The Easy Way

The Easy Way

By Trixie Adara

"Can you get me some vanilla?" asks Malcolm.

"Get your own vanilla," I mutter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

I grab the vanilla and the chocolate and put them on the counter. I turn around and grab a bowl, a spoon, and the ice cream scoop. When I turn back around with my supplies, the vanilla ice cream catches my eye.

I didn't mean to grab that.

"Just one scoop," shouts Malcolm, and I nod. I scoop the vanilla ice cream and step out of the kitchen and into our living room where Malcolm is sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone and smirking. With his dark features, scruffy face, and condescending grin, he looks like a villain from some cheap action movie, which I guess isn't far from the truth.

"Here." I want to toss it at him and storm out, but I hold it with two hands and bow slightly as it gently lands in his lap.

"Thanks, bitch," he says. He glances up at me, his pale blue eyes digging into me as his brow narrows.

"Fuck you." I step backwards and slip into the kitchen. All I need to do is make my ice cream and go back into my bedroom. Then Malcolm and I can ignore each other like proper roommates.

"You don't like vanilla?" he shouts after me. His voice gets closer, which means he's following, which means he wants to keep talking.

I sigh.

"Vanilla is like anti-ice cream." I go to the cabinet and grab a bowl for myself and another spoon. "It's like saying your favorite drink is water."

"What's wrong with water?"

"It's the default. Honestly, I'm embarrassed to have it in my apartment."

I freeze, turn, and smile. My smile keeps going, like it's trying to escape my lips. It hurts, but I don't stop. I can't stop. "What's. Happening?" The words are slow, forced out of me. But once they're out, my smile wilts and I rub the corners of my mouth, checking to see if they're bleeding. They're not.

"You should smile more," says Malcolm with a shrug.

I try to move and finish getting my ice cream, but nothing happens. I try to leave the kitchen and storm past Malcolm to my room, but they won't obey. I focus on each foot, trying to move it slowly, and yet nothing happens. I'd think I was having a stroke, but Malcolm keeps smirking, taking small bites of his ice cream and licking the spoon.

"You're wrong about vanilla," he says. "It's the best flavor."

"Vanilla is boring flavor."

"And yet you settle for it everyday," mutters Malcolm.

"What do you -"

"How about a test?" he asks.

"A test?"

"Like the Pepsi Challenge. A blind taste test."

"Fuck off," I say. Then again, I try to move. I don't want any ice cream. I don't want anything to do with Malcolm or this conversation, but I still can't move. Instead, my creepy smile stretches across my face. I turn to cabinets and set out multiple bowls.

"What's happening?" I ask, but Malcolm doesn't answer. He watches and smiles, occasionally checking his phone and scrolling through it, while I prepare two bowls of vanilla and two bowls of chocolate.

"Malcolm, something's wrong." I try not to keep the panic still, but I can't stop myself. I scoop the two bowls of ice cream and set aside the bowls. When I bend down to put the ice cream in the bottom drawer freezer, I get stuck down there. Then my ass shakes a little, and I bend down and pop it up like a stripper as Malcolm hums with ... is that lust?

"Now we need a blindfold," he says to himself. "Oh, I got it."

I close my eyes and freeze. Malcolm laughs. "I don't have time for this. We need to get me to a doctor."

"You seem fine to me. Maybe it's in your head."

"No. My body isn't listening to me, and it's ... I don't even know how to explain."

"How about when we're done with our little test, I'll drive you to a clinic."

"Fine," I sigh. "Okay. But we're going to need a real blindfold."

"This should be fine."

"I can just open my eyes," I mutter.

"Try it. I dare you."

I try to open my eyes but nothing happens. I heft and squeeze and grunt like an idiot, but it's as though there's a ten pound weight on my eyelids. They don't budge in the slightest.

"What's happening?" I ask. "Malcolm, what did you -"

I freeze.

He's done something, but I don't know what it is. He laughs and my feet start moving, taking the bowls of ice cream into the living room and the couch where he was sitting. I set them down and then sit on the couch, perfectly still, trapped in my body. I can't move. Not a damn thing. I try even my fingers, but they ignore my thoughts completely. I can breathe. My senses still operate. I feel the couch beneath me. I smell the scent of Malcolm's sweat. I hear his zipper unzip.

Wait. His what?

"Ready for the challenge?" he asks.

I nod against my will.

"Good. Two ice creams. You have no idea which is vanilla and which is chocolate. Without your eyes, tell me which one tastes better. Be honest."

I open my mouth and sit perfectly still as a spoon is slid between my lips. It's vanilla. I taste it immediately. Whatever's happening to my body doesn't stop me from picking that up. I'm able to control my body enough to move the ice cream around in my mouth and swallow, but that's about it. I can't even lick my lips when I'm done.

"Alright. Let's see what's behind curtain number two."

My lips part automatically, but then they go wide. Comically wide, like I'm at the dentist. Then, instead of the cold of chocolate ice cream I was expecting, something warm, thick, and soft slides over my lips and into my mouth, like a sausage but it's too fleshy, too malleable yet too ... hard.

I try to widen my eyes in shock, but they don't obey.

I try to spit out his cock, but nothing happens.

I call out Malcolm's name, and he laughs. "Mmm, that feels good," he says as my lips and tongue talk with a mouthful of his cock, but I can't get it out. I can't bite it. I can't reject it at all, and I imagine talking just feels like a blowjob.

I have to stay still.

The couch shifts around me, and I know Malcolm is climbing up over my body. I know he's positioning himself on the couch so he can more comfortably shove his cock into my mouth. I want to ask him to stop, to ask him why he's doing this. But I don't want my talk sliding over his cock. I don't' want my lips pressing around his shaft. Hell, I can't even ask him how he's doing this. But then my mouth betrays me and wraps around his cock as he slides it back and forth. Against my will, I glide my tongue along the bottom of his cock and taste the salt richness of his skin. I want to gag. I want to spit. I want to bite it off or yell. But I can't. I'm trapped in my body, and he's fucking my body, and there's nothing for me to do but hope it's over soon.

Dear God, let it be over soon.

"What do you think?" he says, his voice coming from above me now. It's breathy and a bit ragged. I hope he's not about to cum in my mouth. Dear God, please. Please don't let him cum in my mouth. "Do you prefer this or vanilla?"

I don't answer. Even though I'm slurping the side of his cock like a greedy slut, it's against my will. If I talk, he'll have more fun, and fuck him. Silence may be the one bit of revenge I get.

"God, you're not fun," he sighs and climbs off me after a few more thrusts. I'm able to open my eyes again, and I do so. Malcolm stands in front of me with his shorts and boxers off, but with a huff, he peels off his shirt. It's an impressive sight. His short dark hair is swept to the side, and he has a devious look that drives girls crazy but makes him look like a douchebag to me. What he's got going for him is that he's tall and muscular, though not swollen like a WWE wrestler. He looks like an Olympic swimmer with the matching Greek God abs. Though he isn't ready to be on the cover of Men's Health, I've always been jealous of his muscle mass. I'm a bit more of a twig, and though he keeps telling me to go with the gym with him, I've never been able to get any noticeable gains.

"You need to get into it," he says.

He looks at me, but I don't say anything back. I hope I can make my eyes say clearly enough that I hope he burns in hell, and whenever I get the chance to control my body again, I'm going to kill him.

"Talk," he sighs.

"Fuck you."

"It's the one thing you have left, and I'd hate to have to take that from you."

"I don't think you can."

Malcolm's smirk burns into a look of rage. "How far do you want to push the man that controls your body?"

"What have you done to me?" I ask. Maybe I can reason with him. Maybe there's another way out if I'm clever. Or at the very least, maybe I can make it quick and then be out of here forever. My heart slams against my rib cage. It wants to break free. It knows this body is fucked, and it wants to get out before things get worse. And I have a terrible certainty that things are going to get much much worse.

"Boring. Next question."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He smiles. "The other day, you bent over to pick something you dropped, and I had this thought, this one perfect thought, know what it is?"

I try to shake my head, but nothing happens. "No," I say.

"I thought to myself, you know, there are a shortage of perfect asses in the world, but here is one on the end of my annoying roommate. How rare and lucky could I be?"

"You're gay?"

"Not at all."

"Then why me? Why not some other girl?"

"Spell only worked on you." He strokes his hand over my cheek, but I didn't have the ability to shudder with disgust. "You see, I thought to myself that you'd make one hot woman."

"What?"

"Mmm." He closes his eyes as though recalling a sweet memory. "A great piece of ass," he said. "I mean, your body could be curvier, but what guy has a curvy body? We can work on that. We've got time. I'll keep the spell up as long as I need to, and we'll make you the perfect little slut."

He moves his hand from my cheek and used it to stroke his own cock. He closes his eyes as he relives his twisted fantasy. "But you've got the one thing every good slut needs, the one thing decided in genetics: a hot ass. The kind of ass yoga pants and g-strings were made for. You should show it off more often."

I rise to my feet and do a little spin. My arms spread to the side making it almost delicate, almost feminine. Then I bend down like a dancer and leave my ass there, right in front of his crotch, ready for him to have his way with.

"Please don't," I plead.

"Mmm, there it is." He runs his hands over my ass. I'm thankful for the jeans keeping me from really feeling his touch, keeping my skin from feeling his fingertips, keeping it from feeling good. "You know, it's been self-ish of you to live with me all these months and not share this ass with me. I should have this ass whenever I want."

He pinches it, and I yelp in pain. "And now I think I will," he says.

"Please don't. I'm not ... I don't want to. Please stop."

"You're not what?" he says, still running his hands over my ass.

"I'm not gay. This would be -"

"Yet."

My skin runs cold. "Please, Malcolm. I can help you find a girlfriend. We can figure it out. Please don't do this."

"Why not? Why shouldn't I have exactly what I want?"

"Because I don't want to give it."

He pinches my ass again, and I cry out in pain. "Yet," he says while rubbing it.

"Can you ..." I take a deep breath to make sure my voice stops quivering. "Can you make me gay with whatever it is you're doing to me?"

He stops rubbing my ass. "No. That's the problem. I could make you bend over and spread your cheeks right now and fuck you in the ass. I could have you moan like a whore and thank me for fucking you, but I can't make you like it."

"I ... um ..." I stop myself. Tears bubble up at the corner of my eye. "Please," I say. "Don't mind control me."

"I would if I could," he says and collapses onto the couch. "I've got body control, not mind control."

"Oh." I imagine him forcing me fucking me right now, like this. Maybe in a rage he rips off my pants, forces me to spread my cheeks wide, and does it now. Maybe he does it everyday after work or after classes. He just comes back to the apartment, and I'm there on my knees or with my ass in the air, waiting for him like a sex doll to fuck. Oh God.

"But here's the thing," he says. "Everyone's a little gay."

My body gets up and sits on the couch next to him.

"Or bi or whatever. Listen," he sighs and sits up. "Sex is sex, okay? It feels good no matter what. If you cum, you're going to feel great. It doesn't matter if a guy has his mouth wrapped around your cock or a girl. The body doesn't care. Pleasure is pleasure."

"But what about me? It's different to have a ... a cock in your mouth."

He shrugs. "When I fuck you in the ass, you'll see. I'll make you feel so good, baby." My face inches closer to him, and he runs his hand over my smooth cheek. "You're going to be the happiest little slut on campus. And that's saying something." He chuckles to himself. "That's saying a lot."

"Please don't do this. Please. I'll help you find someone else to -" My lips closed and stopped moving.

"Enough talking," he said. "Show don't tell, right? That's what you writers are always saying?"

He scoots on the couch and sits next to me. "Want to see what I was looking at?" he asks.

"No," I say, but my head nods for me.

He holds up his phone and shows me a whole Twitter feed of male crossdressers. It takes me a while to realize it. At first, I think it's just a random feed of hot women. Sure, they have strong jawlines and are a bit thicker or a little less curvy. But once I realize it's all men, my mouth would drop if I had control of it.

"Here," Malcolm says.

My hand takes the phone and scrolls through the feed. My free hand goes to Malcolm's cock and strokes it slowly as I scroll.

"Mmmm," moans Malcolm. "There you go. See all those pretty sluts?"

I nod. I do. "They're not ... are they?"

He laughs. "Each of them started off like you."

My hand strokes his cock faster. "But ... I can't ... please ..."

"Would it be so bad to look like them? I mean, let's admit it, you're never going to look like me, are you?"

My body can't even blush with shame, but he's right. I've tried and tried. A dozen diets. A dozen different lifting routines. Protein powders and supplements. None of it matters. I'm still so slight, so willowy.

"So feminine," whispers Malcolm in my ear.

My cock twitches. Is that him or me?

"See, I could never be that pretty. But you? You could be a gorgeous little slut. How many people get a chance like that? Think of all the poor saps out there that wish they could be a hot woman. You can. It's a gift. Don't refuse what I'm offering you so quickly."

My thumb swipes over to a new feed. "And this is what I have in mind for you," he says.

I nod as he wills it. Of course I see it, my eyes can't look away. He's micromanaging each gesture, each sensation, each easing sigh and little gasp that slips through my lips. He has to be. He's controlling each nerve and lighting it on fire with pleasure. He's melting me, and there's no way out for me. I'm helpless.

The new feed is a shopping cart. He's already filled it with yoga pants, mini skirts, thigh-high boots, heels, stockings, hose, garter belts, and several different thongs.

"I figured we'd start with your major asset," he says. We both laugh. It feels like being choked, like shoving a chicken bone down your own throat to have someone force you to laugh. "What do you think? Do you think you'd look hot in that?"

"No. Malcolm ... this is -"

"Of course, you would." His hand reaches over, unzips my pants, and grabs my cock. It's hard. "See? See how much you like it, babe? You don't need to be afraid, Jason. I'm gonna make sure it feels good." He laughs. "I can absolutely gaurentee it's going to be the best fucking sex you've ever had. What do you think? Tell me."

"Why?" I croak out. "If you could have anyone. Why me? Why not get some hot bimbo and make her your bitch?"

His hand strokes my cock faster. "That's exactly what I'm doing."

I moan. Lightning runs up and down my body. Is it me? Is it him?

"You'll cum, baby. It'll be better than anything your little cock has done in a woman, trust me. You'll be happier than you've ever been. And you'll get laid more than ever before in your life?"

"Malcolm, don't -" but I bite my lower lip and moan, drowning out my protests with his perverted puppetry.

"By me," he says.

He strokes my cock.

I stroke his cock.

"Maybe my friends."

He strokes my cock.

I stroke his cock.

"Maybe your friends."

He strokes my cock.

I stroke his cock.

"You'll get fucked daily."

Stroke.

"More than once a day."

Stroke.

"You've spent too long trying to get pussy."

Stroke.

"It's a lot easier to be a pussy."

Stroke.

"It's a lot easier to worship at the altar of cock."

Stroke.

"Isn't it?"

Stroke.

I moan. I nod. I bite my lip.

It's all him.

It has to be.

Stroke.

Stroke.

"You tried too hard to be a big strong man."

Stroke.

Stroke.

"And there's nothing wrong with trying."

Stroke. Stroke.

"You did your best."

Stroke. Stroke.

"But you would be a lot more successful being my bitch. Don't you think?"

Stroke Stroke.

"Being anyone's bitch."

Stroke stroke.

"What do you say? Wanna try?"

Stroke stroke.

"Please," I whimper. "Please." And for a moment, I can't tell if I'm begging for it or begging him to stop.

He laughs. "Is that you or me?" he asks. "I can't tell."

"You don't know?" I ask.

He laughs. "Babe, by the time we're done, neither will you."

I moan. It's all him. It has to be. I mean, he's stroking my cock, and I'm stroking his cock. I'm not gay. It can't be me. It's got to be ... got to be ...

"I've got a present for you, babe. Wanna see?"

"Please," is all I manage to say. My mind knows the next words should be 'stop.' It should be telling him I'll call the cops, that he's drugged me, that -

But my body won't let me. It writhes in the seat. My back arches. My breath is thick and ragged. I hate him, but I don't hate this. How could anyone hate their cock being stroked? How could anyone hate feeling this good?

It's him. I know it is. but he doesn't seem to care. He rises, letting me let go of his cock as he releases mine. My body follows him to his bedroom. He goes to the closet and takes out a mini skirt, stockings, pink heels, and a huge fuzzy sweater.

"This was Stacy's," he says, managing to keep a straight face through mentioning his ex-girlfriends. "I figured my new girlfriend should wear it."

My lips part and the deranged smile stretches my face thin. "I can't wear that," I manage to say through it.

I peel off my clothes without a command.

"Most girls would love for their boyfriend to buy them cute clothes."

"I won't fit in -"

"Let's just try." He laughs. "If it doesn't fit, we can go shopping together later. Okay, babe?"

"Let's talk about this."

"We already have." The joy in his face fades. "It's not like you have a choice."

"Why do I have to -"

"It's something you never knew you wanted, but I really think after you've been fucked a few hundred times, it'll be something you can't live without. I'm good at reading people, you know. It took me a while with you, but when I saw your tight ass, I knew that the best version of Jason was the one bent over and filled with my cock."

"No. I can't be what you want." I stare at the clothes in front of me, at the bra he wants me to put on. "I don't even know how to wear these." But the words have no power as I stand naked in front of him with my cock hard. I don't know if he can make me like it, but he takes my erect cock as an answer. He looks at it and smiles. If I was permitted to blush, I'd do so.