Tate was an easy target. Despite some athleticism to his body, he was thin and short. A lot of my targets were more physically fit than I was, but honestly, I found the more nerdy guys easier targets. The dumb jock stereotype no longer holds up - some of these big thug-looking men are true scholars and strategists. But the stereotypical nerds had only gotten cockier. The straight college nerd nowadays was confident in his ability to outthink any opponent, and certain that anyone more physically imposing than he was proportionally less intelligent.
Tate was a psychology major, which was laughable. You'd think those students would be the most likely to figure out my method, but no. In fact, they seemed even more susceptible to it, if possible.
My method of persuasion was simple. The basic idea combines the principle of escalation with that classic rite of typical masculinity, the dare. It's the idea that you ask for something small and reasonable, then in quick succession start asking for gradually more unreasonable things, until it becomes automatic for your target to obey.
Take Tate, for example. There's something wired in straight guys, a fragility of ego that gives them a desperation to please. If I show any doubt in their abilities, I defy you to find the straight man of eighteen to twenty-three who will not immediately strive to prove me wrong. So I cornered Tate one afternoon and bet him twenty bucks he couldn't beat me to the end of the quad in a race, and the boy dropped his books to race me. Don't worry about my funds, I'd make it all back and then some.
For the rest of the week, I'd let Tate win the little bets I gave him, slowly growing more unreasonable. Like going from racing to lifting something heavy, to flipping water bottles. You get the picture. And then came the kicker, where I bet him he couldn't get out if I tied him up.
Buoyed by his wins and the cash he had won from me, he accepted my dare and met me at my dorm. And that was how I got Tate wrapped up in neon orange tape, layers and layers wrapped over his twinky body. My client wanted him humiliated, helpless. So I gently kneaded his crotch through the wrapping, before taking my own socks and forcing them in his mouth, wrapping a ring of orange tape around his head to secure them. Horny, struggling, and helpless, I took picture and video before adding the final touch. An absolutely rancid sneaker my client had provided.
My client was a rival of Tate's, a partner of his on a project that Tate had falsely accused of plagiarism and gotten expelled. So he called me up for revenge. And what better revenge could there be than this? Watching your rival unable to do anything but sniff the sweaty stench of your feet and moan. I kept stroking him while he protested the smell. More psychology. Pavlovian this time. I must have milked the man dry, and I think once or twice he fell into a daze from the footstink.
After I got my fee from the client, I didn't see Tate again. I did see the client, though. I went to his apartment, and he didn't even acknowledge the new piece of furniture he had acquired - a man-shaped mummy, its nose and cock the only flesh exposed, cock hard as my client rested his feet just below the mummy's nose.
I love my job.
But I also have to agree with [mention]bondagefreak[/mention] and [mention]Pup Wingletang[/mention] I'm also a big fan of their work