UMD Stories


Stooge, Pt III (by Purplebootsgywr copyright 2009)
Story by musclepiex
Posted 1/4/17     931 views
The next morning, Christian awoke still sprawled on the plastic sheeting, the stink of ripe banana cream thick in his nostrils. He was naked, save for the T-shirt plastered to his upper body, now growing crusty in odd places after having been left on him all night. He sat himself up (he was no longer glued in place, thank God) and looked himself over. He was covered in his own cum. In fact, there was so much of it that it was difficult for Christian to tell where the semen ended and the banana cream began. His dick lay across his abdomen, sticky and limp, looking a bit longer than he thought it should be, and twice as exhausted as he was. The exhaustion didn't linger, however, as Christian felt a rush of energy and strength flood his body and mind as he picked himself up. That was one thing about Jake, regardless his manipulation, he always left Christian feeling recharged after each session.

But even Christian's newfound energy could not dispel the tacky feeling of crust, cream, and cum all over him. Gingerly, he reached up and touched his hair, which now felt like a clump of solid plastic from all the hardening pie filling there. I feel like a Fisher-Price toy...", Christian lamented. As he turned around, to his dismay he eyed the clock.

Oh, fuck!", he cried. I'm late for work!

After a quick call to the office to tell of a short in his home's wiring that knocked out the alarm clock, Christian raced to clean himself up. Even after the better part of twenty minutes scrubbing with body wash and shampoo, he still believed that he could smell the banana creamand even the dried cum. He hoped that it was his imagination. He rushed to get dressed (shirtneed that shirt, it's cleanslacks, shoes) and he hurriedly grabbed his briefcase and a breakfast bar on the way out the door.

On the doorstep, he stopped, overcome by the sudden urge to go back inside. As soon as he did so, he realized why. There was a small parcel on the kitchen counter with a yellow sticky note reading IMPORTANT! Right, right, he knew he couldn't forget that. How had he let it slip his mind that he needed that today? He grabbed it up, grateful for having remembered, and sped out the door.

Christian walked into the office amongst snickers and pointing fingers. Some coworkers guffawed and one or two stopped what they were doing and just stared at him. Oh shit, Christian thought, They can smell the reek of banana cream , I couldn't get it off. Or worse, I missed some of it, and it's still stuck to me.

As more and more people laughed at him, each person's giggling making others feel free to join in, Christian finally stopped in his tracks. He was about to blurt out an indignant, What?! in challenge of their combined ridicule when Patterson, the office prankster, walked by, shaking his head and snickering.

This is a new look for you, fella. Suits you.

New look? Christian looked down at himself and his stomach lurched in horror. Christian had dressed himself almost as usual that morning. Pressed slacks, polished shoes, briefcase in one hand with his suit jacket slung over the top of its handle, indicating that he was ready to roll up his sleeves and go to work. Except for one thing.

Rather than his usual crisp dress shirt and tasteful tie, Christian wore one of Jake's specially-made T-shirts this morning. Worse, it was the one with the word STOOGE in massive, bold letters, across his chest with a big red arrow pointing straight up at his face. But that wasn't all. As Christian passed one of the ladies' cubicles, he caught sight of himself in a handily-placed mirror one of the girls used for occasional primping. Reflected there, dead-center upon Christian's face, was a big clown nose. Foam rubber, shiny, and red as a panic button. With his heart pounding in his chest, panic was something Christian was really beginning to do.

So what's all this? You lose a bet, Stooge?

Christian looked up to see his boss, standing there with hands on his hips, waiting for some reasonable explanation from his usually-reserved employee. Christian fumbled, utterly disoriented, completely humiliated, and felt his jaw move sporadically as no words came out. He glanced down at his free hand, which held the small parcel from his kitchen counter, now opened and empty. Clearly it had held the rubber nose which now adorned his face. (When had he put it on?)

Christian cleared his throat, his mind scrambling for some plausible explanation, when he stopped. He rewound the last few seconds in his head. Excuse me, sir, what did you just call me?

The boss looked at him askance. Stooge. That is your name, isn't it?

Was the boss just reading Christian's shirt, making fun of him? No, his expression was too straight-faced, his tone unwavering.The boss had said Christian's actual name, but Christian had only heard Stooge. He gave himself another second's pause and tried to think of his real name. Stooge. All he came up with was Stooge. Goddamn that bastard Jake anyway.

Later, Christian sat at his desk, relieved to find that the rubber nose did come off with the first tug. After all Jake had proven capable of, Christian wasn't prepared to take anything for granted. A spare shirt and tie were waiting inside Christian's briefcase (which he had no memory of putting there), but even after sprucing himself up, he had, as the old TV show put it, A lot of 'splaining to do.

So Christian spun a reasonable tale of courting a new client, a very large organization of old-fashioned joke and prank shops whose founder was wondering if he was even going to bother investing in any advertising campaigns, as the company head felt their stock had gone so out of fashion as to be ineffective. Christian claimed to have offered a challenge that if he could still turn heads and crack smiles using the merchandise, they would hear his pitch. It was complete bullshit, but one that his boss swallowed whole and encouraged Christian in his pursuit of these unique and daring techniques.

Word spread fast and some of his coworkers congratulated him on both his ingenuity and livening up their morning. Others still ridiculed and laughed at him, the most snide comments led by Patterson the smartass. Christian didn't notice that much, as he was more than distracted by the battle to relearn his name.

Christian rifled his own desk, looking at his letterheads, business cards, memos. Each one, in the spot where his actual name should be, said Stooge. His desk name plate, his e-mail account, even hand-written notes tacked to his bulletin board, all appeared to his mesmerized eyes to read Stooge. Christian accessed his computer and was met by a blinking marquee which cheerfully greeted him, Good morning, Stooge! He even let all of his calls go directly to voice mail out of fear of how he might answer the phone.

It was a very long day.

Christian arrived at the gym fuming. He joined Jake in the Nautilus room and for the first fifteen or twenty minutes, Christian worked out silently. Finally Jake could not stand the awkward emptiness between them and asked, So how was your day, buddy?

Christian continued to push himself, working the butterfly machine, refocusing his anger into exercising. After completing another set, yet feeling no effort from doing so, Christian spoke.

I want my name back, he stated crossly.

Well, I had a fine day, honey, thanks for asking, Jake sniped.

I mean it, Jake, Christian insisted. You have taken this way too far.

Jake switched from the arm curl machine to the bench press. As he pumped, he began talking as if Christian had not confronted him. I'm thinking about maybe throwing in some chocolate cream tonight. Maybe some mile-high lemon meringue. You know, sort of shake things up a bit. What do you think?

Christian continued on a slow boil, pushing and pushing more into his own workout. Through gritted teeth, he sneered, Even better idea. Why don't you pick up some dog food? Then you can polish up your gold pocket watch, turn me into a dog, and then make me eat it. That ought'a be good for a fucking laugh.

Jake got up from the bench press. So you know I'm a hypnotist, huh?
It'd be kind of hard not to, after me showing up at work the way I did. I felt like a complete asshole!", Christian snapped.

Yeah, but you're into that, right?", Jake shrugged. So what's the harm?

There's a big difference!", Christian insisted. Being embarrassed for fun means you know it's coming and you can anticipate it. Being forced into that situation, against your will, with no knowledge beforehand, just finding yourself sort of...just there...with everyone laughing at you, that only makes me

A stooge?", Jake offered, raising his eyebrows.

It's not like that. Christian went back to working the butterfly machine, pumping hard.

You haven't even noticed that your sets have been improving, have you?", Jake prompted.

Christian kept pumping. Don't change the subject.

I'm not, Jake said. We're talking about me hypnotizing you. And since I like my guys a bit buffer than you are...well, were...I just gave you that added push to bulk up. You went to Patrick for a planning schedule, right? How do you think you came up with that idea?

Christian stopped his set and sat up quickly. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was bigger. His muscles were larger, his definition more pronounced. He turned back and looked at the weight he'd set. It was more than half again heavier than he'd been lifting before. But the set had seemed so effortless. He stood up before the mirror and looked himself over. He was still nowhere near as big as Jake, but he was well on his way. He sat back down on the machine's bench in defeat.

There's a major distinction between being a stooge and being someone's puppet, Christian huffed. He knew he had to get away from this guy. What started as a simple means to play out a fetish fantasy had gotten potentially dangerous. He turned to Jake. Waitaminnit. You 'like your guys a bit buffer'? You're not even into guys!
Jake leaned over and rested a large hand on Christian's shoulder. No, but I am totally into control play. And whether you're willing to admit it or not, so are you. He then moved away, picking up his sports bottle. Off to cardio. You'll join me.

Christian felt a twinge inside him, knowing that wasn't an invitation. He felt a compulsion to follow his new master.And as Jake walked away, he turned back with a broad smile.Oh, and now that you're in training, no more snack food, he said. The remark came totally out of left field and was not applicable to Christian, who loathed snack foods.

Gotta lay off those Twinkies, Jake said. Too much cream filling.

Christian gripped the supports of the butterfly machine and shot an incredible load into his gym shorts. His body trembled as stream after stream saturated his crotch. After the orgasm subsided, Christian fell forward, his head between his knees, gasping for breath. He felt like a fool, an imbecile, a complete tool. He truly had become a stooge. And he knew, despite his utter embarrassment, that in another few seconds, he would stand up and join Jake on the treadmills in the cardio room. There he would put in a run, as the song went, with jizz in his pants.
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