’t seem to notice or care, rolling over onto his side and laying his head on Willy’s arm.

“Hmm...", Kyle began, groggily. “What time is it?”

“I have no idea. But we had better wrap this up, and I mean fast, or we’re all gonna be in deep shit. If parents start strolling in here to give their boys a ride home and find this scene, no amount of ‘General Acceptance’ will save our asses.”

The universal teenage party-stopping word “parents” brought Kyle fully around. “Oh, Jesus, yeah, we gotta go.” Kyle started clapping his hands loudly, “C’mon guys! Get up! Let’s go! Move ‘em out!”

The drowsy boys started to rouse themselves, some less quickly than others. Phillip resisted all efforts, curling into a ball on the floor even as Gabriel yanked at his sleeve. “G’way. Five more minutes, mom.”

Finally, we had them all up and awake, more or less. I looked at Kyle, who was pulling at his rubber dungarees and work shirt, which had become twisted around him as he slept. I asked him, “You know where the gym is?”

He looked at me oddly. “Gym? What the hell for?”

“The showers, Einstein! We have to get these guys April fresh in a hurry.”

“I can show you”, said the sleepy Brandon.

We began to shuffle out the door, a troop of rubberized zombies. Gabe was still holding Phillip’s arm, now slung over his shoulder to hold the youngster up.

Looking back around, I said, “And Kyle, when we get back, they will have all their normal clothes out and ready for them, won’t they?”

Kyle stumbled over to the office. “I’m on it right now.”

The rest of us started down the hall, Brandon in the lead. I could hear a steady sloshing of fluid inside rubber that mirrored the sound in my own boots. I looked over to Brandon, who was clearly walking very deliberately to lessen the sound coming from around his feet.

He saw I had divined where the sloshing was coming from and said, “Guess I had a little accident.” Then, quietly, “Or maybe I was too comfortable sleeping and didn’t want to get up.”

“Don’t worry”, I said. “Happens to the best of us.”

The showering portion of our thrilling afternoon escapades took place without incident. I half expected the boys to pounce all over each other once the suits were off and they stood together naked amidst bubbles and suds, but I needn’t have worried. They were all so exhausted from their diversions that they barely had the strength to clean up. Rubber suits and boots plopped to the tiled floor haphazardly, all padlocks and manacles falling open with the slightest tug. The boys groped gratefully for soap and shampoo, oblivious of those around them.

After we were washed off, we stepped out of the showers to find Kyle had done better than restore the boys’ clothes to the choir room. Every outfit, mine included, was neatly pressed and folded along the benches before the row of gym lockers. Fresh towels lay beside each set of clothes.

Once dressed, I looked back to the shower area. “Now what are we gonna do with all these discarded suits...” But the suits were gone. Vanished. Good work, Kyle. I told you he was good with computers.

The boys went home happy. And Kyle assured me there would be no mention of the afternoon’s excitement, nor any comment on the tardiness of the young men. Those boys with cars graciously taxied their pedestrian classmates home, to surprised and thankful parents who, mysteriously, had already accepted the idea that the photo session would run late.

Hank the janitor went back to whatever his natural sexual predilection was. And the school itself would appear sparklingly clean come Monday, speaking volumes of how Hank had spent his weekend.

Kyle kept the rubber farmboy outfit for himself. I suspected it was highly unlikely that the boy he’d borrowed it from would come looking for it. Kyle offered to spend all of Sunday processing the legitimate prints of the choir as a means of recompense for all the trouble he’d caused. I suspected he was just dying to make himself enlargements of the rubberboy photos, but I decided to let it go.

I spent Sunday myself in a daze. I went back and forth over reliving the remarkable erotic experience with Hank and dreading the idea of what we had done. In the end, dread won out. Since no policemen burst through my door Sunday to cart me off to prison, I decided that when I died I was most assuredly going to hell.

Monday morning, my sadistic phone yanked me out of bed with its incessant ringing at the ungodly hour of 6:45. I mumbled something incoherent into the receiver, and heard in response the voice of Greg Ebberstein. I was instantly awake.

“Yeah, the proofs were waiting for me in my school mail slot when I came in this morning, that was pretty fast work, buddy. They look great.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So listen, I want you to come in today during our fifth hour classtime. That’s my free period I usually spend on office stuff. We can talk final prints and such.”

No mention of the synthesizer. Kyle must have locked it back up exactly right. Praise be. I acted like nothing was amiss. And nothing was anymore, was it?

“Sure. That’s good for me. I’ll look up the school rates for print orders.”

“Fine, fine. Oh, and there is one other little thing I wanted to discuss, but it’s nothing that can’t wait. See you this afternoon, then.”

And he hung up before I could ask anything else. But I had definitely heard a distinct edge in his voice with that last comment. I called him back around lunchtime, but only got his teacher’s voice mail. Same thing at one o’clock.

So, at the appropriate time, with a knot in my tie that was only a tenth of the size of the one in my stomach, I set off to the high school. For good measure, I said a quick prayer, too. Just in case.

I entered the school by way of the front entrance. The first thing I saw was a small reception desk with a student assistant working behind it. That was the first thing. The second thing I noticed was that the wavy-haired young man was smartly attired in a crisp dress shirt and necktie. Both jet black. Both shiny. Both rubber.

I guess my jaw was hanging open and my eyes wide were enough to convey my total confusion, because upon seeing me the lad stood up, greeting me with, “Can I help you sir? Need directions to a classroom?” He gestured toward a small map of the hallways on his desktop. It was hard to focus my eyes on it, though, as I was staring at the sleek black rubber jeans that became visible when he rose from his chair.

“Um, uh, no...I know where I’m going...", I stuttered. I considered racing back out the way I came in search of an eye doctor (or a psychiatrist), but instead I moved slowly, cautiously, past this smiling boy’s reception area. As I passed his desk, I turned and began backing away from the preppy rubberboy, as if afraid he was going to pounce on me or something. I nearly asked him what the hell he was doing dressed like that at school—to say nothing of the fact that he was so totally unassuming about it—but decided I’d be better off just putting some distance between us.

As I turned to walk away—quickly—he stopped me from proceeding with a word. “Sir!” I stopped but didn’t turn around. If he asks for my phone number or something, I swear to God I’ll pass out, I thought. But he continued, “I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go into the school that way. I almost forgot to say.”

I turned around to face him. He was now standing clear of the desk, and I could see his rubber jeans were tucked into knee-high, polished wellies. Perfect. Everything about the kid screamed “rubberboy”. I wondered for a second if he had on latex underwear...if he even had on underwear...but I chased the image away. I pulled myself back to reality, such as it was, and asked back, “Go into the school what way?”

“I’m afraid you need the proper footwear and a hall pass. Sorry, sir, it’s the rules.”

“Proper footwear—?", I asked, incredulous. I looked down at my dress shoes, which seemed perfectly fine to me. I wasn’t headed into the gym, after all.

“Yes, sir”, he continued perkily. “What’s your shoe size, sir?” I’d be getting pissed as well as confounded if he hadn’t been so damn polite.

“11”, I said uneasily, and he reached under his desk for a moment, shuffled around, and pulled out a pair of tall black wellies not unlike his own.

“If you could put these on, please, sir. I’ll keep your shoes here for you for when you leave.” I could not believe this. I half-expected the Mad Hatter to come tromping by any moment. But the boy was so sincere that I couldn’t stop myself from going along with his request. I slid off my shoes using my heels, and reached for the first wellie, stepping into it until he said—

“Socks.”

I looked up. “Beg pardon?”

“Sorry again, sir. You’re not meant to wear them with socks. I’ll hold those for you, too.”

“Uh-huh.” I slipped on the unlined wellies, pausing only a moment when the lad reminded me to “be sure to tuck your pantlegs in, sir”. The rubber felt wonderful against my bare feet, but somehow that only made the situation seem even more surreal. I started down the hallway to the choir room, the soft rubber beneath my feet, when the boy stopped me again.

“Forgot your hall pass, sir.”

I turned back toward him, “Now, look, I—” and stopped dead in my tracks. The rubberboy was holding up a man-sized rubber dog collar, complete with a bone-shaped metal dog tag dangling from it. Engraved boldly on the bone tag was the word “VISITOR”. My shoulders sagged. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

“Please tell me I carry it.", I said, defeated.

“Oh, no, sir. You have to wear it. It goes on like—", and he started to reach for my neck.

“I think I KNOW how a dog collar is worn, okay??", I snapped.

He stepped back a pace. “I’m awfully sorry, sir. But it is the rules, you know.”

I was on the verge of screaming in protest to everything that was happening, when another adult approached the reception desk from a different hallway. It was a trim gentleman of about 38-39, in a business suit, carrying a briefcase. He was casually slipping a pen back into his breast pocket and said nonchalantly, “All set, son.” I looked over at him, and sure enough, this otherwise dignified-looking businessman was wearing knee-high black wellies and a dog collar with a “visitor” tag.

The boy holding my collar was instantly back at his post producing the man’s shoes and socks. “How’d your meeting go with Principal Hannilee, Superintendent Rydell?", the chipper lad asked.

“Fine, fine, thanks”, Mr. Rydell said, pulling back on his socks and shoes. Handing the wellies back to the boy at reception, he snatched up his briefcase and headed for the front door. “See you.”

But the boy stopped him, with his usual, “Sir!” Mr. Rydell looked back to see the boy waving a small key.

Rydell’s hand shot to the collar still around his neck. “Oh! Right!” He then approached the desk, turned his back to it, and the young man reached up and unlocked a small but formidable-looking padlock at the back of the collar. With one deft movement, the boy slipped the collar off the man and returned it to a shelf beneath the desktop.

“Bye, now.” The man said over his shoulder, walking out as if nothing unusual had happened.

I slowly shuffled myself over to the desk, my wellies squeaking just a bit along the polished floor. “Um, guess you’d better do me, too, then.” And I turned my back to the desk, had the dog collar looped around my throat, heard the solid click of a lock catching, and felt the weight of a small padlock resting at the base of my neck

“Somebody pinch me”, I thought. “I must be dreaming.”

I made my way through the hallways toward the choir room, more than a little uneasy that I might be seen with my ridiculous rubber accoutrements. I took extra-quick steps when passing open classroom doors. But sure enough—

From behind me, “Hey, Mr. Wilke!”

I turned around, expecting God only knows what kind of response to my wellies and dog collar, but knowing I couldn’t exactly race away down the hall like a lunatic or leap out the nearest window. I needn’t have worried. It was Stefan. Stefan and...a friend. Stef was head-to-toe in black rubber, just as he had been at the photo shoot after Kyle transformed him. (Shit!—how could he have changed back? I had Kyle return him to normal at the end of the shoot, I was sure of it!) But beside him was another boy I’d never seen before. A little shorter than Stefan, also in a black rubber bodysuit, with a rubber motorcycle jacket and very tall wellies. He was extremely cute, with tight curly hair and a broad grin. There were two stout chains running across his chest, forming an “X”, and around his neck was a collar with a large dog tag reading “Stefan’s Boyfriend.” Both of the boys acted as if there was nothing out of the ordinary with any of this...or me.

“Justin!", Stefan began, excited. “This is the guy I told you about. The friend of Mr. Ebberstein’s.”

“Oh, right, the photo guy! Good to meet you, sir”, said young Justin, extending his hand. I shook it, zombie-like. “You must be here to see Mr. Ebberstein about the print orders and stuff.”

“Umm, you two guys...", I said, groping clumsily for words, waving a finger between them.

“Oh, yeah! Right, right!” Stefan said, as if realizing where I was trying to go. “This must look kinda strange, seeing out here us like this”, he said, gesturing to he and his rubberclad buddy.

“Well, it does look pretty odd.”

“That’s cool. Justin and I just finished up an independent study session with Mr. Nelson. We got out early. It’s not like we’re skipping class or anything.” Stefan then sidled up next to his pal, putting his arm around Justin’s shoulders. Justin’s grin widened.

“Uhhh...sure”, I said. “I just...y’know, I just wondered.”

“Don’t sweat it”, Stef said with a wave. Then, looking at Justin, “See you after sixth hour?”

Justin nodded, and the two shared a brief, but passionate kiss. As they separated, they each reached out one hand and interlaced their fingers, squeezing tightly before letting go. “Good to see you again, Mr. Wilke”, Stefan said as he headed off in one direction. “Nice meeting you”, his bound boyfriend said, departing the opposite way.

I stood alone in the hallway, in my boots and collar, stunned. Had I really just seen what I just saw? What in all of holy hell was going on around here?

I had barely walked twenty feet when a loud buzzer caught me off-guard. I started, looked up to a nearby p.a. speaker, and saw the clock beside it. The top of the hour. Within seconds, a mass of students filed out of every door, crowding the passageways, on their way to lockers in preparation for the next class of the day. I stood frozen in the center of the hall as students bustled their way around me, excusing themselves politely as they bumped into me coming and going. I couldn’t move. I was held transfixed by the scene unfolding around me. It was as if the whole world had been turned a slick, gleaming black. As far as the eye could see, up one hallway and down another, every single student was dressed in rubber.

Big kids, small kids, athletic prettyboys and bespectacled geeks, each one clad in brand new rubberwear that glistened beneath the long banks of lights above. As I was herded down the hallway by the flow of traffic, I saw that while each boy was attired in just as much rubber as his classmates, no two outfits were exactly the same. A sizeable senior strode by in an impressive wadersuit with a padded cycle jacket slung loosely around his shoulders. A gangly lad juggling books at his locker wore yellow toe-capped hip boots. Across the hall from him, two awkward sophomores in chest waders and tightly-buttoned rubber dress shirts whispered to one another in admiration of a stunning catsuited passerby. Something struck my leg, and I looked down to see an undersized, anxious lad almost completely enveloped by his rubber suit. He was covered in a baggy bodysuit with attached gloves, tall wellies, and a snug hood that revealed only his face. He looked up at me nervously, quickly muttered, “Sorry”, and dashed on his way.

I needed to catch my breath. At the end of the hallway was the Boy’s bathroom. A perfect place to stop and collect myself. As I entered the restroom, my attention shifted to two handsome teens in matching high-collared bodysuits beneath sleeveless rubber sweatshirts leaning against the lockers, sharing a gentle, loving kiss.

Then it hit me. Kyle, what the hell did you do at the synthesizer all the time the other boys and I were showering?

I stumbled hastily into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face at the sink. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. It was like every gay fantasy I’d had during puberty. So overcome by my fear of being different, not only as a young homosexual, but also as a burgeoning rubberist, I daydreamed that every boy around me shared similar traits, thereby normalizing my abnormalities through common experience. I used to lie awake in bed envisioning a school life in which boys walked the halls holding hands or arm-in-arm, and shared a quick peck on the dance floor at Homecoming. I even imagined a required school uniform that consisted of an open-hooded wadersuit—back before I knew what a wadersuit was.

I made my way to the last stall, marked for handicapped users. I needed to sit down and wait for the halls to clear before venturing out again. It would be easier to absorb all the strangeness without a constant oncoming barrage of young rubberboys.

I opened up the stall door and saw my refuge was occupied. Twice. Standing with his back to me was a lad of perhaps 17 in full rubbersuit, boots and gloves included, holding a ribbed hose that ran outward from just below his waistline. The end of the tube was placed in the mouth of another boy of similar age, dressed exactly like his companion, but for the gloves and hose. The back of his head rested against the front of the toilet bowl, his body lay perfectly relaxed under the tubed boy’s straddling legs. They looked at me, startled by the interruption, but showing no shame or concern for what they were doing.

“Sorry. Occupied.", said the standing boy, calmly. “Guess I forgot to lock the door.”

I stumbled backward, and he continued easily, “We’re just about done here. Brock?” The boy with the urinary tube in his mouth gave a quick thumbs up. The sound of fluid draining down the house filled the quiet stall. The receiving boy’s throat craned slightly and I could hear him swallow. A quick tap on the hose, and the standing boy announced, “All clear.” His buddy jumped lithely to his feet, absently wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The tubed boy slipped the end of his hose into a small holster strapped to his leg. Departing, he patted me on the shoulder. “All yours.” The two left with their arms on each other’s shoulders.

I waited a full five minutes after the next buzzer had sounded and all hallway traffic had cleared, locked behind the stall door, cradling my head in my hands.

I slowly continued down the last hall length to the choir room. I couldn’t remember it ever having taken me so long to get from the front door to this classroom. The classroom just before the choir’s was the art room. As I passed, I allowed myself a quick glance at the open door, and saw an attentive group of rubberclad young men seated at paint-spattered tables. Their eyes were focused on their instructor, who by contrast seemed perfectly normal in his cotton slacks, shirt and sweater vest...if not for the rubber wellies.

I entered the empty choir room, one door over, and knocked lightly on Greg’s office door. His voice beckoned me inside. I stuck my head in to find the choir director seated behind his desk, looking as if he’d just been forced to sit through four hours of choral arrangements for the tone deaf.

“Nice hall pass”, he said. “The dogslave look suits you.”

“Greg, I—", I started.

He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Looks like we’ve got a whole new theme going on in school this year. “Back in Black” sound like an appropriate opener for the kids’ next concert, Roger? Should I change my own title from Choral Director to Rubberband Man, maybe?”

“Greg, I am so sorry. I never dreamed that this would hap—”

Greg kicked his feet up onto his desk. He wore knee-high rubber wellies. “Imagine my surprise when I found these in my closet this morning. And no other shoes in sight. Imagine my further surprise when I discovered they were now required as part of our new dress code.”

“Greg, please, if you’d let me explain—”

“Someone found my synthesizer, didn’t they, Roger? Someone broke into my office after I trusted them with my classroom. After I trusted them with my kids, Goddammit.”

“Greg, I swear to God, this was not my idea. My assistant got in here, he found the synthesizer, he’s just a kid, I tried to stop him. I thought I had stopped him, you gotta believe me—”

“You notice that our student body is now cut in half? It’s an all-boys academy now, Roger, thanks very much. Our musical production for the spring was supposed to be “Guys & Dolls”. What the hell do I present now, Roger? “Guys & Guys”?! We don’t even have any women on staff anymore, for Christ’s sake!”

“Greg, please, I am telling you, my assistant is responsible. He’s only a kid, this is his handiwork. I am not responsible for all this—”

“You were responsible for your assistant, then!", he yelled, shutting me down. “Whatever a kid does while under your supervision, YOU are responsible for! You pick that lesson up real quick after a few senior class trips out-of-state, let me tell you.”

Greg sat up straight at his desk and pulled out the synthesizer. The red enamel key caught my eye. General acceptance. No questions. “How do you even know that anything has changed?", I asked him. “No one else seems to have a clue but me...”

Greg looked at me, disgusted. “You think I didn’t prepare safeguards against my own instrument? Come on, Roger.” He attached a cord from the keyboard into his computer. “And now, someone has got to pay the price for this mess”, he said with finality.

I could only imagine what he would do to Kyle with that thing. But what could he do, if it only affected the school students and faculty? “Greg, can’t you just undo this whole thing? I mean, you’ve got the keyboard—”

“It’s one thing to plant the seeds of encouragement into kids’ minds to spark an interest in choir or build enthusiasm for singing. But this kind of extensive reality rewrite can’t be undone as rapidly as it was unleashed without damaging people’s minds. You’ve got them accepting rubberclad high school kids as normal. Boys are responding without hesitation to the slightest homosexual urges. It’s a miracle you haven’t warped them into depraved little satyrs ravaging each other in the halls.” He paused. “At least they’re still courteous and focused on their studies. That alone is your only saving grace. You can credit that for not making your punishment more severe.”

“My punishment?!", I said, incredulous. “Greg, I can see that this will take some time to undo, but don’t bullshit me by saying you can use that thing to exact some kind of revenge on me. I know for a fact it only works on people attached directly to the school. One freelance photography job hardly qualifies me as—”

The computer chimed.

My feet froze to the floor. My legs stiffened at attention. I tried to move my toes inside my rubber boots. I couldn’t. I could still move my upper body, but a ripple of fear rose up from my stomach and spread across my chest, hinting that could well be a temporary condition.

“How did you do that?", I whispered, frightfully.

Greg swiveled the computer monitor so I could see the screen. “You forgot about your night class registration, Roger. As far as beng a member of the student body goes, you qualify.” He tapped the screen with his pencil, indicating my name on an enrollment list. He then turned the screen back away from me, focusing his attention on the synthesizer keyboard.

“Something tells me that you always dreamed of a school full of rubberboy classmates, didn’t you, Roger? This being your assistant’s doing or not, I suspect you imagined this setup a time or two yourself.”

I was hunched over, pulling at the tops of my boots, trying in vain to uproot them. “Greg, please, I swear I never intended this. Let me go, I promise I’ll bring you my assistant. He can apologize, I’ll make him apologize—”

“None of that”, he said tersely, striking another set of keys. I fell silent, my voice stolen. “You want to speak only the truth to me, don’t you, Roger?”

I felt a sharp intake of breath, cold and stinging. He was right. I did want to speak the truth. This was Greg, after all, and I couldn’t lie to him. “Y-yes”, I answered.

“Good boy. You used to dream of a high school life like this, didn’t you, Roger?”

“Yes”, I said, ashamed to admit it but unable to withhold the confession. I stood straighter, out of respect for this man. Even though we were of similar ages, I suddenly felt he was someone in authority to be obeyed.

“Thought as much. Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Damage of this magnitude is going to take at least a year to fix. Probably longer. In the meantime, I want to make damn sure you don’t get into anymore trouble. So we’re going to expand your classload just a bit, Roger. To more constructively occupy your time.”

“H-how much of my time?", I asked hesitantly.

“All of it.”

Greg stood up and closed the office door, locking it as well. I just stood there and watched him do it. Then he returned to his seat and began to play the synthesizer. The melody that came forth was nothing like the discordant pounding that Kyle had produced. This sound was just as unnatural, but was still rhythmic. Its tune haunting, eerie. I felt my skin begin to tingle and the hair on the back of my neck and arms stand up. My shoulders stiffened and my arms hung frozen at my sides. I could no longer move of my own accord.

“If you’re going to be around here under my watchful eye a lot more, we can’t have you dressed inappropriately on school grounds, now can we, Roger?” I felt a flush of warmth spread across my body and then a sudden chill against my skin. And with good reason. I glanced downward and saw that other than my rubber boots and the collar I could still feel about my neck, I was now completely naked. My fear intensified. Greg continued playing the synthesizer.

“Let’s see...the best way I can think of to detain you here for well over a year without arousing suspicion is to adjust the specifics on your enrollment file. First of all, let’s get you set up as a junior classman, I think.” Greg swiveled the computer monitor back on an angle where I could see it. I watched the screen as he played the synth, seeing entries and facts changing in time to the music. I was being given a full classload. Math. Science. English. Social Studies. What the hell was he doing? Was he going to send a near-naked 34-year-old into a high school class environment?

“Now, we certainly can’t have you tromping around campus looking like that”, Greg added, nodding curtly at my naked body. I closed my eyes, feeling totally humiliated. “But first tell me, Roger, did you like high school?”

“No, not really, I—”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Roger.”

I opened my eyes at his command. I had to do as he asked. I was completely under his control, and...a part of me was aroused by it. I silently begged not to become hard while I stood there so exposed. “No, I never really liked high school. There were some friends and good moments, but...”

“But what, Roger?”

“But I was constantly on guard. I was afraid I’d do or say something to give myself away. That would let everyone know I was gay.”

“Would you have preferred it if you had gone to a school like this one is now? You think you would have enjoyed that?”

Resist, resist. You don’t have to do this. I am in control of me, I am in control of me. You don’t have to confess anything you don’t want to, not to him, not to anybod—

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Okay, then.” Greg proceeded to play again. I watched as the age bracket on my transcript was highlighted. He began to play a cascading series of lower and lower notes. I felt my breath coming faster, growing colder, the surface of my skin grew hot and beaded with perspiration while my insides felt as if veins of frost etched their way within my chest. I watched as the number on the screen signifying my age dwindled. 34. 33. 32. 31. 30. 29. The music continued, and so did the countdown. An energy rushed through my entire system as the sensations of temperature seemed to spread to their maximum capacity—freezing my insides while my skin radiated heat—until the two sensations passed beyond the boundary of my flesh and exchanged places. I was staring straight ahead at nothing, my eyes glazed in shock, and I saw the cold mist of my breath as I exhaled. Now it was my insides that were hot, with a burning in the pit of my stomach, but my skin was freezing.

“Roger.”

Greg’s voice brought me back to where I was, and I followed his pointing finger to the computer monitor. There it read: “Roger Wilke, male, age- 16.”

“Oh, my God in heaven”, I whispered, and looked down at my frame. I was still stark naked, but now my body was that of a scrawny, underweight, hairless teenage boy. My shoe size was the same, but my skinny legs practically swam within the shaft of my rubber boots. My visitor’s collar hung limp around my neck. I stood between 3 and 4 inches shorter.

“What have you done to me?", I rasped in a squeaky post-pubescent voice.

“Granted your fondest teenage wish, Roger.", Greg said with a smile. “But we’re not done yet. Do you like singing in choir? Did you, in high school?”

“Yes”, I admitted.

“Good. That saves me the trouble of planting the suggestion in you. You are now signed up for—” he played a brief melody and the transcript on the computer screen lengthened. “—Men’s Choir, A Cappella, and after-school Boys’ Glee Club. Make a good showing there and you may get a shot a auditioning for the Barbershop Quartet show next fall.”

“Greg, please, you can’t do this—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Wilke!", Greg chastised me in a loud voice. “I hardly think it’s appropriate for a 16-year-old schoolboy to refer to his teacher on such familiar terms!” His eyes burned holes into mine and I knew there was nothing I could do, and yes, he most certainly could do this.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ebberstein. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“ ‘I didn’t mean to be rude’—what??”

“...sir.”

“Now then”, he went on, unperturbed by our exchange, “I prefer to have my students well-rounded. Can’t expect scrawny, wimpy kids to execute the kind of choreography I have in mind for the yearend stage pageant.” More haunting melodies poured forth from the synthesizer as Greg’s (excuse me), as Mr. Ebberstein’s fingers glided deftly across the keyboard. And my body began to change again.

“Let’s see what we can do to improve your somewhat lackluster physique”, he went on, fingers flying a bit faster over the keys. “You’re on the...wrestling team, I think”, and he glanced at me quickly, then added, “and with that slender a build, the gymnastics squad, too.”

I felt my arms, legs, chest, and abdomen grow larger, stiffer, harder. My muscles were developing at a phenomenal rate. I was still a slender teenager, but I was no longer scrawny. In fact, I was far from it. I could feel the back of my calves brush against the rubber of my boots. The collar on my neck was becoming just a bit more snug. I had no idea his instrument was capable of this. But how could I suddenly have a young athlete’s build? I had never had the slightest interest in any kinds of athletics in my life!

“Mr. Ebberstein, sir”, I said tentatively, “I’ve never liked sports, sir.”

“Maybe not before now”, he said back.

But I didn’t like sports now, either. The keyboard music played on. How could I possibly be on the wrestling or gymnastics teams if I...and I suddenly realized, yes, I did like sports. At least those two sports, at any rate. In fact, I loved them. How could I have possibly forgotten that? The music played on as my abdomen hardened into a muscular washboard and my school transcript continued to extend.

“Oh, and let’s say, while you’re not on the official basketball team, you do enjoy the occasional game of outdoor hoops. One-on-one with your friends. Like that.” My skin darkened into a rich, golden tan. The color not only made me appear healthier, it accentuated my new muscles. It all felt wonderful. “And I can see that you approve”, Ebberstein remarked. I looked down to see what he was referring to, and saw that my abs weren’t the only thing getting hard. He was turning me into a horny little tumbling, wrestling, hoop-shootin’ rubberboy, and holy shit, I was loving it. I not only approved, I was intoxicated.

“Now, we certainly can’t expect you to reappear as the same—", he glanced at me, then rephrased, “—well, nearly the same boy you were of some twenty years ago when you attended this school the first time, Roger. So, some slight alterations to your features first—” And he played some more music. The muscles in my face went slack. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, though I wasn’t sleepy. “—and then your hair. We can be a little more drastic with that.” My scalp began to tingle. After just a minute or two of this, my face started to...settle. The skin felt the way it does after getting just a little too much sun, and my hair like it does after leaving the barbershop. Mr. Ebberstein retrieved a mirror from the other side of the room. “Take a look.”

Opening my eyes easily, I looked into the glass, and for a moment didn’t realize I was seeing myself. Atop the small, muscled frame was a face that could have passed for mine of eighteen years ago, but that the now-spiky hair was a bright orange-red, and my cheeks aglow with freckles.

“Aaannd”, he added, “we can’t have anyone asking if you’re related to former grad Roger Wilke, so...” Another keystroke, a few more notes, and he pointed back to the screen. “Renamed for one of my favorite authors I read in college.”

There I read the name. “Roger Wilde”. Well, yeah. That was my name, wasn’t it? But then for a split-second, I had the niggling suspicion that I used to have another name, but had changed it. Why would I think that? Greg may have transformed me back into a kid, but I think I’d realize it if he made me take on a false name.

The buzzer sounded from the p.a. system. Five minutes until last hour. “One more thing before you join me for last period A Cappella class, Mr. Wilde”, my teacher said. He began to play again, rapid tempo. “I’m not about to let you attend my class naked, no matter how attractive your new body is. But I’m drawing the line at having boys running around the school looking like hooligans sporting urinal hoses, hip boots and chain harnesses.” Instantly, I was fully clothed again, in an outfit that fit me perfectly. I was all in rubber, as before, but with a twist. Pleated latex slacks were tucked into my shining wellies. A rubber dress shirt and necktie were neatly buttoned and knotted beneath a rubber sleeveless V-neck sweater. The school emblem stood out in raised white rubber on the sweater’s left breast.

“I’m leaving your collar”, he told me, sternly. He typed and a brief chime came from the computer, causing a black mark to appear on my transcript. The collar itself tightened on my neck until snug. I looked at the tag. Even upside-down, I could make out its new inscription. “BAD DOG!”

“You’re on probation. For entering my office without permission, Mr. Wilde. That collar will come off when I’ve decided you’ve made up for the offense.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Mr. Ebberstein. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m pretty damn sure of that, Roger.", he said. Then he grabbed up a folder of sheet music and tossed it at me. “Go out and take a seat. You have a lot of catching up to do.” He then proceeded to lock his magic synthesizer up tight.

I shuffled out into the large open choral room with folder in hand, just as the buzzer sounded and a large troop of boys, all dressed exactly as I was, poured into the room. A few held hands, one pair of boys walked arm-in-arm. All seemed happy and pleased to be there.

Mr. Ebberstein nudged my shoulder. Take a seat right in the front row, Mr. Wilde. I want you where I can see you.”

“Yes, sir.”

I took my seat and kept my head down. Yes, the rubber uniform felt great. Yes, my new body was astounding. Yes, I was surrounded by gleeful, partly gay, fellow rubberboys. But to sentence someone to relive high school?? Surely that was a punishment that far surpassed the crime. My mind started racing to find some way out of this fix. I had to get back on Greg’s good side, so he would change me back. Or maybe if I could just break back into that damn office...

“We have a new student joining us today, here in the front row, Roger Wilde”, our teacher announced. " I trust you’ll all do what you can to make him feel welcome.” The boys offered quick, mumbled hellos. I acknowledged them with a small nod.

“Today we’re rehearsing the number for the—oh!” He stopped. “Sorry, we have two new students. The other is a transfer student who’s also joining us today.” And scanning the room, he asked, “Where is he? Where’s Kyle?”

“Right here”, came a voice from the doorway.

My head popped up. It couldn’t be. But there in the doorway was the smiling face and rubberclad form of my assistant, Kyle. “Sorry I’m late. I only just got here.”

“Well, why don’t you take a seat next to Roger there in front. Guys, make a space, would you?”

Kyle sat down next to me, his face beaming. The rubber uniform looked great on him, but then, anything rubber usually did. He looked over at me and smiled. “Hey. I’m Kyle.”

“Roger”, I said back.

Kyle was handed a folder of sheet music, but dropped his pencil when he reached for it. He bent forward to retrieve it, placing his palm upon my knee for balance. When he sat back, he left his hand there. I didn’t ask him to move it.

As Mr. Ebberstein began to play warm-ups at the piano, Kyle whispered to me, “You new here, too, Rog?”

“Ohhh, yeah.” I glanced at the hand upon my knee. “So, you into rubber, Kyle?”

He broke into a broad smile and quickly looked down at his boots. “Well, yeah.”

I lowered my voice further. “You gay, Kyle?”

Kyle’s head dropped just a little lower than it had been, and he took a deep breath. Then he turned to look into my eyes. “Yeah”, he whispered back. “I’m gay.”

I placed my hand atop the one he’d rested on my knee. I smiled. “Me, too.”

With that, I wondered if maybe the restoration of my previous age couldn’t wait a while. It’s not like the synthesizer was going anywhere, right? This whole young rubber schoolboy thing might not be so bad after all.

Who knows, maybe I’d finally make it to prom.

Mr. Ebberstein waved one arm from the piano. “Back to Page One, gentlemen. One, and Two, and here we go!” We all stood up. Kyle and I each took one step closer together, I clasped his hand in mine, and we began to sing.