STOOGE! (mm hypno fet)

copyright 2009

Summary:  A gay man with a pie-in-the-face fetish asks his hunky friend at the gym to help him live out his fantasies.  Too bad the hunk is also a master hypnotist into domination and total mind control. (mc, mm, ft, hm)

Jake had gotten his share of strange and interesting propositions while he did his daily workout at the gym.  Considering his remarkable lifter's build, his past stint in the armed services that helped to make his physique tightly-packed and rock-hard, and his tight-cropped blond hair and dazzling smile, it stood to reason that he would be approached on more than one occasion.  And he had been, plenty more than once.  But this was the first time he'd ever been asked to do anything like this.

Jake sauntered easily around the pull down machine, his ten minutes spent there hefting heavy plates leaving barely a glisten of perspiration on his smooth body. "Okay, you want me to do what, again?"

Jake looked at his new workout buddy, a man of smaller height and build, but of friendly personality and no shortage of charm.  He was Christian, a bushy-haired man in his early thirties who still looked good in spandex. His build was more that of a dancer than an athlete, although Jake understood that in some instances the two types bore little distinction from one another.

Christian got up from the butterfly machine. Unlike Jake, his conditioning was not as extreme, and he was moist with sweat.  He reached for his towel as he restated his request.  "Look, I'm up for this part in this play", he explained again. "I really want to get it, but it's all farce and slapstick. And the role I'm going for, that character—I know full well what they're gonna have me to during the audition. And I have no experience with it at all."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "So you want me to hit you with a pie?"

Christian mopped his brow with his towel, nodding. "My character takes like three of them to the face during the course of the show. And I have never done it. I need to know what to expect."

"So, what, they start chucking pies at you the minute you walk in the door, then?"

Christian smiled, clearly amused by the idea.  "No, but I have it on good authority they do have each applicant take at least one hit at the end of his audition. I want to be ready."

Jake pursed his lips. "Can't you just tell them at the audition that you're new to this? They'd probably walk you through it. I mean, that's part of what auditions are for, aren't they?  I'm sure they don't expect you to know everything you need to just coming in off the street—"

"I'm cooling off", Christian interrupted a little too quickly. "I'm heading to the treadmills."  He slung his towel over one shoulder, picking his water bottle up from the floor. "You coming?", he asked, knowing full well it was also time for Jake's cardio.  The big man nodded.

In the cardio room, Christian kept pretty good pace with his bigger friend. Jake's treadmill was set on a greater incline with a bit more resistance than Christian's, but he still appreciated that his slender friend did what he could to keep up with him.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable", Christian said after a few minutes of silence. 

Jake looked over at him, momentarily thrown.  "Hm?  Oh, you mean the pie thing? Yeah, well, I've gotten plenty of phone numbers and even some kids asking me for pointers, but this is the first time in here I'd been approached with that."

Jake hesitated a moment, then opened his mouth to ask Christian something.  Christian caught the look in his friend's eye and spoke first.

"There's just this thing with these auditions. Word gets out, competition gets fierce. Especially if it's a show that's popular or could promise a decent attendance. One time I found out what show they were doing a few months before fall auditions. I got the script from Samuel French—"

Jake's brow furrowed. "Samuel French? Who's he? Theater friend?"

"Online bookseller. Specializes in published plays, scripts, sheet music, that sort of thing."  Christian paused to catch his breath as he ran. It was not as easy for him as it was for Jake to talk and jog at the same time.

"So you ordered the play...", Jake prompted.

"Yeah, I spent the summer rehearsing the part I wanted at home, so when the time came for auditions, I blew everyone else out of the water. They were reading it cold, whereas I—"

"Was cheating", Jake grinned.

"I prefer to think of it as being prepared."

"Man, you theater types", Jake said, picking up his pace a bit, as if to distance himself from the conversation. 

A beautiful man walked through the cardio room leading a short, squat man to the aerobics area.  He was about Christian's height, but with a superb body that spoke of hours of conditioning with its toned definition and no visible body fat. He smiled when he saw Jake, nodding in his direction.  Jake waved back as the beautiful man followed his chubby charge into the next room and on toward a fitter life.

"Who's that?", Christian asked, a tinge of jealousy in his voice.

"Easy, fella", Jake said back. "I don't swing that way. And even if I did, you're still my workout partner."

Christian was thrown by Jake's perception. He did have a bit of a man crush on his muscular friend, but Christian hoped he'd not been that obvious about it.  "No, no, it's not that, I just...y'know, wondered..."

"He's Samuel French", Jake said.  Christian looked at him wide-eyed and confused. "What, you ordered all those plays from him and you've never met him in person?"

Christian only managed a "Huh?" in reply.

"Kidding", Jake smiled. "He's Patrick Seymour, the personal trainer."  Jake inclined his head toward the framed photos of the gym's staff professionals, and there was the beautiful Patrick, right there with all the other experts in exercise, nutrition, and fitness.

"Oh", Christian said, the clouds lifting.  "You train with him?"

"He helps me keep on track, yeah. You should try it, feels great."

Christian liked the look of the personal trainer, but Jake was more his speed. Big, powerfully built, still boyishly handsome at 27. "I guess. I've thought about it, but I'm not really sure. I mean, I like coming here to the gym and staying in shape, but it's also partly about socializing. I come to see you, it keeps me motivated. But I'm not sure if I'm ready to go all the way and commit to some strict regimen with keeping notes on how much I lift and what I eat.  They have got this nutritionist on staff, and I've thought about sitting down with him sometime and going over—"

"Okay! Alright already!!", Jake blurted out.  "I'll hit you with the damn pie!!"

Christian was taken aback. "Wha—huh? What do you, I mean, I didn't even mention it agai—"

"No, it was the way you were painfully dancing around it, trying to mention anything else! Could you BE more obvious??  Get a damn pie somewhere and I'll smash you in the face with it."

"Really? You mean it?"

"Honest injun."

"Oh man! That would be so awesome! I really do appreciate it", Christian was practically beaming and had not noticed that he had picked up his pace on the treadmill considerably.

"If it means so damn much to you", Jake offered, shaking his head.

"That is so cool" Christian gushed.  "There's this bakery not far from my house. If you follow me home after showering up, I can pick up this amazing banana cream they make right there on the premises. It is so gooey, and so rich, and so messy—"

"I will only go through with this is you promise to stop talking about it for the rest of the workout", Jake insisted.

Christian clammed up and did not speak another word while they were in the gym.  But he was grinning like an idiot and his increased heart rate had nothing to do with his work on the treadmill.


Jake sat behind the wheel of his truck and watched Christian practically bouncing on his heel as he spoke to the man behind the counter of the pie shop.  The large glass window was meant to display the many tasty confections carefully scattered just inside, freshly baked, gooey, and tempting.  But the tall window also made the full interior of the bake shop plainly visible, so Jake could easily make out Christian's movements within.  It was very clear that Christian knew the people who worked there. They greeted him warmly, one chipper skinny guy in an apron smeared with blotches of icing and dusty with flour sauntered right over to the glass case that had pies behind it.  He was laughing and nodding, pointing to a mound of cream and fruit slices that Jake presumed was the banana cream Christian had spoke so fondly of on the ride over.  (Jake had offered to chauffeur his workout buddy back to his place, as Christian usually took the bus.)  Christian beamed and gave a thumbs-up at the sight of the enormous pie and soon paid for it and was skipping--or nearly so--out the door and back to the truck.  He hopped into the passenger's side of the cab with the white bakery box held carefully on his lap. 

"Okay", Christian smiled widely, "let's go."

"You seem to know a lot of people in there", Jake observed.

"Oh", Christian considered, "Um, yeah...I stop in there from time to time.  They have the most incredible crullers."

Jake stared at him a moment, then started the truck.  "Uh-huh."


Once at Christian's home, it did not take long to lead Jake down into the basement, to the spot at the far end of the house that Christian had deemed "the perfect spot to pie me".  Jake took note of the fact that Christian even had the terminology for being hit in the face like a clown with a gooey baked good, but didn't remark on it.

The basement was nice enough, if sparse. White paneling, smooth-tiled floor the color of eggshell, an old-fashioned office desk with chair and banker's lamp at the opposite end.  A couch of older design and dated upholstery not far from the desk, it's out-of-date look the probably reason for it being in the basement as opposed to the upstairs living room.  Not far from the desk, cardboard boxes abounded.  All of them marked on their sides with their contents.  Books. Dishes. Pots & Pans. So on.

"So you just moved in, then?", Jake presumed.

"It's my first house", Christian replied, a clear tone of pride in his voice.  "Sorry, but things are still a bit of a mess."

"Not down here, though", Jake said, nodding toward the far end of the room where Christian was busying himself.  More than half of the room was bare, with only the walls and the floor to speak of. It was also the part of the room which, due to some very nice overhead banks of recessed lighting, provided the brightest illumination.  Jake thought that if he had boxes to sort through, this would be the spot to do it, not the dimmer end of the basement by the old desk.  Jake watched Christian as he worked with what looked to be practiced skill along the back wall.  "So what are you doing?"

"Protecting the paneling", Christian said quickly, still sounding quite happy.  He was taping up layers of clear plastic sheeting all along the wall with stout colored tape.  "A big pie to the face can make quite a mess, and I don't want to spend all of the next day scrubbing down the walls from the cream spatter."

Jake nodded. "Makes sense."  Then he though a moment. "Where'd you get all that plastic?"

Christian turned to face him, looking as if he'd been caught off-guard. "Oh! Um, that."  His eyes darted around the room and rested upon the piles of cardboard boxes at the far end. "The movers left them. The covered the furniture and stuff with them. You know how they do.  I just hung on to it all. Thought it might come in handy at some point."  He grinned, rather nervously. "Who would've thought we'd be using it for this, huh?"

Jake scratched the back of his neck, feeling the tension had gone up in the room. "Well, let's get this over with, alright?"

"Almost set", Christian said, suddenly chipper again.  He lay down a final layer of the sturdy clear plastic (quite unlike the normally thin cling film wrap movers used on furniture, but Jake said nothing about that) on the floor.  "Okay, we're good."

Christian grabbed a stool from the far corner—the only furniture in this part of the room—and sat himself down, a huge smile on his face.  "Let me have it."

Jake couldn't help but smile back.  Here was the nice guy with whom he had become workout buddies at the gym, happily—gleefully—asking him to hit him in the face with a pie. It was absolutely ridiculous. And yet oddly appealing at the same time. "You sure you want me to do this?", Jake asked, taking the large pie from its box. 

"Sure I do!", Christian urged, a twinge of desperation in his voice.

"All this for a play? For an audition for a play, yet?"


"And you're sure they can't just give you a run-through at your reading, then?", Jake asked, now teasing his slapstick victim. 

Christian fumbled with his answer, seeing now how feeble his story was, how unlikely the scenario. "Well, it's just, I mean, it's all about being prepared."

Jake stood there, feeling the heft of the pie in his strong hand, lifting it slowly up and down, watching Christian's eyes glued upon it. "Uh-huh."

Christian's hands gripped the edges of the stool. "Yeah, that's right. I mean, anyone can get a pie in the face, but if you stand tall, really take it, not seeming at all...", he paused, swallowed, continued, " all thrown by it, you can show—you can show how well fitted you are for that...that kind of humor."

"Okay, I guess maybe I can see that", Jake said, He was now walking back and forth in front of Christian, holding that pie, switching it from large hand to large hand, looking distractedly around the room.  "What's the whole audition process like?", he asked, infuriatingly. "I've never been in a play before."

Christian had to adjust his legs upon the stool.  He was finding it impossible to sit still. "Well, there's...there's usually this room full of people and they have to...they have to each get up and read cold from a copy of the script from the play."

"Unless they've preordered the script and are already rehearsed", Jake commented.

"Unless that, yeah", Christian confessed. Was he sweating now? He was sweating.

"So you have to read with other people", Jake considered, "but there are some stuff they make you do by yourself, then, huh? Like with the pie?"

"Well, yes! One time for a farce I had to jump up and down to show if I could do this shtick where I'd have to bound up the stairs with my pants around my ankles. Every guy had to do that, each of us one at a time."

"That sounds funny", Jake grinned, picturing it. "You must've been pretty good."

"I didn't get the part", Christian lamented.  He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. His fingers clenched and then unclenched along the edges of the stool's seat.  He began to rock back and forth.  Jake bit his lower lip, trying to keep from bursting out laughing at his friend's obvious discomfort over the anticipation.

"So if it's, like, this slapstick thing", Jake went on, dragging it out, "you'd have to be ready to basically be made to look like a real idiot in front of everybody else."

"Oohhhhh yeah", Christian said, now looking at the floor, grinding his teeth a bit.

"Isn't that pretty uncomfortable?"

"Um, it can be, I suppose, but it's all part of theater. You have to be...y'know, be ready for any-anything..."

Jake's tone then changed entirely. "Oh, hey. Christian, I just remembered something."

Christian was still looking at the floor, only now as he gripped the sides of the stool seat, he found himself kicking his feet back and forth slightly, like a little kid. "What's that?"

"Look up."

Christian did.


Jake planted the pie smack in Christian's puss. Cream spattered everywhere, spraying the plastic behind him.  The sound was like a wet splat backed by a coiled spring, which considering Jake's arms, was not far off.  Christian's arms pin wheeled, the pie plate fully covering his face, blinding him.  He tried to speak, or make some sound, but all that came out was a burble of gulping noises beneath the thick goop. Christian slipped backwards off his stool, and Jake just grabbed the front of his shirt in time to keep him from falling onto the hard floor. Jake could not help chuckling, but had the presence of mind to give his workout buddy a good shake, making the pie tin come loose and tumble to the floor, it's thin foil clattering louder than he had anticipated.

Now the state of poor Christian was plainly visible. He was saturated in pie. His face was unrecognizable buried as it was beneath mounds of sticky pie filling, bananas and gooey cream. Streaks of high-impact spatter coated his shoulders and ran partway down his arms.  Even his palms were slick with some runoff whipped cream, which certainly contributed to Christian losing his grip on the stool.  A massive glump of pie clung to the front of Christian's shirt, the rest of it clinging tightly to his face, bits and chunks of crust stuck throughout his hair.

Jake could not contain himself any longer. At the sight of his gym pal reduced to such lunacy, he burst out laughing loudly and lost his grip on Christian's shirt.  Christian tumbled backward, trying blindly to gain some sort of footing, but his shoes found only cream-slickened plastic, and he did an absurd dance as he spun once, slid back toward the wall, his legs appearing to fly about at random, and he smacked against the plastic tarp hung there with a sad slap.  Christian then slid down the wall, his feet still scrambling for purchase, failing miserably, and he settled to rest upon his ass in a small pile of creamy slop.  The sound of the impact resounded softly, as if Christian had just unceremoniously passed gas. Part of the plastic sheeting tore down from the wall, dropping a large clump of banana cream that had been stuck there directly on top of Christian's head.

Jake laughed convulsively. He strode around the room, howling helplessly, stopping only intermittently to point at his friend and then laugh even harder. Christian sat on the floor, surrounded by creamy pie spatter on plastic, himself reduced to a laughable mess, an absolute clown, the butt of a joke he himself had prompted.

Jake tried to feel bad about what he'd just done, but his laughter would not allow it. He even turned his back on his saturated friend once, in order to compose himself, but it didn't work. Unable to turn away for long, Jake peered back around to see Christian sitting there, legs splayed out before him, his face a mass of cream devastation. And Jake howled ever louder.  

Looking at his friend (though possibly not his friend for long), Jake saw that Christian's shoulders were quaking.  Uh-oh. Was he crying?  Had Jake hit him too hard? Was his loud, roaring laughter stinging him too badly?  Jake leaned forward and reached toward his friend.  "Christian?"  Jake wiped away some of the pie that covered Christian's eyes. "Chris? You okay in there?"  Jake shook the goop off his fingers, which landed with a "thwop" in the empty pie plate.  But Christian was not crying. He, too, was laughing.

"You little dickwad! You're enjoying this more than I am!"

It was true.  Duly exposed, Christian began to laugh almost as hard as Jake. As his body shook with the growing waves of happiness, the large chunk of pie that had thus far clung to Christian's shirt came loose and rolled sloppily down his front, falling off his upper thigh and landing unceremoniously on the plastic floor covering, right beside the pie plate.

Jake took this as a sign and scooped up the fallen chunk, and any other sizeable offerings he could find upon the floor or the plastic protecting the back wall.  Jake even clutched a massive handful of cream pie from Christian's hair and smooshed it back into the pie tin.  The mound of glop no longer even vaguely resembled a banana cream pie, but it would prove more than effective as a slapstick missile.

"You want to go again?", Jake asked, still chortling.

"Oh, GOD yes!", Christian said, spitting bits and flakes of pie from his mouth. "That was AWEsome!!!"

Jake stood up, readying his throwing arm, all smiles, when he noticed something. It was difficult not to.  "Dude, have you got a hard-on?"

Christian looked down at himself. He sure as hell did. Beneath his pants was the clear outline of his member, stiff as a steel rod, fit to burst through the material and stand at attention.  He stuttered.  "!"  Why had he worn his white khakis for this?

Jake stood a bit taller, one gooey hand tucked under the arm that held the reassembled pie.  "There's no play audition, is there, Christian?"

Christian shook his head.  The cream upon his face stayed there.

"You're just totally into this, aren't you?"

Christian nodded again, a bit smaller.

"So you get off on being humiliated, is that it?"

Christian answered, but his voice was too soft to make out.

Jake held a hand to his ear. "How was that? Again, please?"

"Yes, I do", Christian said, just loud enough to hear. Although his face was covered in pie, Jake could swear that he could make out his friend blushing.

"So you just wanted to—what, make a fool of yourself and you wanted me to do it for you?", Jake said, an edge coming into his voice.

"Yeah", Christian confessed.  "I'm sorry."

Jake looked at his friend's massive boner. "You don't look sorry."  He switched the pie from one hand to the other. "Why didn't you just do this yourself? What did you need me for?" 

"I guess...", Christian said, deciding that being completely honest would cost him nothing more at this point.  "I guess it's because I'm a...(mumble)"  Jake did not catch the last word.

"You're what?"

"I'm a stooge", Christian said louder.

Jake furrowed his brow. Christian looked up at him through the hole in the cream on his face that Jake had made and, as best he could, met his eyes.  He explained to the larger man, "A stooge. Someone who lets himself get humiliated in front of onlookers who laugh at him. A target for jokes and embarrassment."

"And it's better with someone there to laugh at you, huh?", Jake said.

Christian nodded, a bit harder than he'd meant to, as another small clump of pie fell from his face to his lap.  This was the first time he'd ever heard it spoken aloud by someone else, much less someone he knew and called friend. Or had once. Who knew, after this?

Jake paced back and forth across the basement floor, still hefting the pie in one hand, shaking his head, considering how he had been the one who had been duped here.  He looked at Christian, still there on the floor, and he still smiled at the shape he was now in.  He walked over to his gym buddy and Christian braced himself to be told any number of things. "Don't ever talk to me again."  "Steer clear of me at the gym."  "Find someone else to get you off."

Instead, Jake said, "Hold out your hands."

Gingerly, Christian did, and Jake placed the pie plate with its pile of collected goo in his friend's hands.  He then took several steps back.  

"So, what are you, then?"

Christian looked up at him, a bit confused. "What?"

Jake spoke sternly. "You just told me what you are. Say it to me again."

"I—I'm a stooge?"

Jake shook his head.  "No, with conviction. If that's who you really are."

Christian felt himself become a little defensive. "Whuh—but it is! I mean, I am."

"Then say it."  Jake stood tall, his hands behind his back.

"I'm a stooge."

"C'mon, what is that? Feel it, it's your fucking identity, Chris!", Jake barked.  Christian was instantly reminded that his friend had spent years in the military. His authoritative presence came through loud and strong.

"I'm a stooge!" Christian sat up straighter.

Jake shouted, his face red. "Like you mean it! OWN it!"


Jake gestured with his index finger. Pointing at Christian, then spinning the finger harshly upward, toward the ceiling.  

Christian knew what it meant, but still hesitated a moment.  Jake leaned forward, a look of menace in his eyes.  Those eyes said one thing:  Do it NOW.


Christian slammed the pie into his own face with as much force as he could muster. More cream smashed into him, leaving goo and gunk all over him as his friend watched. It was humiliating. It was dehumanizing. It was utterly wonderful.

Christian began to peel the pie plate from his face, when Jake spoke up harshly. "Leave it there."  Immediately, Christian let his arms fall to his sides and sat up straight again. Waiting for further orders.  None came. Instead, Jake simply laughed at him.  It made Christian even more excited.

His mind raced. God, was this even happening? Was this hot, ripped gym bunny ex-military guy actually ordering him around, making him pie himself, then laughing at him? It was a gay stooge's dream come true.  Finally, Jake's laughter began to subside.

"Okay, take the plate off", Jake allowed. As Christian reached up, Jake added with a strong tone, "Slowly."

Slowly, Christian peeled the pie plate off his smothered face, revealing all the goop that covered him. Jake burst out laughing all over again, as if he'd seen it for the first time. Christian began to laugh too.  He looked up, unable to see anything through the banana cream, and spat out a bit of pie filling so he could breathe. "Pttht!"  The sight of it made Jake howl.

After stumbling around again, clutching his sides and pointing at his fallen pal, Jake gathered himself enough to stand upright and look Christian over. "You fucking idiot. You absolute total moron."  

Christian held his hands out in a "What can I say?" gesture and just said, "Stooge."

Jake shook his head, snorting back more laughter.  "Okay, this was so not the way I ever imagined I'd be spending this evening."  He started for the stairs and the way out.  He paused on the lower landing and looked back at Christian.  "Same time at the gym tomorrow then", he said offhandedly.  "Oh, and on the way home—I'll spring for the pies."

With that, the muscular man made his way up and out, as casually as if he'd just stopped by for a drink and the sports scores. When Christian heard the door close, he finally exhaled and allowed the experience to fill his head, leaving his mind to swim.

Christian's dick throbbed and pulsated. He knew he'd have to give it release before his balls exploded.  He also knew that it would not take much to fire off a tremendous orgasm tonight.  Not after all this.  As Christian's sticky hands groped for his button fly, he was already looking forward to tomorrow night.


The next evening at the gym, Christian and Jake went through their workouts in silence.  There were a few comments here and there, such as "Spot me" or "Put that at 350, will you?", but nothing beyond that.  Christian felt sure there was a metaphorical elephant in the middle of the room.  He maintained the silence right along with Jake, but part of him wanted to blurt out something like, "So, you found out last night that I'm into pie-in-the-face humiliation and even got manipulated into getting me off by it. Other than that, how're things?"  He decided that silence was better.

Halfway through their run on the treadmills, Christian could stand it no longer and said, "Look, about last night. It was fun and all I appreciate you doing it, I really do, but you don't have to do it again if you don't want to. I mean, if you're uncomfortable with it—"

"Three", was all Jake said, interrupting him.

"What?", Christian said, momentarily losing step on his treadmill. "What do you mean, three what?"

"I'm thinking we pick up three of them tonight", he said, still facing straight ahead as he ran in place.  Then looking directly at Christian, he said, "Three pies. If I'm springing for them and all, I should be able to pick the number. The banana cream worked really well. We should get three of those."

Christian picked up his pace as his excitement grew. He stabbed a finger at the console before him, resetting his speed. "What? You sure? I mean, you're sure you want to—"

Jake was looking forward again. "I'm sure."

Christian couldn't keep his trap shut.  "I mean, that's great, I'm in for sure, but you just found out what I'm into—"

Jake waved a dismissive hand. "Fft! I also found out I'm into doing it to you. Now how about we shut the fuck up about it before somebody passing by overhears us and thinks I boned you last night?"

Christian clammed up, but was grinning like an idiot. He kept running at a rapid clip, but not to reach the end of his timed set on the treadmill.  Now Christian was racing towards the end of his workout and all that awaited him at home.


This time, rather than wait out in the truck, Jake came into the bakery with Christian and was given the grand tour of the pie section, and introduction to the staff who were working that night, and which pies were the best to use for their rarified endeavor.  Jake sprang for three large banana creams.  Everyone in the bakery smiled accordingly and thanked them graciously.  Jake picked up that they seemed to know precisely what the baked goods would be used for.

Back at Christian's home, Jake was impressed to find that the basement was once again spotless and fresh plastic had been placed over the walls and floor.  The area smelled of pine cleaner, fresh and appealing.  Christian had the cleanup down.  Christian grabbed his stool and sat himself down with all due haste.

"Okay, let me have it!", he urged.

Jake looked him over and frowned. "Not the stool", he said. "I don't want you falling off and killing yourself.  Get rid of it."

The tone in Jake's voice was not cruel or demanding, but there was still an edge of authority there. Christian did not hesitate and put the stool in the corner right away.  He then stood in the middle of the plastic tarp and spread his arms wide.


Jake rubbed his chin, thinking. "A little. Have we got something where we can position you a little closer to the ground?"

"I can sit on the floor again", Christian offered.  He rather liked that image. A grown man, forced to sit on the floor like a little kid.

"No, no, not that", Jake said.  "Not yet."  He looked around and his eyes came to rest upon the old desk at the far end of the basement.  "Grab the desk chair", Jake commanded.

Without thinking that Jake was much closer to it, Christian ran over and grabbed the old, somewhat worn, office chair.  It sat a bit low from years of use, with recessed padding and stiff metal arms.  Christian wheeled it over to the center of the plastic tarp and sat himself down in it.

"Better", Jake said.  Christian was all smiles.  Jake began to open up the first pie box as he eyed his target. Something still wasn't right.  "You're dressed so normally", Jake observed. Christian tilted his head forward in confusion. Pardon?  Jake clarified.  "You should be in a clown suit or a jester outfit or something. Show you're a stooge."

"Or a tuxedo or something else really respectable-looking to bring me down a peg", Christian suggested.

"Heh, I like the way your mind works", Jake added. "But you'd do better as a clown."

Jake withdrew the pie and tossed the empty box aside. He reeled back but then stopped.

"What?", Christian asked. "What's wrong?"  Was he having second thoughts? Was he going to back out?

Jake said, "Take off your clothes."

"What??", Christian asked, caught totally off-guard.

"The tasteful polo shirt and slacks just aren't doin' it for me.  Strip to your shorts", Jake told him.

Christian was getting harder by the second. "Um, are you sure? You want to try this with me—"

"Move it, Stooge!", Jake hollered.

"Yes, sir!", Christian answered. Obediently, he stripped off his clothes, tossing them aside carelessly until he was reduced to only his snug white jockeys. they did very little to hide his erection.  Jake snorted a derisive laugh at him.  It only made Christian harder.

"So what are you, then?", Jake asked, leadingly.

Christian squirmed a bit, feeling totally exposed standing there on the sheets of plastic, dressed only in his jockeys. An odd sensation considering both men had seen each other naked in gym locker rooms.  He cleared his throat before answering.

"Uh...I'm a stooge."  Jake inclined his head forward, hinting that something was missing.  Christian quickly added, "Sir."

"Siddown, stooge."

Christian complied.

Jake began to pace back and forth in front of the near-naked Christian.  "So why do you think I should hit you with this pie, stooge?"  He was going to make Christian ask for it.  Oh, man. 

"Be-because I want it. Sir."

Jake began to heft the pie in his hand, up and down, up and down, slowly.  He shook his head.  "No, no, no, stooge. What's the real reason I should throw it?"

Christian's head swam. God, what the hell was this, 20 questions? He didn't want to play a quiz game, he just wanted to experience some much-anticipated humiliation! He wanted to be the stooge. The light bulb came on over Christian's head.  He spoke, quietly, submissively.

"Because I deserve it, sir."

Jake made a sincere frowny-face and nodded, considering this. Good answer.  "And why do you deserve it, stooge?"

"Be-because I really need to be humiliated."

"Damn right you do. And why is that, do you suppose?" Jake turned to face Christian, who was practically quaking in his chair.

"Because I'm a stooge."

"WHAT are you??", Jake hollered, military style.

"I'm a STOOGE!"


Christian caught the first pie full in the face. His head snapped backward with the impact and the chair he was in rolled a bit on its rickety wheels, traveling several inches before catching on the plastic beneath it.  Christian felt the cream, the goop, all over his face, covering his eyes, going up his nose, filling his world with the smell of ripe bananas.  He was utterly humiliated and debased. He was hard as a rock.

The pie plate came free from his face as Jake pried it away with two fingers. he already had the second pie ready to fire.  Jake's voice was all business. "You want the next one, huh?"

Christian nodded his head yes. He was still blinded by all the pie filling, the goo that coated his face. But he wanted more. 

"What do you say?", Jake prompted.

"Pweese, thir!", Christian said from beneath the mound of banana cream.

"Why?", Jake asked, teasingly.

"Bekuth I'm'a thooge! I deserff id!!"


The second pie put Christian back against the wall. He squirmed in his chair as he felt spatter coat his bare arms, chest, and legs. His vision was obscured, but he could imagine how foolish, how stupid, he looked. He relished it. He tried to move the plate from his face, but it was truly stuck fast.  Then he realized with a twinge of panic that it was being held there, forcibly.  Jake's powerful hand was pressing the pie into Christian's face.

"What are you, son?", he barked.  Christian fought against the pressure, unable to speak at all with so much goop pressed upon him. He opened his mouth to speak and only brought in a huge wad of banana cream. He swallowed it gratefully. Never had defeat tasted so sweet.

"You don't breathe until you confess", Jake said, although his tone was more playful than cruel.

Christian forced himself to say it. "IY UH THOOGTHE!!"  More cream went in his mouth. It was delicious. Delicious, tasty humiliation.

"Damn right you are", Jake said, swiping the pie upward over Christian's face, allowing him clear breathing while smearing it upon him all the more.

Jake laughed.  His taunting, ridiculing guffaws only made Christian love it more. Yes, let me have it. Humiliate me.

Jake had one more pie in hand. "Uncover your eyes, stooge", he ordered.

Christian swiped the thick cream away from his eyes so he could see. There stood Jake, tall and imposing (he had also taken his shirt off, making him appear even more impressive for all his muscles, spattered with dollops of cream), brandishing the final fresh pie.

"Hands behind the chair", Jake commanded. Christian obeyed instantly.  "You get off on this, stooge-boy?"  Christian nodded.

"Yes sir, I do, sir."

"Stooge!" Jake let fly with the last pie. THWAPP!!  Right into Christian's crotch.

Jake could not help but laugh.  He was truly enjoying Christian's humiliation, but not as much as Christian was.  Jake looked down at his friend, covered in pies, looking like a complete imbecile, still quivering with barely-held laughter.  "You liked that, didn't you, stooge?", Jake asked.

Christian looked down at his saturated jockeys, pie filling everywhere around his crotch and abs, and his boner was still clearly evident for all the mess, protruding upward beneath his moist briefs, poking through all the cream.  Christian, having the time of his life, pointed to his massive erection. "Hello? What do you think?"

Jake's hardened, military voice was back. "What was that? Is that the proper response for a lowly stooge to make??"

"No sir!", Christian said back quickly, reflexively. "I mean, yes sir, I enjoyed that very much. Thank-you, I love being humiliated, Sir!"  His back and shoulders were now as stiff as his cock.

Jake burst out laughing again. The loud sounds of his amusement relieved all tension created by his role-playing (or was that all that it was?) and Christian relaxed again, grinning once more.  Jake scooped up as much pie filling as he could from the floor and the walls and refilled the three pie tins into cobbled-together, gooey messes.  

"Hold out your hands", he told Christian.  Christian rapidly obliged.  Jake set two of the pie tins, overflowing with clusters of cream, into Christian's hands.  One tin in each hand. Christian looked down at them expectantly.  Then he looked up at Jake, whose smile now appeared just a bit menacing.

"Sandwich yourself", Jake said.  Christian's face, even beneath its coating of cream and filling, broke into a broad smile.  Oh, yes. This was what he wanted. Jake was telling him to smash both pies into himself, one on either side of his head. The hesitation created by his moment of anticipation did not set well with Jake the control freak.  "Stooge! Sandwich yourself NOW!!"

"Sir! Yes, sir! Stooge sandwich NOW, sir!"  FWAMMM!!

Christian smashed the two pies into his head, sending cream and goop hurtling everywhere around him.  Thick cream oozed into his ears, dulling the sound of the room.  The banana filling gwished into his hair, ran down the back of his neck and down toward his ass.  The thick pie mess went up his nose, covered his eyes, and stuck fast under his chin.  Jake walked over, his loud laughter muted slightly by all the cream, and placed his meaty hand atop Christian's head, gripping him tight and holding the two pie plates in place.

With the other hand, Jake swatted Christian's hands away.  Christian sat there as Jake guffawed , holding the tins and much of their contents fast to his head.  Christian could only make out part of what his friend and controller was saying, but was certain he heard "idiot", "jackass", "clown", and of course "stooge" several times.  Jake gripped Christian's head and asked him a question there was no way the human pie target could answer from within his helmet of glop.  "Are you just a big stoo-pid stooge? Is that what you are??" Like a schoolyard bully harassing the weakest kid in class, Jake used his grip on Christian's head to make him forward, back and forth, up and down.  Yes, yes, I'm a big "stoopid" stooge.  Under his blindfold of humiliating pie and crust, Christian was sure he was about to shoot his load right then and there.

Jake laughed even harder as he slowly peeled away the twin pie tins from Christian's head, having to take a break to wander the room and regain his composure. This took some time, as he kept stopping to point and laugh at his fallen friend.  All Christian could think about was what heaven this entire scene was.

Finally, Jake gathered up every bit of cream, crust, and filling he get from around the room and off the plastic.  He even scooped some of the pie spatter from Christian's chest and face.  Jake piled it all very high on the final pie tin.  He then took Christian's hands, holding them out firmly, and placed the last hodge podge pie upon his victim's palms. He then stepped back.  Once clear, he said only one thing.

"You know what to do."


Christian brought the pie right into his face with both hands.  Cream everywhere, a demeaning sound of bakery glop against flesh, and far worse than before, Christian was utterly decimated.  He was humiliated, belittled, reduced to an object of ridicule.  Christian went to remove the pie tin and Jake said firmly, "Leave it!"  Christian left it.

Jake padded over to Christian softly and placed a hand firmly against the pie plate, pressing the mass of smashed pie gunk against his victim's face.  But he did so almost gently, rubbing more than forcing the volumes of banana cream and shattered crust into Christian's  forehead, chin, and cheeks.  Just loud enough for his friend to hear him, Jake spoke in low tones.

"You feel that, Chris?"

Christian attempted to say "Yes, sir", but got a mouthful of pie cream for his trouble, so instead he nodded. Only a slight nod, enough to acknowledge the question of his tormentor, but not enough to come loose from his grip. Jake continued speaking soft and low.

"Feels good, doesn't it, Chris?  Feels like humiliation."  Jake began to slowly and gently smear the pie into Christian's face in an easy circular pattern.  "All that cream, that filling, those bits of feels so good.  Feel it, Chris. Experience it. Fully absorb how utterly humiliating it is.  How much you love it, how much you deserve it."

Christian's body began to quiver just a bit. He had never felt so aroused, so hard, in his life.  

"It feels like defeat, doesn't it, Chris?", Jake went on.  "It feels like you have been made into the biggest stooge in the world.  That soft, gooey, sticky, creamy mess aalllll over you", and Jake smeared the pie a little more over Christian's face as emphasis, "feels ssoooo good, soooo humiliating, soooo much what you deserve."

Christian nodded again. Yes, this was what he deserved, this felt so unbelievably good.  Jake said, "Just sit there as a stooge and let yourself feel every little bit of this. It feels wonderful, it's part of who you are.  It IS who you are.  You know that."

Christian nodded again slightly, his breathing becoming a bit more of a challenge through the layers of cream, but the humiliation was so exquisite he simply didn't care.

"Stay aware of all that you feel", Jake said quietly, sounding a bit farther away.  "Can you feel everything?  All the sticky softness and humiliating cream?"  Christian's body was like a limp rag.  He tied to nod in response to the question but it felt more as if his head just sort of lolled to one side a bit.  "Be aware, little stooge.  Feel this, now.  Feel it."

There was a soft PWAP and Jake smeared a mass of pie cream all over Christian's crotch.  "Do you feel that?"  Christian's arousal doubled. As Jake pressed a plate of leftover cream all over Christian's cock and balls, Christian realized the reason Jake's voice had seemed distant for a moment there was that Jake had been scooping up any remaining bits of pie to do this.  It feel incredible.

"Feel that now, Chris, my little stooge", Jake said, slowly and firmly working the pie into Christian's crotch.  Pressing and smearing it all over his dick and abs.  "Oohh, that feels soooo good, doesn't it?  This is what gets a miserable little stooge off, isn't it? Being pied, being reduced to an idiot. Letting everyone see him for the moron that he is.  Thaaat's right."  

Christian's body convulsed involuntarily.  This was never part of the deal, but it felt so good, so amazing. Lightning bolts or sheer pleasure shot through Christian's body, emanating from his rock hard member.  The cream, the steady pressure, the taunting, was driving him wild.  He reached up with limp arms to take the pie tin from his face, to at least try to clear his head by taking in some unobstructed air.

"That stays, Chris", Jake said, his voice still soft and melodic, but with just enough firmness that Christian immediately let his arms drop dead to his sides.

Before Christian could try anything else, Jake furthered his erotic torment.  Christian could feel Jake's strong but nimble fingers reach underneath the pie plate and massage his balls, slipping here and there for all the thick cream, which had saturated his jockeys.  Christian whimpered, jerking backward a few inches, totally unprepared for how good this all felt.  Jake steadied him with his words.

"Just feel it, stooge.  Thaaaat's right. Just feel it, now."

Christian's breath came in staccato, ragged gasps, making him swallow blobs of cream as he did, which he swallowed gratefully, accentuating the experience all the more. Jake pulled Christian's soaked jockey shorts down and let them hook underneath his stooge's creamed testicles. His lithe fingers continued to massage his balls.  

"Feel that, stooge, feel it, now." Christian couldn't help but feel it. The sensation had taken over his entire body.

Jake's fingers reached up and, wrapping gently around the shaft of Christian's cock, slowly began to pump it, up and down. "Feel it, stooge.  Feel how good humiliation can be.  This is you, Chris. This is the life of a stooge.  This is how it feels to be a stooge. Doesn't it feel so, so very good?"

Christian's shoulders tensed and he was right on the edge.  He wanted so badly to shoot his load, but somehow Jake was keeping him there, unable to go further, unable to feel anything but wave upon wave of tantalizing, if humiliating, pleasure.

Jake's firm, strong hand had somehow gone back to the outside of the pie plate and was pressing it and it's creamy contents into Christian's cock and balls.  The cream seemed to be everywhere, the sensations even more so.

"It's okay to be a stooge, Chris", his soft and soothing voice intoned.  "It's okay to be who you are...what you are.  Just feel it. Let go and feel it."  Jake firmly rubbed the pie and all its creamy goo upwards, caressing Christian's balls, then all the way up his hard cock. "You can feel it. Juusst let it go..."

And Christian shot his load. It was if his pie master Jake had given him permission to do so. And what a load it was.  As Christian's body was wracked with one of the best orgasms he'd ever had in his life, he thought he heard Jake whispering encouragement, but from within the world of sensual ecstasy he was now experiencing, he could not be sure.  He didn't know that he was following Jake's whispered command when he muttered a mantra to himself with every jerk of his over stimulated body as stream after stream of cum shot into the mound of banana cream that covered his crotch.


Christian jerked and came and quivered for some time, he wasn't sure how long.  After his body finally came to rest and all that was left was the heat in his face his chest melting the pie cream that stuck there and a tingle upon his skin, Jake's voice came from above him, a bit stronger but still soft and soothing.

"Now that's what I call a cream pie." 

Christian felt Jake lean down before him and he said, "Feel it now, stooge." Jake slowly smeared the pie upon Christian's face upward, dragging the pie plate up and over, leaving a thick trail of gooey filling in its wake. "Feel the thick and creamy dehumanization. Feel it cling and hang on your face, feel it drag along. Thaaaat's right. So good, so good to be humiliated, to accept and feel what you are.  You're a stooge, it's alright, it's okay, you can say it, you can think can believe it."

Christian's penis was beyond feeling aroused, but every other part of him felt alive and buzzing as Jake smeared the pie upward and left the pie tin atop Christian's head like a stupid silver hat. Inside, Christian's mind kept right on with his mantra.  "Ohhh yes, this is me, this is what I am, I'm a stooge, I'm a stooge..."

After Jake stepped back from his pet stooge, he said, "Clear your eyes, Chris."

Unsteadily, Christian's lifted his arms (God, they were so heavy) up and with groping fingers, gingerly wiped away enough cream to see the world before him. As soon as he could blink his eyes open without having any cream fall into them, Christian let his arms fall limply back to his sides.  They hit the wet plastic with thick slap.  Christian could not help but grin.

Instantly, Jake was directly before him.  He held Christian's chin in a strong, commanding hand and said, "Look into my eyes, stooge.  Look good and hard.  You see my eyes?  Are your eyes locked with mine?"

Numbly, Christian nodded. He suddenly felt that he could not move. What was happening?

"That's good, stooge", Jake went on.  "Now I want you to count backwards from one hundred.  After you say each number, you will punctuate it by saying that you are a stooge.  Let the numbers drift away like wisps of smoke, but let your declaration stay, embedding and burning itself further into your mind.  Do you understand?"

Christian nodded, dumbly.

"Count down", Jake ordered.

Christian began. "100, I'm a stooge...99, I'm a stooge..." his own voice seemed to come from very far away.

"98, I'm a stooge...97, I'm a stooge..." The numbers did indeed drift away from him as soon as he said them, his voice growing more soft and feeble.

"96, I'm a stooge...95..."  Where was he, now? He feared he was losing count, yet part of him knew that was okay. He was no longer aware of his body, of the lovely cream that covered and humiliated it.

"94, I'm a...stoo...a stooge..."  Cobwebs filled his head, his vision blurring.



Christian woke more than two hours later. He blinked and squinted his eyes open to find himself laying on the cold and spattered plastic tarp, whipped cream and banana filling everywhere.  His face and crotch were still covered in the now cold and in places, hardening, confectionary goo.  His jockeys were still yanked down below his balls, his arms lay limp out at his sides, his palms up. He felt exhausted, but he felt absolutely wonderful.  Like he was capable of anything, like he had come into his own. 

Jake was nowhere in sight. Christian slowly sat himself up, expecting to feel some kinks in his neck, back, and shoulders from passing out on the basement floor. But there weren't any. He staggered to his feet and slipped his way off the cream-smeared plastic and left a trail of sticky footprints up the stairs to the bathroom.

Once there, he flipped on the light and slid as much as stepped to the sink.  Looking in the mirror, he saw something sticking to his forehead, submerged within all the thick cream. A small piece if yellow paper.  Christian pried it out, trying not to tear it. Not easy feat amongst the half-hardening, half-melting cream.  It was a small sticky note (even more sticky now) with a strong scrawl on it he could only assume was Jake's.


Christian was already looking forward to it. Smiling, he threw the note away and took a shower to clean himself off. The basement cleanup could wait until morning.

Christian decided to sleep naked that night—something he never did—and masturbated himself to sleep, thinking of his big muscled friend Jake, bashing him with pies and calling him a stooge.


Christian wandered through the gym in a fog. He knew exactly where he was, and yet everything felt strange and unfamiliar.  He wandered from room to room, finding the place well-lit, clean, and ready for business, and yet completely empty.  He was the only one there.

Christian moved from to the workout machine area, somehow detached from his own body, not feeling his feet upon the floor, yet making progress all the same.  No one was there.  He moved to the free weights. Again, all was deserted.  No one running around the basketball court or playing hoops within it.  No one doing aerobics or on the mats.  He moved past the check-in counter to find locker keys, fresh towels and the sign-in register all prepared and out, with no one to assign, hand out, or take note of anything to anyone.

Christian found himself in the cardio room, having no memory of how he got there.  Empty treadmills, elliptical cross trainers, and exercise bikes lined the room before a row of TV sets embedded in the upper corner of the far wall, each screen bearing a sign beneath telling each member which station they could adjust their headsets to in order to hear the sound.  Except there was no one here to read them.

Christian wandered to the far corner for no other reason than that he did, and felt suddenly cold.  He looked down at himself and with an almost preternatural calm realized that he was naked. Had he been all along?  Did it matter, with no one to see him? He toyed with the idea of getting up on one of the treadmills and having a naked run when a voice made him turn around.

It was Jake, standing there fully clothed, making some smartass remark about how stupid it was for Christian to come to meet him at the gym without getting dressed first. Christian suddenly felt a flush of embarrassment and tried to cover himself with his hands. He looked down at his cock, which he couldn't seem to conceal completely with his hands, no matter how he adjusted them.

Christian then looked up to find that gathered around Jake was every guy from the gym. Correction: every hot guy from the gym.  Every member whom Christian had ever cruised, had ever given the eye, or even noticed peripherally (and there were a lot of them) all stood behind Jake, pointing and snickering at Christian's bare exposure. Jake made a snide remark at Christian's expense, and laughed loudly, causing Christian to feel genuine hurt and betrayal.  Christian's face reddened as all the handsome men laughed along with Jake, their beautiful faces appearing just a bit mean for the ridicule.

Christian was going to say something, was going to walk out, was going to do something when he saw that Jake had something in his hand.  A pie.

Oh, no, not here.  Not in front of everyone.

Christian began to protest, but Jake threw the pie, as if with some kind of super strength and unerring accuracy, across the large room and right in Christian's face.  Everyone howled uncontrollably and pointed at the naked idiot with a pie in his face. 

Christian clawed the pie off his face, throwing the tin down in disgust.  He went to say something to Jake to voice his feeling of betrayal, only to get another pie full in the face, another scathing remark from Jake, more uproarious laughter from all the handsome, muscular men. Christian stumbled back, the cream and goo almost flowing over his head of its own accord to saturate his hair, cover his head, dribble down his back.  Christian cleared his eyes and saw a great dollop of cream fall upon his slowly-stiffening member.

No, no...don't let everyone see that I get off on this...

Christian looked up from his plight to see that Jake now had two pies, one in each hand, held upward for all in the room to see. Jake turned in a slow circle as the other men (all in tight, clinging clothes of spandex or lycra, something they'd never worn before) cheered him on, chanting for more.  "PIE! PIE! PIE!"

Jake hammered the naked Christian with pies, one after the other, each blow punctuated with an insult from Jake, a name, an epitaph. There was no visible source of where the pies were coming from, they just appeared in Jake's hands as he needed them.

Christian spun in a circle, trying to get away from the unyielding onslaught, but found that getting pied on his bare ass only made the room more crazy with laughter, more eager to humiliate him.

Now everyone in the room wore no shoes, no shirts. Their shorts were either of the skintight biker's variety or were near-nonexistent Speedos. One or two wore impossibly small body things which consisted of only thin shoulder straps which stretched down to cover (just barely) their members.  They seemed to be the ones to laugh the loudest, point with the most vigor, repeat Jake's insults with the most gusto.

Jake hurled pie after pie, bashing and smashing the naked Christian mercilessly, Before Christian knew what was happening, two of the biggest weightlifters in the room had him from behind, one holding each of Christian's arms in an unbreakable grip.  Every man in the room descended upon Christian now, each one armed with pies, lined up to let him have it.  Everyone was naked now, but the only one who was ridiculed for it was Christian. Pie after pie was smashed into his face, squashed atop his head, smeared over his crotch, rubbed into his ass.  

Soon Christian could see nothing, but could feel the relentless attack of pies from beautiful men.  His bare feet slipped and danced on the now-slickened floor, but the two bruisers who gripped his arms held him upright to take his punishment.  A word filled the air, as every masculine voice raised in power and impact, declaring over and over, "STOOGE!  STOOGE!  STOOGE!"

And then there was that soft, persistent, irritating buzzing.

Christian woke up in bed, his breathing a bit labored. It had been one of those dreams were all logic told him it was a dream, it had to be a dream, but logic had no membership card to this illogical and humiliating gym, so it was denied entrance.  Christian shook his head slightly, reaching over and slamming his palm down upon the button of his alarm clock, silencing its buzzing.  He had to smile.  There were certainly worse dreams to have, he thought.  Although if he had known it was a dream while it was happening, he would have done a lot less to resist it.

Christian reached for the sheets covering him to throw them back when he realized there were none.  At some point during the night, he had thrown them off, leaving his naked body exposed.  That could have been the reason he dreamt of being naked in public. But as Christian began to sit up, he felt something else upon him, something sticky and wet. Pie cream? How as that possible--?

But when Christian looked down, he saw that he was covered in a cream of a different kind. Christian was coated in cum, from his belly all the way up to his neck.  His member was still semi erect, and was bobbing slightly. He must have only just shot before the alarm went off.  He had not had a wet dream since he was a kid in junior high school.  He also couldn't believe he had that much in him. Christian closed his eyes and called back part of the dream. The beautiful naked men, holding him in place, smashing him with pies, chanting in ridicule, the vision so intense, so detailed... He felt his dick getting hard again.  Christian shook off the memory and decided to focus instead on the shower he would have to take.


That evening at the gym, all was very normal. The fitness center bustled with people and employees , no empty rooms with naked or barely-clad men waiting anywhere in ambush.  There was only the steady workings of machinery and equipment, the low hum of headphones and televisions, the radio being played behind the main counter. No chants of ridicule or cheered insults. The only aroma was that of freshly-sprayed cleansers, fighting to disperse the scent of perspiration.  No banana cream to be sniffed anywhere. It was nice to be back to reality.

Christian pulled his gym card from his wallet, and as he set it down on the counter, he noticed another man slinging a towel over his shoulder and pinning his newly-assigned locker key to his gym shorts.  The guy was gorgeous. 5'11", thick strawberry blond hair, red and blue tanktop and matching shorts with white piping snugly wrapped around the smooth-shaven build of a gymnast.  As the man looked up, brushing a lock of hair from his face, Christian caught his eye. The man smiled a winning smile and, adjusting his gym bag on his shoulder, said, "Hi. I'm Rory."

Christian smiled back, and said, "I'm a stooge."

Rory's face fell. He looked at Christian as if he'd just announced that he'd shat himself and backed away a few steps, then spun on his heels and departed the area rapidly.

Christian bit his lips. Holy crap, had he just said that? At first he was mortified, but then couldn't help but laugh. It was just a slip, that's all, he decided, shaking his head.  Too much fun last night and then dwelling on that wet dream during the day. He let it go.  he took his towel and locker key from the young clerk, who offered with a smile, "Have a good workout, stooge."

Christian stopped in mid-step as he was walking away. He looked askance at the clerk.  "What did you say?"

The clerk looked at him oddly, and with a bit or apprehension repeated, "Um, have a good workout, sir."

Christian just nodded dumbly.  "Sure.  Thanks."  Weird.


As Christian and Jake ran on the treadmills after a rather successful workout, Christian noted Rory, the beautiful strawberry blond, entering the room.  He looked even better when sprinkled with sweat. He was heading for the stationary bikes when he saw Christian on the treadmills.  Christian gave him a quick nod and a nervous smile.  Rory turned tail and left the room in a hurry.

"Who the hell was that?", Jake asked.

"Guy I met downstairs at the front desk", Christian told him.  "Said his name's Rory."

"And?", Jake prompted.

"And I said my name was Stooge, more or less", Christian admitted.

Jake snorted back a burst of laughter and almost lost his footing on the treadmill.

"It's not funny", Christian chided.

"It is pretty damn funny", Jake said, smiling and trying not to laugh.

Christian had to smile, too. "Yeah, I guess it is pretty funny."

They continued to laugh together as they ran.


At Christian's basement, Christian stripped once again down to his jockeys (a clean pair this time) and smoothed out the plastic on the floor.  The plastic sheeting was a godsend when the time came for cleanup, but he was going through his stock like wildfire. 

"It smells like someone's been baking pies with Pine Sol", Jake commented as he came down the stairs.

"I do my best when cleaning up", Christian explained, "but the lingering aroma of delectable banana cream tends to remain.

"I brought you something to keep your mind off it", Jake grinned. He held of a handful of T-shirts.

"You brought me shirts to wear after having me strip down to my underpants", Christian observed dryly.

"Oh, they're better than that", Jake smiled.  He unfolded one of the shirts while tossing the others over one arm.  The shirt was brand new, freshly silk-screened. In bold black block letters, it read I'm a Stooge.

Christian almost blinked at it.  "No way."

"Way", Jake said. "Look, there's more." Jake unfurled the next shirt, which bore a dictionary definition upon it.  stooge (stooj) n. 1. A willing dupe.  2. A fool or imbecile to be humiliated by others.  3. Me.

"You've got to be kidding me", Christian said.  "Do you actually expect me to put on those—"

Jake cut him off. "There's more, there's more."  He showed the other shirts to his friend.  One said PIE TARGET across the chest, with a large red arrow pointing upward to where the wearer's head would be. Another said  Needs to be humiliated. Jake was almost giggling with delight as he lay down the different shirts for Christian to see and sample. 

"Where did you get all these??", Christian asked, marveling at how anyone could have found such shirts that so specifically matched him, much less found them so quickly.

"You have no clue what I do for a living, do you, stooge?"  Christian flinched a little at being called that when outside of play, especially after his flub earlier with the cute guy at the gym.  "I run a trophy shop. Scrimmage Sports & Apparel. I screened these off today at work. And these are just the ones I brought with me."

Christian held up one shirt and shook his head slowly, side to side. "No. There is no way I'm wearing one of these things."

Jake stepped forward, holding one of the shirts up before him. "Why's that?  Too much dignity to protect? What are you, Chris?  What aarrrree youuuu--?" Christian tried to turn away, but he could feel his body swaying a bit, his muscles strangely relaxed, his resistance faltering, and his dick growing incredibly hard.

In less than a minute, Jake was shirtless and armed with several pies. Christian stood before the plastic-covered back wall, wearing only his jockeys...and a well-fitting T-shirt reading I'm a Stooge.


And that's exactly what he was.


The following morning, Christian awoke with a sense of purpose and a feeling of exhilaration. He'd had no fantastical wet dreams during the night, but given that he'd spent the evening dressed only in degrading T-shirts and jockey shorts as he was pounded with pies by his friend Jake, he really didn't need any. Jake hadn't jerked Christian off using pies as he'd done previously, but he did force Christian to declare himself by whatever was written on his T-shirt at the time. Christian had to announce to Jake loudly, and in a voice full of confident humility (a term of Jake's design, an oxymoron if ever there was one) that he was, "A pie target, Sir!" or that he "Needs to be humiliated, Sir!", and of course the all-time favorite, that "I'm a Stooge, SIR!!!"  After all of that, laid out on the plastic tarp, creamed and pulverized by pies, his demeaning T-shirts of the moments stuck fast to his body, Christian came all on his own amidst the piles of banana filling and broken crust.  He was certain that Jake must have known that he'd come—and more than once—during their scene play, but other than laughing and pointing at him, Jake did nothing to indicate he'd noticed.

But this morning all the mess had been cleaned up, the plastic rinsed off and discarded, the T-shirts carefully laundered and folded neatly upon the old desk at the opposite end of the basement.  Today, with the image of the shirtless Jake still fresh in his mind, the muscular man ridiculing him for the stooge that he was, Christian made it a point to leave for work early enough to stop by the gym first.

Passing through the front doors of the gym, Christian was a bit surprised to find it just as busy, in fact more so, than it was when he usually came there in the evenings.  Exercisers crowded about, many of whom pursuing their workouts with extreme focus or abandon, most of them with eyes either on the clock or the various wall-mounted television sets, nearly of them set to news channels.  At the front desk, a number of gym members crowded in, handing back wet towels and locker keys in exchange for their membership cards before briskly exiting, each one clad in business suit or other smart professional wear, ready to start the day after getting their adrenaline pumping.

As one wave of fit business people departed the health room for the board room, Christian saw an opportunity to slip up to the counter and ask after what he needed.  There was a trio of attractive young men in matching red polo shirts working behind the counter with practiced efficiency, shifting easily from laundry cart to key and card slots to computer and register.  Christian almost hated to disturb their flow of motion in inquiring after the employee he wanted to see.

But then a voice to his left distracted him.  "Head on over to the Kaisers and I'll be with you shortly."  Christian turned to see the man he'd come for, sending a man in his mid-40s—who looked remarkably good for his age—on to begin his workout.

"Patrick Seymour, right?", Christian asked.

The beautiful man turned, clearly caught off-guard, and looked at Christian. "Yes?"

"You're a personal trainer, right? I was hoping I could set up some time with you."  Christian extended a hand.  "You come highly recommended."

There was a gleam of recognition in his eye, and then Patrick smiled.  His smile was every bit as beautiful as his body.  "Oh, yes! You're Jake's friend, right? He talks about you all the time.  Christian?"

"That's right. I'd really like to get more out of my workouts, thought you could help."

Patrick gave Christian a quick once-over assessment glance and remarked, "I have to admit you seem to be doing okay so far. What did you have in mind?"

"I'd like to add a bit more mass to my frame. Kind of bulk up, add some muscle."

Patrick smiled.  "And considering your workout buddy, you came to me for that?"  He laughed.

Christian felt suddenly defensive. Why was he laughing at him?  Does he somehow know I'm just a stooge? That I deserve to be humiliated? How could he know?? As soon as the thought came to him, Christian pooh-poohed it away. It was ridiculous.  Still, he asked, "What's so funny?"

Patrick seemed surprised.  "Well, Jake, of course."

Christian frowned, not understanding.  "Yeah, he said he trains with you..."

Patrick smiled again.  "Well, sure, I help him train, but only in regard to keeping him on track with his goals and discipline, which he barely needs. He's helped me more than I help him. You must've figured that out."

Christian was feeling very much the stooge now. The straight man being set up for a fall.  "No, why would I?"

Patrick still smiled as he answered, "Why, he's a hypnotist. And a damn good one, I might add. Board Certified and everything. He's helped me with my focus and achievement more than I ever could have anticipated. I'll be happy to put something on the books for you, but you could just get as much working with Jake. I probably shouldn't say that, given that I am an official trainer here, but you can hardly do better than Jake to get you going."

Christian was a bit stunned.  "Is that right?"

"Sure, whatever you imagine yourself as, however you want to see yourself, Jake is the man who can make you believe anything about yourself and then make you do it. But hey, if you'd like, I'd be more than happy to put something in the books for us."  He jerked a thumb toward the other room.  "I have a client waiting by the Kaisers. Good to see you again, though."  And he trotted off at a rapid walk.  "We'll talk later!"

Christian turned and wandered off himself, in something of a daze. He knew how he'd always seen himself, and lo and behold, Jake had certainly made him believe and do it.  Christian stepped out into the parking lot and over to his car and off to work, feeling even more like a stooge than he had before.


That night in his basement, Christian stood before his friend (his hypnotist?) in only his jockeys and another demeaning T-shirt—this one reading Please Hit Me With A Pie —as Jake set up an array of pies around the room within easy reach.  Christian was fidgeting a bit, unsure of how to bring up the topic of Jake being a hypnotist, of whether of not his muscular friend had put the whammy on him.  It was one thing to play at being a stooge, but to actually be remade into one...  Christian cleared his throat.  Jake didn't notice, kept placing pies around the room in strategic spots.


Jake didn't bother to look up.  He was spacing the pies along the floor very methodically. "Yeah?"

"Uh, there's something I kind of want to talk about, um, that is—"

Jake looked up at him. "Change of plans, Chris. We're mixing it up. Lose the jockey shorts."

Christian completely lost his train of thought. Lose his underwear? Be naked from the waist down, wearing only the stupid insulting T-shirt?  "Whuh?  What do you—I mean, why?"

"We're mixing it up. No jockeys. Take 'em off."  Then Jake's tone changed, almost imperceptivity.  "You want to take them off."

Christian was already sliding the small briefs down his legs and stepping out of them before he was even fully aware of what he was doing. Yeah, yeah, I do want to take them. This is my decision. Lose the jockeys.  Jake grinned.  

"Good boy."

Standing there with his penis hanging out, his custom-made T-shirt declaring his fondest request, Christian tried to regain his train of thought.  "Yeah but, there's this thing I need to ask you—"

Jake turned around to face Christian, he too was only partially clothed, his shirt off, smooth, firm muscles of chest and abs exposed, gently hefting a huge pie in his hand.  "Sure, whatever, but can we do it after?"  

Christian's eyes rested on the pie, then followed down Jake's large arm to his powerful body, which so easily created a feeling of dominance, and in his victim a feeling of absolute submission.  Christian felt himself get hard and it was more than clear to Jake that he was rarin' to go.

"Looks like Little Chris is all set.  It can wait, stooge."

Christian nodded.  "Yes, sir. It can wait. But after, don't let me forget that I wanted to—"


Christian stumbled backwards, cream and crust everywhere, his face a mass of gloppy humiliation.  From underneath all the thick filling he let out his best muffled cry of, "Thank-you, sir! I'm a stooge, sir!!"  And indeed he was.


By the end of their session, which had lasted more than an hour and a half of pieing and humiliating role enacting and wordplay, Christian sat naked on the floor, covered thickly head to tie in pie impact and spatter.  His T-shirts with all their demeaning phrases had been shucked off and set aside, each one soaked through and reeking of banana cream.  Jake was still laughing.  To him, this would never get old.

Coming down from the high of the experience, Christian internally scrambled to collect his wits and his concerns.  He needed to ask Jake if he had hypnotized him covertly, without his knowledge.

"Jake, now that the fun's over", Christian began.

"Oh, I wouldn't say it's over", Jake smiled, then added, "and what's my title, stooge?"

Christian caught himself. "Oh. Right. Sorry."  He sat up a little straighter and rephrased, "Now that the fun's over, Pie Master Sir—"

"Thaaat's better, stooge", Jake said, his domineering voice returning.  Jake had added their new means of proper address to the proceedings that night. He rather liked it.

"Anyway, like I was trying to say", Christian interjected quickly. He did not want to lose either his request nor his resolve to ask it in the moment of Jake's power trip.  "As much fun as all this has been", and he noticed a stern look from Jake.  "As much fun as it's been, SIR, I was thinking we should really take a break for a while.  You know, stop with the whole pie-stooge thing."

Jake took a step forward. "And why would we want to do that?"

"Wellll...we don't want it to get old or anything. Even the most fun pastimes can get dull and monotonous.  I just think, well, maybe it's time for a break is all."

"So you find me dull and monotonous, stooge?", Jake demanded, his voice rising.

Christian shook his head rapidly, flakes of crust and globs of cream falling from his face into his lap.  "No! No sir, Pie Master Sir, not at all!"  His mind scrambled for a plausible excuse to get the control freak psycho he thought was his friend out of his house.  "It's just...I'm a bit concerned that maybe I would make it dull and monotonous."  yeah, that sounded workable.  "I mean, I just sit here and take it. You do all the work and I'd end up leaving you with no give and take.  We should quit while we're ahead."

Jake took note of the upgrade in Christian's intentions from taking a break to quitting altogether. He said nothing about that, but was quick to add, "Nah. It'll never happen. I wouldn't let it. What's your name, anyway?"

Christian let out a slow breath. This was going to be harder than he thought. Dully, he answered, "Stooge."  He was caught off guard as Jake's entire tone and demeanor changed.

"No, no, buddy. I mean, what's your real name?  The one on your birth certificate, your driver's license?  The one your mother gave you."

Christian titled his head slightly, wondering why his tormentor would ask this. But he relaxed a bit, as it was an easy enough question to answer.  "Sure, Jake. My name's..." and he drew a complete blank.

Jake smiled a broad smile, saying nothing yet.

Christian sat up a little straighter. Okay, this was odd. "Uh, my name is..." Again, nothing.  He ran his hand through his hair, smearing more of the pie there, the thick goop coating his fingers, some of it falling to the floor in small blobs.  He tried again.

"I'm, um, I' name name...what the hell is my name??"

Jake began to pace back and forth, grinning widely.  "It's like when you're trying to remember a specific word", he stated aloud to no one.  "A particular synonym, or a place name, the name of an old actor.  It's right there on the tip of your tongue, but you just...can't...reach it.  And the more you try, the greater effort you make, the more it eludes you. Your very attempts to grab that name, to hold that name, only pushes it farther and farther away. You simply cannot remember it, you can't recall it. good."

Jake spun on his heel to face Christian.  "What's your name?

"I don't know!"

"So you've actually forgotten your own name?"

"I can't remember!"

"Man, are you so fucking stupid you can actually forget your own damn name?", Jake taunted, reveling in Christian's confusion and anxiety.

"Yes! No!  Jake, this isn't funny!"

Jake sauntered around, picking up stray glops of pie, flicking them at Christian. "Oh I dunno, I think it's damn funny."

"Tell me my name!"  He scrunched his shoulders and held up his arms as bits and chunks of pie were tossed at him.

"Maybe I should be on my way", Jake said casually. "It has been and awfully long and exhilarating night, and I'd say my work is done here."  Jake leaned back in an exaggerated gesture, jerking his head toward the clock at the far end of the room, by the old writing desk.  Christian glanced at the clock and could not believe so much time had already gone by.  Time flies and all that.  But he realized that a part of the whirl of pie-throwing, humiliating fun was a blank, a blur.  Did he remember the whole thing?  Which part was missing?  What hypnotic trickery had Jake pulled this time?

"Jake, what did you do with my name?", Christian asked forcefully, trying to sound as if he meant business.  

Jake looked at him, sitting on the floor covered in pie, naked from the waist down, his shirt saturated and clinging to him.  He certainly did not look as if he meant business, and he absolutely did not like a man who posed any threat. 

"I didn't do anything with your name", Jake said.  "You're the clueless asshole who lost it."

"Jake!", Christian snapped.  "Enough's enough. Give me back my fucking name!!"

Jake leaned in toward Christian, his face quite dark. "Is that any way to speak to your betters, boy? IS it?!"

Christian's stomach rippled with anxiety and he knew he was at his friend's mercy.  He swallowed hard, a  bit of cream going down with his pride, and said, very softly, "I beg your pardon, Sir.  Mister Pie Master, Sir, may this lowly imbecile please have his name back, please, Sir?"

Jake smiled in a way that projected no humor.  "That's better. I like how you sniveled out 'please' a couple times, there."

"I'm glad this stupid, inferior clown could please you, Pie Master, Sir."  Christian's head dropped in defeat.

Jake stood tall above his pie victim and announced, "Since you asked nicely, I will give you your name back."

Christian kept his head down, but said clearly, "Thank-you, Sir."

Jake placed a pie tin he had picked up from the floor atop Christian's head.  It landed there with a dull, wet "thlunk!".  Upon its impact, Jake said, "There, I rechristen you with your name.  Say your name."

Christian had indeed felt something shift inside his head when the pie tin landed on him. As if something he'd long lost had been returned to him. Thank God.  Christian looked up and said firmly, knowing it was correct, "My name is Stooge." 

Jake burst into hysterical laughter.  Christian's eyes widened in terror.  He tried to say his name again.

"My name is Stooge. My name...I'm Stooge."  Jake kept laughing heartily.  Christian focused, his fingers to his temples, the thick cream there gooshing under his nails. "Stooge. Stooge!"  Christian searched his mind.  He saw the name on his business card.  Stooge.  He remembered his college applications form of years before, the name printed there by the dot matrix.  Stooge.  He thought of his name written in thick sharpie marker on the front of his third-grade classroom desk.  Stooge.  He recalled his mother calling him in from play when he was a little boy.  "Stoo-ooge! Time to get cleaned up for dinner, Stooge!"

Jake was laughing uproariously again.  Christian was visibly shaking.  He searched his mind and memory frantically and could only come to one inescapable conclusion.  His name was, and always had been, Stooge.  Except that he knew that it wasn't, and it hadn't.

" name is Stooge", Christian whispered in shock.  "It really IS Stooge!"  And yes, it really was.  Well, it was now, anyway. "What did you do to me, Jake??", Christian demanded, forgetting all protocol of how to address his Pie Master.  Jake didn't seem to care.  He snatched up his shirt from the back of the desk chair and flung it over his shoulder.  

"Weellll, I guess I'll be going then."

Christian started to clamber up, his bare feet slipping on the cream-smeared plastic sheet.  "NO, wait! You can't leave me like this! The only name I can remember is Stooge! You have to change it back! STOP!"

Already at the base of the stairs, Jake spun around and fiercely snapped his fingers at Christian. "Sit!!"

Immediately, Christian fell back down, his feet flying out from under him as if obeying their master before the one they were attached to could even register what they were doing. Christian's pie-covered bare ass hit the plastic with a wet slap.  His hands slapped the plastic sheet as he braced himself there, one arm on either side of himself. The instant his palms pressed against the wet sheeting, Christian could feel them glue themselves there, as if he'd accidentally planted his hands in quick-drying epoxy. He wasn't going anywhere.

Jake walked casually toward Christian, stopping halfway across the floor, still well away from the edge of the plastic and all the mess.  "This is what you wanted, pal. To be completely and utterly humiliated. And aren't you?"

Christian said nothing, his eyes staring daggers at his former friend who was now in complete control of him. 

Jake reiterated. "Aren't you?"

"Yes", Christian had to admit.

"Yeesss--?", Jake's voice trailed off.

"Yes, Sir."

Jake smirked.  "And you still into it? Being humiliated?"

"Not so much, Sir, no."

Jake shrugged. "Too bad."  And he walked away.

"Pie Master Jake, Sir!", Christian called. "Please, Sir, I am begging you, do NOT leave me like this. Come ON! Please!"

Jake turned slowly back to look over his shoulder at Christian, the pathetic stooge stuck like a fly on a no-pest strip.  "Nah, I'm not going to leave you like this, Stooge. Not after all you've done for me. I mean, you awakened a whole new pleasure for me I never even knew was there.  You gotta get something back for that. Apart from your humiliation, anyways."

Christian breathed a sigh of relief.  It had all been a game, then.  Mind control role-play.  Hallelujah.  "Thank-you, sir", he exhaled.

"Here's your treat", Jake said.  "A brand new trigger word."

Trigger word? What was that supposed to mea—

"Cream filling."

At those words spoken by Jake, Christian's entire body tensed. His dick was suddenly, devastatingly hard.  His balls were buzzing and Christian's body, stuck fast to the pie-smeared plastic sheeting, became awash with wave upon wave of sexual ecstasy.  And Christian came like he had never come before. An orgasm to end all orgasms shot like lightning through his member, pouring forth his seed in thick white ropes.

Christian threw his head back, caught in uncontrollable fits of pleasure. He moaned and gasped, his dick throbbing happily, his sperm erupting out in a geyser of his own personal cream filling. He had never, in all his years, felt anything this good.

The orgasm seemed to last forever. As if he would cum for hours. He lost all trace of time and place in a fog of sexual satisfaction.  At one point he groped desperately for his name, came up with only 'Stooge', and simply surrendered. His hips thrust and thrust, his load shot and shot.  Eventually he lost himself, this poor little mind-controlled stooge, to the overwhelming sensations and he felt himself fall backwards into the mists of sleep.

He never even heard Jake leave, locking the door behind him.


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 cream—and even the dried cum.  He hoped that it was his imagination.  He rushed to get dressed (shirt--need that shirt, it's clean--slacks, 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.


Jake was now going to work every day with one of his insulting T-shirts on under his clothes.  He no longer wore underwear.  He felt exposed and humiliated.  He had grown to hate that word.  His sales figures were up, his focus and achievement at work had improved, management was impressed with his performance, but he could not see it.  Once while meeting with a new influential client, Christian extended a hand, shook the other man's and smilingly introduced himself as "Stooge".  Inwardly, Christian flinched horribly, but no one seemed to notice or care.  Now it seemed that even when speaking his own real name, Christian heard only the word Stooge. Wonderful.

The sessions at the gym had gotten a bit shorter, or perhaps only seemed so.  His workout time flew by and his sets and endurance were above anything he had heretofore ever achieved.  Patrick was now his personal trainer and was amazed at Christian's progress.  After reaching a certain level of muscle mass, they began to work on tone.  If Christian chose to abandon his lucrative career in marketing he could easily have taken up a new line as an underwear model.

He received a merciless pieing every night from Jake, his Pie Master.  He could not cancel their meetings, could not turn him away, could not even lock the door.  He was compelled to let his Master in, descend to the basement together, strip buck naked before him (no T-shirts allowed anymore), and take his punishment.  It still felt fantastic, was still arousing, and still intoxicating.  Every morning Christian awoke under a coating of creamy goo feeling spiritually broken and degraded, trying in vain to ignore his raging hard-on.  By afternoon, he would vow to himself that the previous evening's session had been the last and that he would play the stooge no longer. And every night he let Jake the Pie Master in, calling him 'Sir' and shouting out his own name of "Stooge!" as he took pie after pie to the face, hammered and humiliated, insisting—begging—that he needed to be so demeaned.

Jake followed through on all his ideas and added chocolate cream pudding, lemon meringue, and mint fluff surprise pies to the mix.  It got so that Christian never knew what to expect when Jake produced his stacks of white bakery boxes.  The anticipation made his humiliation all the more sweet.  For Jake, at least.

The next day's workout at the gym was harder than usual for Christian.  Oh, the actual exercise was no effort.  He had been effectively groomed into a lean, tightly-muscled, well-defined machine of hotness by his hypnotic pie master, with any rough edges that remained smoothed off and polished up by Patrick.  But Jake had upped the ante when it came to Christian's workout wardrobe. Just when Christian thought he was getting used to—or at the least, adjusting to—wearing no underwear and having demeaning T-shirts on under his clothes. (That day at work, he had one on beneath his shirt and tie that read STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! in block letters stacked beneath a bright red finger pointing upward. Christian made sure never to loosen his tie or let his jacket fall open.)

Christian was with Patrick at the gym today, undergoing his latest workout assessment, and stupid T-shirts and lack or briefs during the workday were the least of his concerns. Now that Christian was sporting a more impressive build, Jake had moved him on to spandex. Christian now did his workouts solely in tight-fitting bright spandex singlets, with hi-top athletic shoes that either matched perfectly or clashed horribly. Today he was in a fuchsia singlet (let's face it—it was pink) with a series of purple star clusters running down the sides.  Christian's shoes were also purple, with yellow lightning bolt logo and hot pink neon soles. Where the hell did Jake find this shit??  So even though Christian's body looked amazing, it was clear to all, especially himself, that he was still just a stooge.  Patrick was paying less attention to Christian's garish ensemble, or trying to, than he was the stopwatch and clipboard.  He nodded and smiled approvingly.

"Damn, Chris, you are doing excellent! I have never seen anyone make this kind of progress without some kind of supplements or enhancers."

Christian ran on the treadmill, barely breaking a sweat while still beating all his previous times. "I don't do that stuff", Christian said flatly.

"Oh, I know you don't", Patrick agreed.  "I already made the usual checks. You are clean as a whistle. That's enough, you can step down."

Christian let the treadmill stop and hopped lithely to the floor.  Patrick checked his pulse and just smiled. "Your heart is steady as Swiss clock."  Patrick looked at Christian's brow, which showed barely any signs of sweat. "Your perspiration is less free than it was a few weeks ago. Shows your body's adjusting. Good."  Christian took a swig of water from his bottle and caught a look at himself in the mirror. He flinched inwardly. It didn't matter how good his body now looked, he felt like an imbecile. He wondered how long it would be before Jake had him showing up in the weight room in oversized polka dot pants and inflatable shoes that squeaked when he walked.


Christian turned back around to face Patrick. "Sorry. Lost in thought. You were saying?"

"I was saying that I could not be happier with your results. Your stress test, endurance, weight lifting, and cardio are all first rate. And although I have to admit that I don't know exactly what inspired your wardrobe change", and he looked Christian up and down slowly, "I'd have to be blind not to see that you look fucking incredible in it."

Patrick's comment caught Christian off guard. His remark seemed a bit too familiar for the supposedly unbiased observation of a personal trainer.  Patrick reached over and very gently ran his fingers across Christian's hard pecs, atop his shoulders, and down his biceps. Patrick took a deep breath and sighed. Christian was beginning to feel uncomfortable.  The close contact and intimate touching was making him get hard. Fast. Christian was about to carefully brush Patrick's hand away, but for some reason found himself unable to. He even tried to place a hand over his bulging crotch, but found that impossible, too.  All he needed now was for Patrick to mention cream filling...

Patrick pulled his hand back on his own (finally!) and snapped himself out of it. "Anyway, you pass with flying colors", the trainer said with a bright smile. "Keep it up."

Christian stepped away, his erection throbbing and with fear of precum staining his bright singlet.  "So we done here?"

"Yup. Lookin' good."  And Patrick looked at him again, his smile widening.

"Um, that's good, because I have to meet Jake in the Life Circuit room."

A sudden glaze came over Patrick's eyes at the mention of Jake.  For a split second he seemed a million miles away, and then the life returned to his expression.  He snapped his fingers.  "Jake! Right! I'm glad you mentioned him."  Patrick reached into the breast pocket of his polo shirt and pulled out a small note. "Jake ran into me earlier. Wanted me to give this to you when we were done."

Christian opened the note to find a message in Jake's scrawl.  

Forget our usual workout. Go directly home after assessment. Got a surprise for you there.  –Your Master

Oh, goodie.  More humiliation.  Christian had decided then and there that he was done. No more. Playtime was over. He was a respectable person, dammit, not a clown. A man, a dignified adult. He would no longer play the fool for anyone, especially not some power-hungry muscle-bound sociopath hypnotist. As of that precise moment, he would no longer be anyone's stooge.  

Standing taller, setting his shoulders back, Christian puffed up his chest and opened his mouth to tell Patrick to pass on the message to Jake the next time he saw him that he could go to hell.  He then broke into a beautiful smile and said, "Well, change of plans, I guess. I gotta get home."  Inwardly, his heart crumbled.  He was still a stooge.

"Well, you better get that cute butt home then", Patrick said happily, sending Christian on his way with a very playful hard slap on the ass.

Christian hurried out the door, not even wanting to look back and see what had prompted that reaction from Patrick. Had he looked back, he would have seen his personal trainer standing there in the middle of the room, staring at his hand, a look of great puzzlement on his face.


Christian opened the door to his home and a large box fell out at his feet. It had been placed inside the storm door.  It was a large white box, as used by department stores for dresses or trousers, wrapped in a large purple ribbon with matching bow. There is no way in hell I'm wearing a goddamned dress, Christian thought, Stooge or not. Christian had been able, thankfully, to change back into normal street clothes in the locker room of the gym after his assessment with Patrick.  He had no great desire to put on something else ridiculous this soon after ridding himself of the pink spandex, which he gladly left behind in his locker. He went inside and opened the box atop the counter.  Suddenly the dress idea was looking pretty darn good.  Inside the box was a clown suit.  Wanting to stuff it back into the box and chuck in the nearest trash bin, Christian found himself instead pulling the outfit out and holding it up in front of him. 

The clown suit was mostly white.  It had purple ruffles around the neck, wrists, and at mid-calf.  The legs of the suit ended in purple boots--bright, shiny, and clearly too large for Christian's feet. Running down the chest of the clown suit, perfectly centered beneath the collar ruff, were three large purple pom-poms, punctuating the front of the suit from sternum to waist.  Just below the third pom-pom, there looked to be a little pouch to fit Christian's cock and balls, even.  Oh, goodie.  Attached to the back of the large collar ruff by a sturdy purple ribbon was a clown hat.  Nothing huge or tall, but conical, perhaps riding seven or eight inches atop the wearer's head.  On the white hat were two smaller purple pom-poms, matching the large ones on the suit.  Christian looked closely and saw that stitched over the left breast of the jumper was a name label, as if this were a pair of coveralls worn by a garage mechanic, though with much more elaborate and careful design.  Rather than a simple oval with the name "Christian" on it, there was an outlined purple star with the named (no surprise) Stooge written there. The stitched lettering even sparkled in the light.  Christian turned the outfit over in his hands and found even larger letters printed across the back that mirrored the sentiment:  STOOGE!  Exclamation point and everything.  At least the name ran across the shoulders, Christian mused.  It could have been worse.  He could have stenciled it over my ass.

Christian's mouth had not closed since he pulled the suit from the box.  He knew that Jake wanted him to wear this. He knew that whatever his feelings about the matter that, eventually, he was going to wind up inside this ridiculous suit.  Still, Christian found himself saying aloud to no one in particular, "He can't...he can't seriously expect me to wear this..."  Christian began to say aloud, "I won't do it."  But he finally closed his mouth in silence, knowing that with all his programming, his conditioning (his training), whatever defiant thing he said would, in the end, be a lie.

Christian laid the clown suit across the counter and very slowly sat down on a chair at the kitchen table. He sighed, trying to steady himself, trying to convince himself that he had the willpower to resist whatever he'd been hypnotically set up to do, knowing already that he was full of shit.  Or at the very least, kidding himself.  He ran his fingers through his hair and fought the urge to break down and cry.  Already he could feel a part of himself, something deep inside him, deeply ingrained there, whispering to him, Put it on...Put it on...Put it KNOW you want to...

He had no idea how the matches wound up in his hand.

It took a moment for Christian to even register that he was holding a lit match between two fingers, watching it burn.  In his other hand was a box of kitchen matches. He recognized them, they had come from the utility drawer near the dish towels. But when had he gotten them, why had he struck the match on the side of the box...

Christian realized that his confused musing had allowed the match to burn low enough to scorch his fingers. Quickly, he tossed it away, not even thinking of where it was going.  He soon saw.  Into his old grill.  Grill?  There in front of him was his old barbeque grill, black and rusted, pulled forth from forgotten obscurity and wheeled out from his garage.  Set there in the middle of his backyard.  When the hell had he come out to the backyard??  The unspoken question was cut short by a sudden FWOOSH!

A fire went up within the grill, where the still-burning match had landed.  The smell of lighter fluid was thick as the flames danced high, then lower, and Christian followed the potency of the stench to see a dusty old tin of lighter fluid, its cap off, sitting on the concrete floor inside the garage, clearly visible through the open side door.  What the hell?  

Christian turned back to the grill, seeing that the fire was safely contained.  His flirtation with grilling some years ago was not very successful in terms of culinary expertise, but he knew very well how to pack a grill so that no flames, and very few embers, could escape the confines of the barbeque.  The fire was burning strongly, to be sure, but it was concentrated entirely on its fuel source.  Christian looked closer. That wasn't charcoal...  His eyes widened in horror when he saw what the fire was consuming.


It was true.  The clothes that Christian had on his back when he came home to his mystery package were now in the fire upon the grill. Every stitch.  His shirt, his pants, his underwear and socks. Even his shoes.  Christian looked down at himself to see that he was sitting buck-fucking-naked on an old filthy patio chair.  He was sitting fully exposed in the middle of his backyard, indecently exposed and fully visible, as the saying went, to God and the whole world.

In a blind panic, Christian dropped the box of matches and raced barefoot and frantic to his side door. Please let it be unlocked, please let it be unlocked, oh dear God please...  This was no longer mere humiliation. This was something for which he could be arrested.  To Christian's relief, the door was not only unlocked by wide open, and he tore inside and slammed the door behind him, having entered unseen by neighbors or passersby.  He panted and gasped, his head awhirl.  And there neatly laid atop the counter was the clown suit.

"In hell!", Christian said defiantly, and stormed into his bedroom.  He threw open the closet door and found nothing but a rack of empty hangers.  They tingled and clanged softly as they bumped into one another, a few of the plastic ones falling to the floor.  No fucking way... 

Furiously, Christian yanked open every dresser drawer, dug through the hamper, even searched under the bed.  All empty. He had been wiped out.  Christian dashed to the basement to see if he at least had some of the embarrassing T-shirts Jake had made for him down there.  Nada. He had no clothing at all left in his house.  He had just burned the only thing he had left to wear.  He was left with nothing.  Except, of course...

Christian began to pace. How had Jake done this? When did he get in without him knowing it?  Had he done it while they had their last pie session?  Had he stolen all his clothes then, maybe even destroyed them, as Christian had been forced to do?  No, no, that didn't make any sense, it wasn't possible. There were all kinds of clothes here this morning when Christian had left for work, he was sure of it. Unless the clothes were already gone and he had only been hypnotized to believe that they were still there.

Christian's head was swimming.  How they hell had things gotten this far??  How had he let his stupid humiliation fantasy spin so far out of control?  It started with some absurd gunge play, and now it had evolved into all this panic and overwhelming feeling of helplessness, for what? Just so he could call himself a stooge? What had he been thinking?!  Christian stood before the full length mirror in his bedroom and tried to collect himself.  As he regained control of his breathing, he took a good look at his sculpted, smooth body. He had to admit, as side effects to mind control go, this one wasn't half bad.  He felt himself begin to smile in spite of himself, seeing how impressive he looked naked.  He never paused in front of his own mirror before.  Then his smile widened unnaturally, growing freakishly broad, and a twinkle came to his eyes.  Oh, shit. Now what was happening?

"I'm a stooge!", Christian announced brightly, without any intent to do so. "And stooges need to go outside!"

And he started to march right out the door.  

Naked as a jaybird and feeling like a jackass, Christian felt trapped inside his body as he strode to the door, grasped the doorknob, and began to pull it open. In surrender, and not knowing what else to do, he cried out in desperation, "Alright! I'll put on the fucking clown suit!!!"

His remote-controlled body stopped and he felt as if he had regained control.  But the feeling was tenuous at best.  Christian knew that if he tried to resist again, he might well find himself dancing ballet down the middle of the expressway, bare naked and balls hanging.  Reluctantly, and brimming with impotent rage, Christian stepped into the clown suit. He hated to admit it, but it felt great.  It was designed with an elastic neck entry, so there were no zippers or fasteners to deal with.  The material was stretchy, but nowhere near as much as the spandex outfits he'd found himself in lately at the gym. The material was coated with a latex finish, making it just a bit shiny and very slick.  The material hugged his legs and ass, and the boots fit perfectly.  They were clearly made to fit his feet snugly, but from the outside, his feet looked at least three sizes larger than they were.  It took a moment to get steady on his feet because of the odd size.  As Christian slipped his arms into the sleeves, he realized that there were purple gloves, as rubber as the sturdy boots, folded inside the sleeves.  As his fingers found their way into the gloves, they hugged his hands snugly, and the end of the sleeve ruff came to about mid-bicep. The main tunic stretched across his chest, accenting his strong build, and the collar ruff snapped firmly and securely around his neck.  The sack that held his privates did more than hold them in place.  It did a pretty fair job of showcasing them as well.  Terrific.  To top it all off, Christian knew he had to make the look complete and put the hat atop his head.  Its interior was lined with a ribbing of very sticky rubber elastic which caused it to cling to his brow and back of his skull.  It wasn't going anywhere, even were he to get pelted by a barrage of pies.  Which Christian knew was coming.  Even if he were to lose the hat, there was a stout purple ribbon attached securely to its back base and the back of the suit's ruff collar.  If knocked off, it would not fall far.

Defeated and dehumanized, Christian trod uneasily toward the basement steps, ready to descend and wait for his Pie Master to arrive and deliver his just desserts.  But when Christian reached the top landing, he stopped. His booted feet would not move.  What else was there for him to do?  He had been clowned, for lack of a better term, what was left for him now?

Abruptly, Christian spun on his heel and did an about-face just like a military cadet.  His gloved hand reached to the key rack on the wall beside the door and lifted his car keys from their hook.  Oh, no.  He really was going to go outside.  At least he wasn't still nude, he thought dolefully. Christian returned to his car, locking the house behind him.  The smell of burnt clothing was still ripe in the air and as he settled behind the wheel, he could see the fire in the grill dying down, his devastated clothing, his last remnants of a dignified existence, nothing but burnt shreds and ashes. As Christian started his car, the GPS system came to life. Its mildly musical bleeps and chimes announced the manufacturer's logo on its screen.  Christian hated the GPS. He never used it.  So clearly, this was all part of his carefully-planned, prearranged humiliation.  The tinny female voice that spoke to him confirmed it.

"You are--fifteen minutes--away from your destination, Stooge. At the end of the driveway, turn--Right--imbecile."

Christian no longer knew if it was his hypnotized brain that was adding the insults to the GPS lady's directions or if Jake had actually rewired the GPS to do it for real.  Not that it mattered, he figured.

"Continue on Parkway for--3 miles--then turn--Right--you jackass."

And so it went until Christian reached his destination.  Where he wound up, he had never been before.  Oh, he knew of it, alright, he had just never visited it.  All the same, Christian the Stooge pulled into the driveway and coasted into a parking spot that had been reserved for him as if he had gone there every day of his life.  Whatever sign had once stood at the head of that parking space (No Littering, Keep Dogs Off Beach, it could have been anything), now had been pasted over with a garish placard of hot pink peppered with yellow polka dots that read: RESERVED FOR STOOGE.  Wonderful.  Christian turned off the engine and sat there, knowing full well that he would have to get out eventually.  He already tried to reinsert the key and back up, but his arms and legs would not let him.  Christian sat there, content not to move until nightfall when he could slip away under cover of darkness.  He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror, his face looking idiotic framed as it was by the clown ruff and hat, and he found that his reflection was smiling back brightly and stupidly.  Oh, no.  It was clear that even with his destination reached, he was still far from being in control. Christian felt his arm reach over and open the car door.  Here we go, he thought, inwardly grimacing.

Christian stepped out of the car and closed the door. From behind him rose a cheer and a burst of thunderous applause that made him jump.  Christian spun around to find a crowd of people greeting him with great enthusiasm.  Beautiful women in bikinis waved banners that bore the name STOOGE in bright letters, as did some incredible buff muscle boys in revealing swim trunks.  At first Christian thought the image of all the banners and signs was more of his hypnotic mind scrambling, but he also noted a few other posters and flyers with the name Christian written on them.  What the hell was going on??

As more and more people cheered and applauded, Christian found that he was frozen in place. His legs would not move.  This was no posthypnotic suggestion at work, this was plain old shock and terror.  Christian tried to speak but only managed to splutter.  "Whuh—what's all—why are you all here—I'm—I don't understand—I-I-I--!"

Jake stepped out of the crowd and approached Christian, who had started backing away.  "Hey, buddy", Jake greeted him, his face aglow with mock friendship, "don't back away now that you've arrived for your big moment!"  Jake put his powerful arm around Christian even as his clownish subject was starting to turn away. The larger man spun Christian back around to face the crowd.  "Ladies and gentlemen, our Stooge has arrived!"  Everyone let out another cheer as Jake raised his voice to be heard, adding, "What say we all come up and give him a proper greeting!"

The joyous men and women rushed forward with pats on the back and handshakes for the confused Christian. Muscular men grabbed his arm roughly and high-fived or knuckle-tapped him.  The smaller men and boys patted him on the back and even smacked his ass.  The ladies squealed and offered him kisses on the cheek.  One lovely blonde girl threw her arms around Christian in a big hug. After pulling away, she chirped, "Oh, Christian, I think you are just so wonderful volunteering this way!  I am making sure that everything gets caught on video!"  And she perkily bounced away.  Jake began to wave the well wishers off as well.

"Okay, everybody, let's all give our man some room so we can get this party started!"  More cheers and whoops of encouragement as the crowd dutifully receded.  Christian turned to Jake in utter bafflement.

"Is this really happening, or are you just making me imagine it?"

"Do you feel humiliated?", Jake posed.

Christian furrowed his brow.  " I did when I first got out of the car, but after all that...that welcome, I feel pretty okay."

"Then trust me, you're not imagining it", Jake whispered in Christian's ear.  His massive arm had once again wrapped around Christian's shoulders so the stooge could not pull away. "But you're gonna feel pretty damn humiliated reealll soon."

Jake led Christian across the parking lot, giving Christian a chance to see the many banners and placards scattered about the area.  He noticed the name of a local charity in several places, and at the bottom of many of the signs.  Some of them even featured the charity's official logo. Christian recognized it easily. Where had he seen it before?

The hapless stooge did not have long to dwell on it. Jake dragged Christian over to an old bandstand that sat at the edge of the parking lot and quickly hauled him up it's stairs.  He pulled Christian before a single stand microphone that had been preset there.  Keeping a firm grip on the clown-suited Christian, Jake spoke into the mic.  "Can everybody hear me?"  The resounding cheer was definitely in the positive.  "Okay then! On behalf of my clownish friend here, I'd like to welcome everyone to our fitness center's first annual grand fundraiser for our favorite charity!!"  The loud and lingering applause gave Christian the moment he needed to collect his thoughts. The charity was indeed the gym's pet project.  There was always a small jar next to the main desk for loose change.  During end of the year holidays, there was always some type of poorly organized fundraising drive, asking for castoffs or the like.  For whatever reason, everyone present seemed to think that today was the dawn of a new era of giving, and that Christian the Stooge was at the center of it.

As the applause and cheers died down, Jake spoke again. "After seeing our haphazard attempts to support our favorite charity, Christian here encouraged me to organize a big event to help us make a difference!"  More applause.  "He told me a few months ago, he said, 'You get the people and the material together, and if you do, I will be a big fool clown for everyone.' So we did it—and here he is!"  Huge cheers.  Inside his head, Christian thought, What, I did? but outwardly, he was nodding with a big grin on his face.

Jake extended a hand in grandstanding fashion and indicated two very slender and adorable young men in very skimpy bikini swimsuits.  They were holding some kind of rolled-up tube between them.  "Fellas!  Show our boy what we've got!"

The two young swimmers stepped away from each other, unraveling a massive banner on sturdy poster paper.  In gigantic, circus-style lettering, it read:

1st Annual
StoogeFest Pie-apalooza!!!

Christian's heart sank in his chest. Oh Dear God no...

Jake leaned back to the mic and declared, "The Stoogefest Pie-apalooza is on! And whattaya say you tell your adoring public who you are, Christian?"  As the applause began to obscure some of Jake's words, he pushed his lips right against Christian's ear and said forcefully, "Tell them who you really are."

Christian knew it was time to run.  His heart was pounding in his chest and the moment Jake let go, he knew he had to bound off the stage and bolt from the parking lot.  This was his last chance to redeem himself, regain once last shred of dignity, and free himself of the trap in which he'd gotten himself imprisoned. But the second that Jake removed his arm from Christian and stepped aside, Christian felt his purple boots moving toward the microphone with confident strides.  He wasn't going anywhere.  He wanted so badly to say that there'd been some mistake, that he meant for Jake to do this, or any number of the handsome gym bunny boys to take turns, or help, oh please somebody help me, I'm being held prisoner in my own twisted wam fantasy by a psychotic power-mad hypnotist. But Christian paused only half a heartbeat when he stood before that microphone.  Then he threw his arms up, fists clenched in victory.

"I am a STOOGE!"

The crowd went wild and Jake grabbed the microphone before Christian could do anything else (not that there was any danger of that).  "Gentlemen", Jake announced, "grab him."

Out of nowhere, three massive bruisers appeared, all smooth shaven skin and rippling pecs and abs.  They were clad only in tight, brightly-colored neon bikinis which, while showcasing their massive packages, did nothing to decrease how imposing they looked.  Two of the men grabbed Christian by the arms and practically lifted him off his feet.  Jake stepped forward and placed the fingers of one hand against Christian's forehead and said softly, "Limp body."  Instantly, Christian felt his entire body relax like a big rag doll.  Jake removed the microphone from its stand and hollered into it, "Take him away, boys!"  The two burly men hauled Christian off the stage with ease, their third man leading the way down the stairs.  Christian kicked his feet and dragged his heels, but it was like manipulating a series of wet noodles.  It made him look all the more ridiculous and had everyone watching in hysterics.

"Ha-ha, what a ham!", one of the girls shouted.

"He realizes what he's in for now!", one of the men called.

In fact Christian did not know what he was in for, but he was pretty sure that he could guess.  The two massive men hefted the helpless Christian across the pavement and over to a large wooden post some other, smaller gym members were setting up.  Christian took one look at it and began to shake his head.  "", he whispered.  Then, louder, "No way! No! You can't!"  His floppy legs kicked ineffectually.

Jake spoke jauntily into the mic, hiding Christian's fear with his own humorous tone. "No chance to back out now, Stooge!"  Christian's situation only earned more applause and laughter.

When the slender, toned men stepped away from what they were constructing, everyone could see it, too.  It was indeed a sturdy wooden post, held in place by a base that had been fortified with a number of large cinder blocks.  Atop the post was a horizontal stock, of the kind seen in town squares in medieval times.  It was clear to Christian and to everyone present that he was about to be locked upon the stocks to take his punishment.  The third man, hands free of restraining Christian, approached the post and gave it a good hard shove, then another.  It didn't budge.  There was no chance that the smaller Christian would be able to move it if the huge weightlifter couldn't.

"You know what to do, fellas", Jake prodded.

"No! Please don't!!", the stooge pleaded, all for naught.

The large musclemen dragged the squirming Christian over to the stocks and flipped him around as if he weighed only twenty pounds.  Facing the crowd, his back to the formidable stocks, Christian felt the two men hold his arms in place as the third clamped thick steel manacles over his wrists. They took a step back to reveal that the stooge was held firmly in place.  Christian tried to find some purchase with his jelly legs, but almost dangled from the stocks in the process. He tugged at the steel bonds bolted into the thick wooden stocks and saw at once they would never yield.  The bonds were painted in merry colors of bright pink and yellow (like the parking sign), so onlookers would never know how formidable they really were.  As far as the crowd was concerned, this was all just good clean fun and showmanship.

Jake held up a necklace he'd had concealed in his shirt, from which dangled an old-fashioned key.  "Don't worry, folks—he's not going anywhere."

Jake then scampered down the steps of the stage to stand before his former friend.  His back to their audience, Jake leaned in close to Christian and said, "So how does it feel? To be the helpless stooge and finally be out of the closet about it?"

"Fuck you, man", Christian sneered. "This is not what I wanted and you know it. You fucked up my own fantasy!"

Jake's mouth split into an evil smile.  "And you've perfectly fulfilled mine."  He nodded to the third man who was still standing behind the stocks.  "Hold him."  Before he could even consider how he could possibly be held any more firmly than he was, Christian felt two massive and meaty hands grab hold of his face.   Jake nodded to the other two large men on either side of him and told them, "Give me some cover."  As the two bruisers did as they were told and took a position of parade rest on each side of Jake, Christian wondered why they were being so responsive, why they were following Jake's orders.  Then Christian caught a glimpse of their eyes as they glanced back at him.  They were sharp, focused, enough to fool any average passerby. But Christian could tell.  The captured stooge could make out the telltale glaze in their eyes.  They were hypnotized.  Christian looked up at the man with the giant arms leaning over the stocks and holding his head.  Him too.

"I said hold him!", Jake scolded.  Instantly, Christian's face was snapped back to look directly at Jake and was held there, unmoving.

"We need to make our stooge just a little more presentable", Jake smirked.  Christian couldn't imagine what Jake meant by that.  Was he going to smear clown white makeup all over his face next?  Then Jake held up a large red rubber nose.  "Our clown needs a nice big nose", Jake said happily.

"Oh, come on", Christian said, exasperated. "Isn't the clown suit enough? The public humiliation?  The—"  Christian stopped short when he saw what Jake held up in his other hand. A tube of super glue.  Right on the tube in a jagged-edged red screamer label Christian could clearly see the warning:  Attaches permanently! Avoid all contact with skin! Bonds in seconds!  Christian felt his heart beat fast with panic and tried to shake his head in protest.  The large, muscular hands held him fast.  "No, please...come on, man..."  Jake removed the cap from the super glue with a bit of flourish, then set the tiny plastic spout upon Christian's nose and began to squeeze the tube.  The chemical stench was terrible, causing Christian's eyes to water.  He could feel the gooey liquid spreading over his skin, seeping into his pores. The stooge began to beg.  "Please, Pie Master Jake, don't do this to me.  I'm a stooge, I admit it, just don't make me look like one all the time.  I'll take my punishment, sir, I will, I'll take every single pie, I swear it!"

"Oh, I know you will", Jake told him.  As he applied the glue, Jake took great care to hold the tube by the end so as not to risk getting any on his own fingers.  Once the clear but powerful substance covered Christian's nose, Jake quickly took the red rubber clown nose and set it upon Christian's face.  He held it there firmly and looked at his watch.  He began to count down from 30.  "29...28...27...26..."  He no longer even noticed the tears running down his stooge's cheeks.  "5...4...3...2...aannnd 1!"  Jake let go of Christian's shiny red nose and neatly stuffed the super glue back into his pocket before it could be seen by anyone else.  Then, smiling, Jake reached out and grabbed the red rubber nose affixed to his stooge's face and gave it a good hard pull.

"OWW!", Christian cried.  New tears formed in his eyes, this time from the pain of feeling the harsh pull on his skin.

"Perfect", Jake nodded.  Then he nodded again, to his three entranced muscleboys.  "You may go, fellas.  You're relieved."  

The three men's eyes seemed to come back into normal focus and they departed, smiling cheerfully with no memory of what they'd done.  The man who'd been holding Christian's face gave him a playful pat on the cheek and remarked, "You're too cool, man."

As the three big men departed, only vaguely aware of what they had just done or why they had done it, Jake lingered before Christian, pretending to adjust his bonds so that he could speak to his stooge.  "How are you liking this, stooge?  Public humiliation. Doesn't get any more public than this."  Christian said nothing.  He knew that no amount of begging would get Jake to back down, not after all this preparation.  Hell, not with his out of control power rush he had going.  The power rush Christian had sparked in him.

"Hey, stooge", Jake prodded.  "Stupid, worthless, dumbass clown boy...look over my shoulder."  Christian did so and saw several of the lovely ladies in bikinis pulling up a large wheeled cart.  It was as long as an extended board room table, only it was made out of metal, like a cafeteria cart.  It had multiple shelves to it, each one covered with wax paper, each shelf layered with large cream pies.  There were easily 50 or 60 pies on the huge pie cart, and those were just the ones in plain view.  Christian's eyes widened.  What the hell was he in for??

"Now look over my other shoulder, jackass", Jake taunted.

There, off to the side of the parking lot, was a bakery truck...the largest Christian had ever seen.  It was the size of a package delivery truck or a small moving van.  On the side of the bakery truck in bright letters was the name of Christian's favorite bakery, the one near his house.  The same one where he had purchased the very first pie he'd had Jake smash him with.  On a banner nearby the truck was the bakery logo again, declaring them as the official sponsor of this glorious event.  The driver's side door of the truck opened and out leaned one of the many bakery employees whom Christian knew personally.  He waved to the stooge, offered a quick bit of applause and gave him the thumbs-up.  They were all ready to go.

"They're so proud of you for organizing this shindig", Jake told his stooge.  Another van pulled up just beyond the bakery truck, smaller than the first.  It was a local news van.  Terrific.  On top of everything else, Christian the Stooge's humiliation would be broadcast throughout the area.  "Ready for the degradation of your life, stooge?", Jake asked him.

Christian locked eyes with his pie master, his tormentor, and the stooge's face bore the expression of a desperate snarl as tears began to well up in his eyes.  "Ohhhh no you don't", Jake cautioned.  "There is no way you are ruining my big moment by crumbling now, you weak-kneed little fuck."

Jake's powerful hand clamped over Christian's mouth and Jake's voice took on the forceful, compelling tones of the hypnotist.  "Smile.  You will smile from now until I tell you to stop.  You cannot help it, you cannot stop it, you cannot change it.  Feel it, stooge.  Feel the corners of your mouth turning up, your shining white teeth baring to the world.  It feels so good to smile, it makes you feel happy.  Endorphins are released throughout your entire body when you smile, stooge, and that's what's happening right now.  You can feel it, can't you?  Despite yourself you are beginning to feel happier and happier.  You are smiling.  You are a smiling stooge.  Smiiiiile."

Beneath Jake's meaty paw, Christian could feel his mouth stretching into a massive grin, as if two powerful metal hooks were pulling at the edges of his lips.  He could not stop it.

"Thaa-aat's right, stooge.  Go on and smile.  Feel good, feel better, feel like the clown you are.  Clowns smile.  No sad clowns here today."

Christian felt the flood of positive endorphins rush through his body and a wave of happiness begin to build up inside him.  No, not that.  He did not want to be happy. He did not want to feel good.  He wanted to rage and pull against his bonds and scream to be set free.  But the taut muscles in his legs relaxed and his clenched fingers uncurled from fists to loose waving hands.  Jake let go of the stooge's face and saw the bright, broad, gleaming smile there.  The tears in his eyes had dried up and the stooge's expression appeared truly genuine, despite both men knowing it was not.

"Now", Jake ordered, "make an attempt to try to frown."

Christian made an honest effort to turn down the corners of his lips.  Nothing doing.  It was as if his smile was cemented in place.  Which for all intents and purposes, it was.

"Try to stop smiling", Jake commanded.  "Try and fail."

Christian tried again, failing just as miserably as before, only this time feeling rush after rush of happiness and joy filling his entire body, making him weak and pliable.

Jake patted the stooge on the cheek.  "That's a good stooge.  For the rest of the day, on into the night, for as long as it takes, you will remain happy and obedient.  This is all for a good cause, and no matter how you got here, you will not spoil it for all these nice people."  Jake snapped his fingers crisply.  SNAP.  "Got that?"

"Yes, Sir", the stooge smiled.

Jake stepped away from the stooge and let the crowd get a good look at him, all trussed up as he was.  Stooge could see the large crowd of people looking on and offering well-wishes.  Some just came to watch and get a good laugh out of the spectacle.  There was a roped-off area to keep people from rushing the parking lot.  There was a pathway that ran up to the large, multi-shelved pie cart.  The path was straddled by ropes and even had a red carpet laid down it's length.  At the end of the path was a sign the read:

Smack the STOOGE!  $10 a Pie

Each thrower could then take his pie and pummel the stooge waiting some twenty feet past the purchase point.  Stooge looked at the cart with its dozens of pies, glanced at the huge bakery truck which held God only knew how many more pies.  Hundreds?  Jake waved to the rambunctious crowd and held up the microphone, which he had taken from its stand on the stage opposite.

"Everybody ready to throw some pies?", he called.  The crowd went wild.  "What do you say, Stooge?", he asked Christian, holding the mic out to him.

Christian wanted to say, "Fuck you, asshole, and die in a fire for ruining my dream fantasy."  But what came out, accompanied by a happy smile was, "Whoa!  Is all this for me?  This is awesome!  Thanks so much, Mister Pie Master Jake!  Thanks to everyone for coming out in support of this wonderful cause!  WOOO!!"

The crowd showed its approval with more applause and cheering.  Christian saw the many flashes sprinkling the huddled group and realized that there were cameras and video recorders everywhere.  Terrific.  Christian fought to yell out that he was being forced into this, that is wasn't even his idea, to at least fucking frown a little, but all protests died in his throat and his frozen mouth kept right on smiling brightly for everyone.

"Ready to get this show on the road?", Jake asked.  Thunderous applause.  He held the mic back to his victim and whispered, "Give 'em what they want...stooge."

Christian yelled into the mic, "I'm a STOOGE!!  Gimme some PIE!!!"

Pointing at the big red clown nose on his stooge's face, Jake announced, "Aim for the big red bullseye!"  As the laughter grew, Jake signalled the start of the festivities by declaring, "Let the fun begin!"

And fun it was.  For everyone there, except for the stooge.


The only people in line to throw a pie were all men.  No women allowed.  There was no sign or declaration of such, but somehow Jake had worked his magic on the crowd through anything from manipulation in his phrasing to NLP to leave everyone with the clear indication that only the men...the big, strong, strapping, handsome, hunky, scantily-clad men...were permitted to hammer pies at the hapless stooge.  Not only did no one seem to mind, but no one even noticed.  One of the things the all-male lineup certainly had going for it was arm strength.  Time and again, Christian's head shook like a ringing bell when strong-arm men came up and hammered him with massive cream pies.  

At first, Christian feared his neck might wind up damaged due to the power with which these creamy delights were being hurled at him.  But lo and behold, there was a special cushioned headrest directly behind the stooge, set to support the base of his skull and his upper spine.  The cushion was sturdy without being too hard and had been built right into the stock pole to which the poor stooge was fastened so securely.  Jake had thought of everything.  The stooge would suffer torment after whipped cream torment without being physically hurt by any impact.  Delightful.

As pie after pie smashed mercilessly into Christian's face, he found himself accepting the humiliation, pausing for a heartbeat or two so everyone could get a good look at him, take their photos, what-have-you, and then he fiercely shook his head, clearing his face as best he could (which, let's face it, wasn't much), sending globules of goop this way and that, and often letting out a big, "WOO!" or other asinine outburst of clownish happiness.  The crowd ate it up.

In short order, there was very little of Christian left to be seen.  He was coated and covered in pies.  Jake held the mic to his mouth and announced, "It is time for a momentary pie cleansing!"  A few people in the crowd booed, not knowing what this meant but fearing it signalled an end to their fun.  But with a sweep of his arm, Jake called back the two bruisers who had initially held Christian to the post and helped lock him into the stocks.  This time the smooth-skinned weightlifters were armed with gigantic, comical seltzer bottles decorated in festive, if garish, colors.  On Jake's cue, "Let 'im have it!", they opened first with high-powered sprays of colored water and hosed down the hapless, bound stooge, clearing away the whipped cream and gooey filling in short order.  The process took less than a minute or two, but Christian's squinted eyes, sputtering protests, and spitting of water had the audience in hysterics.

By this time, Christian realized from the sound of clicks, whirrs, and the occasional flashes, that many of the lovely ladies had lines up alongside of the red carpet runway and were taking pictures, recording video, and in general preserving the moment for all time and happy posterity.  Not an angle of Christian's humiliation, a second of his defeat, would miss going down in history.  Terrific.  Soon the poor clown was dripping with seltzer and the crowd applauded in appreciation that they could clearly see his face once again.  "Gotta make sure we can all make out that awesome nose!", Jake declared.  He reached forward and gave his stooge's nose a squeeze, simultaneously honking a clown horn into the microphone.  "Let the games continue", Jake announced, "and don't worry, boys and girls, we have plenty of seltzer spray left—so keep those pies coming!"  And so they did.

Large, muscled men and trim attractive boys from the beach were coming one after the other, some buying a single pies, some of the bigger guys grabbing two or three, gladly forking over the ten-dollar-apiece cost to hammer the idiot in the  purple and white suit.  The majority of the younger men—college fraternity brothers, skater lads, beach-going high schoolers—didn't even know anything about the charity event, but were drawn to the bandstand parking lot by the uproar and commotion.  It didn't take long for the baggy-pants boys, the pin-wearing pledges, and classmate passersby to leave the shore and the surf to assemble with all the rest who had gathered.  One bushy-haired kid, his blond mop barely contained by his ratty ball cap, made his way toward Jake, who was helping with the cash-taking table.

"Hey, dude", the kid said, "can anybody do this?"

Jake smiled wide.  "You got ten bucks?"

The skater boy stuffed his hand in his pocket and produced two fivers.  Jake gave him a thumbs up and waved him over.  "You're in."

The boy, excited, turned around and hollered to a group of boys standing at the edge of the crowd.  "Guys! Anyone can do this! Come ON!"

Jake accepted the newcomers heartily.  "Make way, folks. Make way for the new blood—let 'em on in!"  Seeing lingering kids and college men around the outskirts of  the bandstand area, Jake grabbed the mic and hollered into it good and loud.  "Come one, come all, boys! Smash the Stooge!  If you've got the disposable income, we've got the disposable pies!!"  He might as well have announced that he was giving away free money.  The rush of new participants, standing out from the gym members by wearing all manner of different clothes besides swim trunks and Speedos, injected new life into the proceedings.  The women and girls were now cheering as much for the cute and handsome lads lining up to buy and throw pies as they had been earlier for Christian, their stooge.

Some of the men who'd been there all along, a bit winded from bounding about and chucking pies, found themselves rejuvenated by the arrival of their new slapstick fellows. Several of the musclemen even offered pointers to the younger men.  "The real power's in the wrist action.  Don't fret using your whole arm—here, like this."  "Just remember, it's not about impact, it's about coverage.  If you want him good and gunged, you feel free to walk right up and slowly smear the hell out of him."  In an astonishingly short time, these fitness professionals had become pie-throwing experts and were eager to share their knowledge with the next generation.

Christian lost track of time.  SPLATT!  Hot guy with muscles bearing a wicked grin.  WHAM!  Applause.  Cute sagger kid showing off for his buddies. POW!  Cameras flashing, vidcams whirring.  GOOSH!  Cheering.  A feeling of creeping, unstoppable humiliation...his dignity, his very humanity slipping inexorably away.  PA-DOWW!!

Christian had been trussed up for under an hour (47 minutes and 16 seconds, to be precise), but it seemed to him that he had spent his entire life locked against the stocks, accepting his fitting punishment for being such a stupid stooge. Wasn't he born in this old bandstand lot?  Didn't he grow up wearing this degrading clown suit?  His head whirled with every pie, his face coated, his nostrils filling with cream.  Each blast of the seltzer bottles—they were on their third cleansing hose-down—almost returned his senses to normal.  No, his name was Christian. he had this stupid kink about gunge and wam, he had been manipulated by a hunky hypnotist control freak.  That was all. This punishment couldn't possibly last forever. An adorable frat boy does a little dance on the red carpet and has his brothers make a show of doing a countdown before he lets loose with his scholarship-earning pitching arm. SUH-MASSHH!!  No, I'm just a stooge.  I belong here. This is what I deserve.

What made things worse was that deep down inside, Christian was truly enjoying this. Oh, he hated the circumstance, he loathed being so completely controlled.  But all these gorgeous men, these cute many, many pies, such thorough and utter humiliation...  He could not help getting hard.

On the subsequent seltzer spray-down (number four), Christian lowered his head as if to shake away the excess cream and goop, but wanted to get a look at his package.  There was no way that he could hide, much less stop, his powerful arousal.  All he needed to complete his public humiliation was for his erection to be spotted by the crowd (and come ON, how could they miss it??!) and for that cute-as-hell fraternity ball player to shout out, "Look, everyone! He's got a BONER!"

As seltzer spray hosed over him and chunks of crust and filling dripped away from his head, Christian looked down to his crotch.  And saw nothing.  Just the rubberized clown jumper, spattered here and there with pie, but otherwise flat as a pancake.  How was that even possible?  Christian could feel his raging hard-on. And it was raging.  His balls buzzed and he ached for release.  It was the kind of tingle and surge that emanated from his dick, all through his pelvis, sending static charges down his legs and over his arms, leaving his spine feeling like a downed power line.  All that electricity and nowhere to send it.

It was then that Christian realized that pouch in front that he thought was strictly to accentuate and display his privates was actually designed to keep his cock not so much under control but well-concealed from the crowd.  In a motion that left everyone watching think he was just regaining his footing, Christian swiveled his hips and felt the firm rubber sheath inside that pouch, which contained his dick and perfectly hid his erection from onlookers.  Jake had indeed thought of everything.

With moistened cream running down his cheeks, Christian looked up.  His expression was one of exhaustion and desperation.  He had a moment to collect himself as one of the muscled helpers replaced Christian's hat (that baseball playing frat boy had one helluva arm—he knocked the clown hat off).  He looked across the way at Jake, who was all smiles and joy.  He alone realized exactly what Christian the stooge had been doing when he looked down at his crotch.  Jake gave his stooge the thumbs-up.  Nobody but the two of them knew it was a taunt.

However, many people did pick up on Christian's look of exhaustion and anguish.  Especially the girls gathered around with their cameras and vid phones.  "Hey, are you okay?"  "Wait, he looks awful!"  "Somebody check to see if he's hurt or something."

Jake's face grew hard.  Damn these stupid women and their empathy and shit.  He knew he should have made this thing Men Only, but that would have raised too many questions.  Now a couple bikini-clad chicks were moving toward his precious stooge pie target slaveboy to check on him.  Jake knew he had to regain control, and fast.  Grabbing the microphone, Jake spoke into it loudly, gaining everyone's attention.   "You're lookin' a little pooped there, Christian! You need to call it quits?"

All eyes shifted from Jake to Christian, who hoped at last that he had his chance to stop the onslaught of pies and the feeling of helplessness.  But much to even the stooge's surprise, he found himself straightening up instantly (he had no idea where he was getting the strength suddenly) and he shouted out, "No WAY!  We're not done raising money for this charity!  Keep it comin'!  I'm a STOO-OOGE!! Where's my PIE?!!"

Everyone burst into applause and Christian had no idea how or why he had just said what he'd said. He had intended to say, "Yeah, I'm beat, let somebody else take the pies for a while."  Obviously, he had been conditioning hypnotically never to surrender. Jake really had thought of everything.  So the event went on.

In between batterings by the endless parade of hot and adorable guys, Christian saw a sharply-dressed woman making her way through the crowd, followed by a cameraman.  Another man, in a T-shirt and wearing a cap featuring the local television station's logo, was pulling some people to the side for quick interviews.  

"We're here at the old Shoreline Bandstand", the chipper woman announced, "at the site of perhaps the most high-spirited fundraiser this area has seen in quite some time!  An area fitness center, combined with some very generous hearts has whipped up a pie-throwing event for a good cause!  And the good-humorous mastermind behind it all can be seen behind me as the center of attention.  His name is Christian, but today, he's just 'Stooge'. Let's take a look."  The crew cut to footage already shot and mixed of pie after pie smashing into the stooge.  Laughter and applause filled the air on the taped playback, while in real time, the reporter signalled a few good-looking people to come forward for sound bites.  

"So what do you think of this celebration?", the reporter asked a lovely young lady.  

"I think it's amazing. So much fun and good will, and everybody's really into it."

"And you, sir?", she asked a muscleman in small swim trunks.

"It's pretty awesome. I mean, the guy's taking a beating and all, but it's like a totally fun beating, you know?"

An adorable college freshman stepped up, baseball hat askew and bits of pie cream flecking his snug T-shirt from his last turn up the red carpet. "Yeah! And it's not like anyone forced him—it was all the Stooge's idea, so you know he's probably having more fun than we are, even!"

The man at the small mixing board in the news van cut fast to a clip from moments before, as the battered stooge called out, "Where's my PIE?!!"  His cut back to the attractive journalist was rapid and seamless.

"It certainly looks that way", she agreed, supporting the college boy's sentiment.  She turned to the camera as it's frame closed in on her.  "The event appears to be open to the public, so if you'd care to come down and toss a pie at a willing clown for a good cause, now's the time. I'm not sure how much longer the fundraiser will last, so get here quickly, as there's quite a line."  The camera took in the long line of hunky men and boys lining up to fill their arms with pies.  Back to the reporter. "I'm Susan VanderVeen, at the Shoreline Bandstand grounds.  Back to you, Carl."  One last shot of Christian getting hammered by two pies at once.  Two shirtless and ripped young men shared a high five and an exaggerated roar at their dual throw, and the crowd cheered loudly in response.  It was a good puff piece.  The reporter and her crew were still smiling as they packed up their gear, nodding approvingly at the shenanigans going on.  It was so nice to cover a story where no one was being hurt or kidnapped.  

Christian hung on his stocks, feeling imprisoned and humiliated beyond anything he'd ever felt before.  His body was drenched in pie filling, whipped cream, crust, and streams of seltzer.  He had lost track of how long he had been here, but he saw that the sun was beginning to set.  The light was fading a bit and the blue sky was streaked with lines of pink and orange. But despite the sunlight dispersing, the crowd did not. Didn't these fucking people have homes??

At a signal from Jake, a switch was thrown and three very old and rickety telephone poles were tended to by three of the musclemen.  Atop the poles were a series of nine giant floodlights, placed there to keep any late-night show well lit.  It had been ages since anyone had performed at this venue, so it was something of a gamble as to whether the lights would even work.  Jake dropped his arm in a grand gesture.  Hit it!




All three poles flared to life.  There was only one bulb out on the first pole, two out on the third pole.  The second, aimed directly above Christian, was fully lit.  Everybody went wild.  Their night could go on forever, it seemed.  Everybody thought their beloved stooge was laughing along with the rest of them when he began to cry.


It was well after sunset when Jake got the word from the bakery truck.  A man in a white side-buttoned shirt and neckerchief leaned out of the truck with arms spread wide in a sorrowful expression.  They were finally out of pies.  "Sorry to say this, folks, but it looks like we're down to our last few pies!"  The crowd moaned with disappointment.  Christian lifted his cream-coated head toward heaven and said a quick prayer of thanks.

"We've only got a handful of these creamed beauties left", Jake said.  "And there's just no way that everyone still in line will get a shot in."  The moan built to a groan.  "To be fair now", Jake pointed out, "many of you had already had your shot with the stooge. Sometimes several times over."  Those who had not yet gotten a chance to throw a pie pushed to the front of the crowd, waving their money frantically.  Jake smiled and held up a hand.

"Now, to be fair, there is someone these pies were promised to already."

Boos and jeers issued from the crowd.  Who was it?  Why should he get the last shots?  What made him so special?  Jake spoke firmly but calmly into the microphone.  "Okay, okay, hang on a minute there, everybody. This request was put in yesterday at the gym before we even began our proceedings today. His pies have all been prepaid for."  A few guys whipped out extra tens and offered twenty-dollar bills in the hopes of hijacking those purchased pies.  Jake shook his head.

"Let's just say that this person truly believes in our cause, so unless any of you men would care to replace those Hamiltons and Jacksons with some Benjamins, I'd say he's still got you beat."  There was a whine of defeat among the would-be pie throwers, but then a few of the girls began to applaud.  There were looks of confusion until the scantily-clad ladies pointed the various signs bearing the name of the charity.  "That's right, folks", Jake said proudly, "just think of the amount that is now going to this amazing cause!" It was then the clouds lifted and everyone present began to realize that rather than steal away their final pies, this fellow, whoever he was, had just donated hundreds to their charity.  The applause grew with whistles and whoops as Jake hollered, "Talk about the cherry on top of the pie!!"  People were now bouncing in place and hugging one another.  Inwardly, Jake rolled his eyes. Most of them had never even heard of the charity, but the idea of being part of some great event made them feel special.  Sheep.

"Let's prepare our precious stooge for the finale!", Jake declared.  The muscle boys hosed Christian down with the last of their seltzer bottles and left him there, drenched and spent.  He shot a look of death at Jake, who simply sent a silent signal of thumb and middle finger spreading his mouth wide and in immediate response, Christian smiled brightly against his will.

"And let's meet the man who has given so much to help our Stooge's 1st Annual Pie-Apalooza have such a smashing send-off!"  Music blared from loudspeakers and Pat Benetar sang our her classic, Hit Me With Your Best Shot.  Striding down the red carpet (now pink in most places and stained with whipped cream and chunks of smeared banana) at a brisk pace came the final attendee.  He was gorgeous.  Average height, but far, far above-average build.  He had the chiseled body of a superhero, sculpted abs and every muscle group stood out as if carved flawlessly from marble.  He wore tight red gym shorts, hi-end athletic shoes and no shirt.  Christian recognized him instantly.  As the beautiful man made his way forward to cheers and handshakes and pats on the back and shoulders, Jake shouted into the mic.  "Preeeee-ZENT-ing, Patrick Seymour!"

Patrick did a little hopping dance, as if he were a boxer preparing to enter the ring. Jake played it up, saying, "Patrick is a personal fitness trainer, health enthusiast, nutrition expert, marathon runner, and he has an award-winning pitching arm! Let's give it up!!"  Everyone followed his lead and cheered as if they were being presented with a renowned celebrity rather than some hunky gym rat they'd just met.

"A moment while I check on our stooge", Jake smiled.

Jake hopped over to the beaten Christian and spoke softly in his ear.  "How do you like your final surprise?  I know you've been all, "Daddy, can I have one?' ever since you first laid eyes on him."

Christian panted as he caught his breath.  " did you talk him...into this?"

Jake shook his head, grinning maliciously.  "Why don't you tell me?"

Christian's eyes looked suspiciously at his captor, conveying an excess of impotent rage for the stupid smile pasted over his face.  Jake just stared back, cocking his head toward the red carpet behind them.  Go on. Take a look.

Christian did.  And at first he didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for. There was Patrick.  He was gorgeous.  Nothing new there. His muscles glistened in the harsh floodlights.  He must have oiled up before coming.  Patrick nodded and smiled at onlookers, sharing 'guy hugs' with everyone who was close by.  He flashed that smile.  That bright, beaming, heart-melting smile that you just knew was completely genuine. Christian began to feel himself get lost in that smile once again...until something else caught his eye.

Patrick turned and looked to Jake, tossing a friendly wave.  There was something off in his eyes.  Something dim and glassy.  No one else would have noticed it, unless they both knew Patrick personally and knew what to look for.  Christian did both.

"He's been hypnotized", Christian realized.  He turned to Jake with an accusing stare.  "You hypnotized him!!", he shouted.  Jake had the mic off and behind his back, lest Christian's words be heard by the audience.  The pervading din of excitement was enough to cover that.  Jake only looked at Christian and nodded.  Drawing close to his stooge's ear, he whispered, "For a lot longer thank you might think, stooge-boy."

Christian seethed but knew there was little else he could do.  How long had Patrick been under Jake's influence? And to what extent was he being controlled?  

"Oh, you'll find out all you need to know about your hypno-buddy Patrick soon enough", Jake whispered, anticipating Christian's questions.  "But first, here's something far more important you need to be made aware of."

Jake spoke forcefully to Christian, his lips pressed against the stooge's ear. The stooge accepted all that he said and felt it set within his mind as if it were molten steel poured into a casting block.  By the time Jake stepped back, moments later, that steely command was already cooling into rigid, immovable shape.   "You got that?", Jake said.

"Yes, sir, Pie Master, sir", Christian said mechanically.

"Good boy", Jake said.  "Now be happy and encouraging."  He held the mic up to Christian's mouth, turning it back on with the flick of tiny switch.

"Let's wrap this party up, everybody!!!", the stooge cried against his will.  It sure looked as if he were into it.  With a spring in his step, Jake bounded back to the ticket table and joined those who had been taking all the money.  

Patrick approached the table where the pies had been handed out all afternoon and evening.  "Here we go", Jake announced to the crowd.  "Our very last half dozen pies.  That's it.  When these are gone, the show is over."  There was a partial hush that fell over the group, and some murmurs of disappointment that all this grand and glorious fun had to come to an end.  "However!", Jake said with great cheer in his voice.  "We did save the best for last.  Behold."

The man from the bakery rolled up a long cart bearing the final six pies.  They were massive.  Each pie was easily three times as large across as the standard pies seen thus far, with more than four times the filling and cream, prepared on special plates of sturdy cardboard to survive impact.  The crowd went wild and inwardly, Christian shuddered.

Making quite a show of it, Patrick strutted down the carpet brandishing the gigantic pie plate.  Christian's heart pounded in his chest. Patrick's approach toward him began to slow as the world perceived by Christian the Stooge went into slow motion, The command that Jake had whispered into his ear came back to Christian in a quiet whisper, but with irresistible force.

"Every time Patrick hits you with a pie, you will cum. You will climax instantly and reach orgasm with every impact. It will be the most amazing, mind-altering, body-trembling, world-moving orgasms you have ever had.  Each one more powerful than the last. You will cum as you never have before. With every. Single. Pie." 

Christian knew this to be true. He was too well conditioned, too deeply under Jake's control for it to be anything else.  Patrick approached.  He was all smile and glazed eyes.  An expression of cheerful malice at play upon his face as he strode forward, time catching up to him, life regaining its normal speed in Christian's eyes.


Patrick hit Christian full in the face with the first pie. Cream went everywhere, the plate was so huge that it wrapped all the way around the sides of Christian's head, covering his ears.  There was a spongy cake crust under all that fluffy cream and thick filling, which maximized the spread of the goo, saturating the stooge and obscuring his face.  It was just as well.  Nobody was able to see the stooge's 'O' face.

Christian's body shook.  His balls churned with semen and his cock spewed forth a geyser of jizz unlike anything he'd experienced before.  Every muscle in his body tensed and he was overcome by paralyzing waves of pleasure.  

Oh God, I can't take's so nothing I've ever...oh Jesus, make it shit...don't...don't stop...!!

Christian felt his shoulders tense and his fingers claw at empty air. His legs went limp and became jelly beneath him, feet losing all purchase with the ground as his toes pointed inward like a suspended rag doll.

The crowd ate it up.  As Patrick whirled to face them, sculpted arms raised in triumphant fists, every onlooker laughed at what they were certain was the stooge's outlandish performance to heighten the effect of the moment.

"Look at him twitch!"  "Holy cow, what a goofball!"  "Play it up, stooge!"

Patrick returned to the pie table and picked up two at once. Jake nodded.  Do it, dude.  Not about to miss this opportunity, Jake lifted his mic and yelled, "Sandwich!"  The crowd fell silent, uncertain of what he meant.  Was he going to throw sandwiches now? What?  Patrick held the twin pies aloft and Jake made gestures with his palms coming together and yelled again into the mic.  "Sandwich! Sandwich!"  The crowd figured it out and took up the chant.  "Sand-wich! Sand-wich!! SAND-wich!!!"

Patrick raced up the carpet at high speed and brought both pies two and three together on either side of Christian's head with a mighty percussion.  


Cream burst outward and upward and all over the front of Christian's clown suit in a massive wave. Everyone cheered at the tremendous splash of pie goo.  Christian, caught in the midst of it, became suddenly, sharply aware of every muscle in his arms and legs and ass.  They clenched and held as he shot another load that felt as if it were easily the equal of that which had just smashed into his head and hosed down the carpet around him.  His hips bucked and his toes clawed at the inside of his boots.

Good GOD!!  Stronger than before...uh!...uh!...uhh!!...body can't take this...muscles too tight...can't let go of this...oh, oh, oh ohhhhh...more...need more....!

Patrick took a grand bow and everyone went crazy.  Before Christian could even begin to collect himself, the fitness trainer already had the fourth pie in his hand and was racing back up the carpet toward the stooge.

No, not yet...not least let me collect myself...can't catch my breath...not yet...not yet...!

Patrick whirled his arm around in a big circle as if he were going to throw an underhand pitch at high speed, if such a thing were possible.  He practically danced his way up to Christian, making quite a show of it. But as Patrick swung his arm, he drew close and his real target came clear.  He was not aiming for Christian's face.  In the next second, Patrick's whirling pie-wielding arm made contact with Christian's crotch.


Christian lurched forward at the waist, his progress hindered by the shackles around his wrists. His entire pelvic region came alive with arousal and ejaculation.

HUHH!...omigod...omigod...Huhh! Huhh!!...Haaahhhhuh!

He had no idea the muscles in his ass could clench so tight.  He shot and shot, uncertain where all this man juice was coming from. Would he never run dry?

Patrick had the fifth pie in his hand now. He was bouncing it gently up and down in his palm, strolling casually toward the decimated stooge.  Christian spat cream from his mouth, gasped for breath in desperate wheezes that had nothing to do with the cream, goo, and gunge that covered his face and obscured his nose. His hips had stopped thrusting, his ass had unclenched, but his dick was still releasing a steady stream of cum, like a garden hose that had not been shut all the way off.  He felt himself stop draining jizz just as Patrick made it up to him.  He knew his brief respite would not last much longer.


Patrick brought the second-to-last pie down atop Christian's head like a gooey hat. Cream and filling rained down over the stooge's shoulders and spattered over the tops of his boots. Christian's entire body shuddered.  With the last of day's light fading and a cool breezing blowing in off the lake, everybody assumed the intense shivers were due to the cold.  Everybody was wrong.  Their stooge felt his hands fly open with splayed fingers, his elbows locking and forearms tensing.  If his wrists ended in they torn wires of an industrial cable rather than with flesh and blood, wild sparks of uncontrolled electricity would be arcing off his digits and lancing about in all directions.

Oh, holy mother of God in heaven...!!...can't move...can't move...body frozen...cock throbbing...shooting...shooting...I'm cumming...I'm cumming...where am I?...what's going on...can't think anymore...just cum...oh someone help me...cumming...cumming some more...!

After an eternity of six seconds, Christian the Stooge felt his entire body go limp.  He felt as much cream inside his concealing rubber cock pouch as he did all over his body and costume.  If not for the bonds holding him in place, he knew he would be face-down on the moist and saturated carpet right now. He had never felt so weak, so spent, so utterly dehumanized and totally humiliated.  And he shuddered inwardly as he realized...he had never felt so happy.

By the time Christian blinked away the last of the cream covering his eyes (and two of the large muscle men helped by offering a few fingers to scrape away the larger globs of topping and cream filling), he could see Patrick approaching with the sixth and final pie. Patrick was spattered with bits of pie himself.  But unlike Christian, the flecks that peppered his bare chest and chiseled abs only made him look better, whereas Christian looked only like a stupid fool.

Patrick looked like he 'owned the room' as the saying goes, as he strode up to the devastated stooge.  Patrick held up the pie to the audience.  This was it, the grand finale.  Everyone applauded and cheered.  Whistles were heard as Patrick turned to face his victim.  Christina started to shake his head.  No, please don't.  As Patrick moved in closer, Christian shook his head harder.  No, no, please, no.  I've had enough.  Laughter rose in the audience.  Clearly the stooge was just milking this, playing it up for laughs, right?  Wrong.

Patrick applied the pie.  No huge impact, no big splash.  Slowly, Patrick pushed the giant pie into Christian's face and pressed.  Moving his hand in a slow circle, he began to smear it around.  Cream spread, fillings dripped, soft crust cracked.  Christian shook.  

No...holy shit...nonononooo...ohhhhHHH...FUCK!!!!!!

Unwittingly, Christian sucked in globs of cream and did his best spit or swallow as he thrust and squirmed and shot his biggest load yet. Where was it coming from?  How was it possible to even feel like this? This good, this aroused, this fucking, brain-numbing intense?! And why the hell didn't Patrick stop smearing that goddamned PIE??!!!

Patrick didn't, either.  He just kept pressing the pie against Christian's face, smearing to the left, then the right, then upward, all so slowly, so cruelly.  Everyone watching loved it and applauded the showmanship and silliness, completely oblivious to how helplessly hard their amusing stooge had become and what that meant.

Tiny, jerking thrusts from Christian's hips sent forth more streams of jism, sending lightning bolts of intense pleasure down his legs and up his spine.


In the slowest movement of all, Patrick slid the smothering pie up Christian's face to displace the pie plate that had been there and rest at last upon the top of his head.

Christian was finished. His body was like a fire hose firing through a soggy sponge cake. His legs were less fortified than the loose globs of cream scattered everywhere. If not for the steady tingling running through his arms, Christian would have thought those limbs had been removed.  He could not feel his feet. His toes twitched inside his clown boots. Once, twice.  He felt his toes rub against the smooth purple rubber.  It was only for an instant, but long enough to reassure him that he had not been amputated at the ankles. he could still feel his dick.  Oh God, could he.  Stiff, strong, spurting.  Squirt! Splurt! Squuiiiirrrrtt. Split. Splut.

Patrick stepped back and threw his arms up in victory.  After basking in the adoration, he moved aside and extended an arm to the battered stooge, who hung on his stocks, head slumped forward, fingers digging slowly at nothing, legs twitching pitifully. Without a doubt, stooge Christian was completely out of cream filling.

Jake knew he had to act quickly, lest even the dimmest bimbo watching realized that Christian was not play-acting. "Let's hear it for our stooge, people!", Jake cried into the mic.  "And I've just got preliminary tallies for our event—we have broken all records for this charity for a one-day fundraising event! Give yourselves a round of applause!"  As everyone whooped and cheered, the ever-handy musclemen detached Christian from his bonds.  He practically melted into their arms.  Jake allowed no one's gaze to linger on him.  "We need to get our man of the hour cleaned up now! Who's gonna help us get this place cleaned up?  Let's leave it looking like we were never here—we don't any reasons for someone to say we can't do this again sometime!  Fellas, we've got hoses over here.  Who can help roll up that carpet?  If you should happen to throw a bit of pie or hose each other as you clean—hey, it happens!"

With new mischief at hand for everyone, Christian was quickly forgotten. No one saw the three musclemen hefting the stooge over their heads like a plank of plywood, carrying him off the lot and to a nearby car Jake had prepared for him to be poured into.  Patrick was on hand, speaking softly to the drained and defeated human pie target.

"We'll get you home, buddy. You did great. You should be very proud of yourself. Helluva turnout for a worthy cause, Christian."

Christian felt the last vestiges of consciousness leaving him.  As his awareness faded, he felt a cloud of confusion settle over his mind. Who's Christian? he wondered. My name is Stooge.


Christian had lost track of what day it was. He sat on the floor of his refurbished basement.  Gone were the plastic tarps and bare walls.  The bottom floor of his home was now a finished studio, complete with wall speakers, sturdy shower curtain backdrops, hoses, a drain in the floor, and even a large refrigerator unit for keeping copious amounts of pies. Christian was uncertain when exactly all this renewal had taken place, but came to accept it as the natural order of things. 

His head was a bit foggy, his thoughts a bit muddled.  But that was also normal these days.  He was dressed in a clown suit.  It was the only kind of clothing he owned anymore.  His body was buff and sculpted, trimmed and toned.  The clown suit he wore was like the one he had worn on the day of his big Pie-Apalooza, all white and purple.  But this one was not loose-fitting.  This clown suit was snug as spandex, but made entirely of shiny white rubber.  The gloves and boots were brilliant purple, but equally made of sturdy rubber.  Waterproof.  Easily wiped down and cleaned off.  Christian's impressive build also made his oversized feet, his little conical hat, and suit look even more ridiculous on him.

The daily humiliations continued, sometimes for hours at a time, and Christian was actually grateful for the rubber clown suit.  He still felt demoralized, but no longer felt as wet and sticky al over.  Today was supposed to be a big day, according to Pie Master Jake.  Christian just sat there and waited for whatever announcement his master no doubt thought was wonderful, and Christian knew with great certainty would only make him feel like an idiot.

"You would not BELIEVE the hits your video is getting!"

Jake raced into the room carrying a laptop.  "You have GOT to see this, Stooge."  He set up the laptop on a small milk crate beside his stooge.  Firing it up, the screen showed YouTube and a video called 1st Annual Stooge Pie-Apalooza FINALE.  It was footage from the day Christian had been publicly humiliated at the old beach bandstand lot.  It showed Patrick slamming him with pies, the audience cheering him on, and Christian's helpless reactions.  There were jump cuts, zoom-ins, and other excellent features that indicated the video had been both professionally shot and edited. It made the 9-minute video fun to watch, made it seem to go faster than it did, and it made Christian look like a complete imbecile.

"Look at the number of views!", Jake beamed.

Christian did.  1,014,537 and climbing.

"Over...over a million views?", Christian asked, dumbfounded.  "Did you rig it to say that?"

"No way", Jake smiled. "Your videos have become popular everywhere. Daily Motion, Funny Or Die, Facebook, Twitter...oh, you're fucking huge on Twitter, Stooge. And you should be so happy about how that's helping my business venture."

"Business venture, Sir?", Christian asked.  "What...wait, did you say videos? Plural?  How many...?"  Christian shook his head, starting to get up from the floor. "What's been going on?"

Jake shot him a harsh look and said, "Sit."

Christian's rubbered ass went right back down onto the floor.  "Yessir."

Jake was almost giddy with success. (Success of what?)  "When I saw all those people going bug nuts at the bandstand, I was all like, 'How can I tap into this?' I mean, I didn't even hypnotize them to be that into it. It was like schadenfreude meets slapstick meets kink meets gunge fetish!"

Christian just looked at his master blankly.  

Jake was smiling so brightly.  He looked at Christian. "Don't you get it??"

Christian shrugged.  Nope.  Jake waved a hand indicating he would make everything crystal clear.

"Dig it", Jake grinned, rested his elbow on empty air.  He leaned to the side slightly, appearing to be supporting himself on nothing.

Christian just stared at him, unimpressed and too exhausted to care.  "What, has all this clown bullshit inspired you to take up a career in mime?"

Jake just smiled brighter.  He waved a finger back and forth at his human puppet. "You can't see it. Don't you get it? It's invisible to you!"

Christian just sighed. "Pie Master, I'm very tired and demoralized.  What do you want me to say—"

Jake cut him off by saying, "When I snap my fingers twice and give you the trigger word, you will see again that which your mind has hidden."  Snap, snap.  "Reveal."

Instantly there appeared beneath Jake's arm, a highly sophisticated-looking video camera set upon a very sturdy professional tripod.  Christian sat up suddenly.

"Where the hell did that come from, Sir?!"

Jake laughed. "It's been here all the time! I just hypnotized you not to see it."  Jake walked around the camera and smirked at his stooge. Christian took notice of the fact that Jake never once crossed before the lens so that his face could be seen.  Christian also saw that the red recording light was flashing.

" long have you been taping me, Pie Master, sir?", Christian asked, suddenly feeling very nervous and exposed.

"You have no idea", Jake grinned.  "By about our third or fourth session, I just knew that your humiliation was too damn good to just let go every night, forgotten except by the two of us."  Jake clasped his hands together gleefully and smiled.  "I decided to share the wealth." There was malice in that wide spread of smiling white teeth.  Jake walked over to an empty side table that Christian never really acknowledged or cared about.  Had it been empty the entire time? How long was that—how long had it been just sitting there, with no pies or props on it?  Jake again snapped his fingers twice.  Snap, snap. "Reveal discs."

A stack of CD jewel cases appeared on the table.  Or rather, they had been there all the time and Christian could only see them just now.  Jake picked up the first disc and held it up to Christian.  Written on the DVD disc was the title STOOGE 1.  Jake winked at Christian, "These hold up to 90 minutes of video files."  Christian gaped at the stack of disc cases.  There were at least a dozen of them in plain sight.  Each case held another disc.  Each one was full.  "At first I was just shilling them out at a few pie and wam fetish sites—", Jake explained.


"Wam.  Double-you, ay, em. Wet and messy.  Stay with me, Stooge.  But then after that day at the bandstand, this video posting.  Well, dig it."  Jake grabbed the laptop and entered a web address.  He then turned it back for Christian to see.   HYPERLINK ""  There were images a'plenty of Christian in his clown suit being pied.  Some of him in his humiliating T-shirts, others where he was completely naked.  In all of them, he was being spattered, bashed, and covered with a barrage of pies.  There was a Free Tour selection, a subscription option (daily, monthly, yearly), and various pages.  Membership allowed you access to the video archives and a huge series of photo galleries. The online store provided the means to purchase DVDs of videos and CDs of photos.  Visa, MasterCard, Amex, and Discover accepted.  Below the main page was a counter, ticking off the number of visitors to the site.  It was up to seven digits.

"You're a fucking star, Stooge."

All the world could now see what a stooge Christian was (for a price).  This was by no means what he had wanted back when he asked his handsome, muscled friend form the gym to hit him with a pie.

Christian watched horrified as Jake skimmed through clip after clip, pausing here and there to get the full effect of all that he had done. In one of the clips, Christian was buck naked, save for a giant red clown nose, feverishly jacking himself off.  As he reached climax, Christian saw himself fall to his knees and ejaculate into a cream pie, his face a mask of open-mouthed ecstasy.  Then he lifted up the pie plate, his member still dripping with cum, and smeared the pie all over himself.  It was undeniably hot and kinky, especially as Christian began to lick the plate hungrily—the camera zoomed in to see him lapping up plenty of spooge along with the whipped cream—and at the same utterly devastating for the poor stooge to watch.

Other clips showed how the stooge spent his days.  Working out extensively, but always in clown shoes and red nose. He sculpted and maintained his body while still looking like a complete oaf.  After one series of strenuous arm and chest exercises, the stooge poured himself a protein shake and downed it greedily.  He then hefted the large blender in which he had mixed it and poured the rest of the shake all over himself.

He did pushups up and down into pies.  Impressive pull-ups were rewarded with pies to the face each time Christian brought his chest up to the bar.

During his pie and gunge sessions, Christian had different outfits now.  All of them were of the same design as his white and purple clown suit of skintight rubber, but he also had suits of turquoise and white, pink and green, some with polka dots, dizzy and mismatched plaids, star fields and absurd patterns.  Wherever his old clothes had gone, he no longer remembered.  All he wore now were costumes.  That, and pies. LOTS of pies.

One free video on the site was titled "Watch the Stooge Quit His Old Job!"  It was a hidden camera affair, of the kind used on reality programs, in which Christian, in a clownish suit coat, baggy pants, clown shoes and red nose, walked into his office and announced to his boss, "I quit, sir.  I've found my true calling. I'm a STOOGE now!"

Christian only vaguely recalled that happening. A quick glance to the far corner of the room where his office belongings sat in a cardboard box convinced him the scene shown on the video really did take place.  When had that been, anyway?  Days ago?  Weeks, months?

Christian sighed.  His old life was over.  He was a stooge now.  In fact, he could no longer recall what his name had once been at all.  He knew he had another name once, but each time he reached for it, all he came up with was Stooge.  This time was stronger than the simple mind games Jake had played on him once before.  This time, Stooge knew his old name was gone forever.  He was Stooge now.  His make-believe dream of being a pie stooge was now a very real daily nightmare.

Jake placed a hand upon Stooge's shoulder. "Buck up, old' buddy, I've got something that will make you feel much better."  Stooge looked up hopefully.  "I've got us a hook to increase your viewership!"

In walked a beautiful man with an exquisite body, clad in a skintight rubber clown suit identical in cut and style to the one Stooge was wearing.  Only this new fellow's clown costume was yellow with large orange polka dots.  His boots and gloves were fire engine red, as were the pom-poms on his tunic and hat.  Despite himself, Stooge smiled when he laid eyes on him.


Patrick knelt down beside Stooge and grinned very sincerely. "What did you call me? Who's Patrick?  My name is Buffoon."

A tiny, very quiet voice in the back of Stooge's mind cried out that this was wrong, it wasn't the right name for this beautiful, beautiful man.  He too had been captured by Pie Master Jake and needed to be freed while there was still time.

But the tiny voice faded very quickly.

Stooge smiled.  "Okay, Buffoon.  I'm Stooge."

Buffoon smiled back.  "I know."

The two leaned in to kiss each other, but Jake stopped them.

"Hang on, hang on", he ordered.  "One sec."

Jake squirted some super glue onto Patrick's nose from a small tube and then affixed a large red clown nose there that matched Christian's.  "26...27...28...29....annnnd 30 seconds.  Okay, you're good."

The two hapless, hypnotized clowns leaned in and kissed passionately.  Neither of them ever intended to be reduced to pay-per-view fools.  But at one time, both of them admired the other from across a gym floor and wishes they could be together.  They wished they other one would say something, or that they would someone work up the courage to make the first move.  Now those concerns were behind them and that former longing was strong enough to overpower any internal warnings about how they had gotten to this point or what they were being made to do.  They were happy.

Never breaking from their kisses, Stooge and Buffoon knelt before each other and stripped each other of their clown suits.  Tenderly kissing neck and shoulders, caressing arms and lightly fingering back, the two soon performed before the camera they only partly saw, naked but for muscles and red noses.

Stooge and Buffoon rubbed together, cocks pressing close and hard. They gripped each other in a strong embrace as they shot a huge load all over each other.  As they flopped over onto their bare asses, all grins and giggles, Jake picked up two massive banana cream pies.  He gave them a hand cue the two clowns didn't even know about and forgot as soon as they received it.  Jake reeled back with both hands as his two cash cow clowns smiled beautifully into the camera. In unison, they spoke cheerfully.

"Hey, everybody!"

The man once known as Christian glowed, "I'm a stooge!"

The former fitness trainer previously called Patrick chimed, "And I'm a buffoon!" Together they beamed, "Thanks for watching Gay Pie Stooge Victim dot net!"

Jake let fly with his pies.