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muzzimuzzi1 · 15 days ago

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water boy

Sam Hubbard was the pride of the Bengals’ defensive line—tall, relentless, and smart. Every Sunday, the crowd roared his name as he sacked quarterbacks and stopped plays cold. But none of that mattered to Tyler, the team’s overlooked, underpaid water boy.

Tyler was always there, blending into the sidelines like a patch of turf. He filled bottles, cleaned towels, and listened—really listened—as players talked like he wasn’t there. They barely acknowledged him. Not even Sam, the supposed "nice guy."

So one day, Tyler snapped—or rather, he got clever.

See, Tyler had a side hobby: hypnosis. Not the stage stuff, but real, deep suggestion. He practiced on drunk friends in college, even once got a professor to forget his name for a week. And now, he had a new target: Sam.

The locker room was quiet. Practice had ended a while ago. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the hum of distant vacuums echoed from the hallway. Most of the players had gone home, except for one.

Sam sat on the bench in front of his locker, slowly unwrapping tape from his fingers. Sweat still clung to his skin, but he wasn’t in a hurry. A long practice. His muscles ached. His mind drifted.

Tyler stood a few feet away, organizing a crate of bottles, his movements methodical. He glanced at Sam, hesitating. Then he spoke, soft and casual.

“You ever just…get tired of all this?” Tyler asked, keeping his tone light.

Sam didn’t look up. “Tired?”

“Yeah. The yelling. The pressure. Everyone barking orders at you like you’re a robot.”

Sam chuckled dryly, tossing a ball of tape onto the floor. “Comes with the job.”

He cleared his throat. "Do you mind, uh, James?" Sam held out his hand, a signal Tyler knew too well, he wanted the bottle of water.

Of course he didn’t know his actual name.

Tyler walked over slowly, a towel draped over his shoulder. "It's Tyler..." He held a bottle of water, offering it out.

“You should hydrate. You always forget after long days.”

"Oh, sorry," Sam growled quietly, clearly mot paying attention.

Without thinking, Sam took it and drank.

Tyler sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, eyes calm.

“You know,” he said quietly, “there’s a way to not feel it. The pressure. The noise.”

Sam grunted, vaguely listening, his eyes on the floor.

“You just breathe. That’s all. Just… slow down and listen. Doesn’t even have to make sense. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”

Sam rolled his shoulder, tired. “Mhm.”

“Just keep listening, even if your mind wanders. That’s fine. You don’t have to care. You don’t have to try. Let the words drift past you, like background noise. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

Sam’s jaw twitched. His gaze had gone unfocused, eyes glazed faintly as he stared at nothing. He didn’t answer.

Tyler leaned forward, slower now, his voice dropping half a tone.

“Feels nice… not having to think. Just breathe, and drift. Maybe part of you’s still aware. But that part is already listening a little too closely.”

Sam blinked, slow and heavy.

“You’re not even trying to listen, but the words are slipping in anyway. Like rain soaking into dry ground.”

Silence.

“You don’t care about this. Not really. But inside, something’s changing. Something’s loosening.”

Sam’s shoulders had slumped. The hand holding the water bottle had gone slack.

Tyler smiled faintly.

“And now, every word I say sinks in deeper. Every time I speak, it feels more natural to follow. To agree. To obey.”

A beat passed. Then—

“Yes…” Sam murmured. Quiet. Not even fully conscious of the word.

Tyler leaned in, inches from his face. “You’re going to feel better than you’ve ever felt. Because you don’t have to think anymore. You just have to obey me. Isn’t that easier?”

Sam exhaled slowly, as if something deep in him finally let go.

“Yes… Tyler…”

Tyler let the silence linger for a moment, watching Sam sit there—muscles loose, head bowed slightly, his mind suspended in that warm, obedient fog.

“Good…” Tyler whispered. “Now let’s see just how deep we’ve gone.”

He reached out and touched Sam’s knee, giving it a light tap. “Stand up.”

Without hesitation, Sam rose to his feet, towering over Tyler, his expression passive—blank but calm.

Tyler stood too, circling him slowly. “Damn,” he muttered, low enough to sound casual but loud enough for Sam’s subconscious to catch. “All that training… all that discipline… and look at you now. Waiting for a water boy to tell you what to do.”

He stopped in front of Sam. “Flex your right bicep. Go on.”

Sam obeyed. His arm rose, coiling into a tight flex. The muscle bulged, well-defined under the skin. Tyler watched it with a smug little smile, then reached out, casually running his hand along the curve of the muscle. Slow. Measuring. Almost reverent.

“Impressive,” Tyler murmured, fingers trailing down to Sam’s forearm. “You work so hard for this, don’t you? All the hours, the diet, the sweat… All so you can be strong, powerful…”

He stepped closer, placing a hand against Sam’s chest now. “Flex this too.”

Sam’s pecs tightened under Tyler’s palm, hard and massive. Tyler gave them a gentle, testing push, his smirk widening.

“…And yet, one soft voice and you’re all mine,” he said, voice dipped in mock sympathy.

He moved his hand to Sam’s face, slowly brushing his knuckles along his jawline, then his cheek, then gently tilting his chin up with two fingers. Sam didn’t resist. Didn’t react.

Tyler leaned in closer, his voice a whisper again. “You don’t even care, do you? All those years being respected. Feared. And now, the only approval that matters comes from me.”

Sam’s lips parted slightly, breathing slow and shallow.

“Say it,” Tyler ordered, still holding his chin. “Tell me who you listen to.”

“…I listen to you, Tyler,” Sam said, soft and automatic.

Tyler chuckled. “Of course you do.”

He took a step back, watching the obedient giant standing there—shirt half-clinging to his body, eyes still hazy.

Tyler stepped close again, voice low and edged now—no more softness, no more pretense.

“You ever wonder why nobody really sees you, Sam?” he said, circling slowly. “You bust your ass for this team, play through injuries, smile through interviews—and what do they give you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Nothing. Not real respect. They pat your back because they need you. But the moment you're not useful? You're just another jersey. A number on a chart.”

Tyler leaned near his ear. “But me? I noticed you. I saw you—saw through you. I saw the cracks. The need.”

Sam’s breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t move.

“You need someone to give you purpose. Orders. Meaning. You’ve been chasing it through playbooks and weight rooms. But now you finally found it.”

Tyler stepped in front of him, holding his gaze now with steady, cold intensity.

“You’re not a leader anymore. You're not even a man with choices. You're mine. Say it.”

Sam's voice came slow, like something breaking inside him.

“…I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled, not kindly.

“That’s right. And the more you say it, the more you believe it. Because every time you obey me, it rewires you. Your mind changes. Shrinks. Until thinking for yourself feels wrong. Until the only thing that feels right is waiting for my next command.”

Sam blinked slowly, lips parted. Tyler could see it—the war in his subconscious already ending, the last defenses crumbling.

“You don’t fight it,” Tyler continued, stepping closer, almost nose to nose. “You welcome it. Obedience is peace. Submission is purpose. Say it.”

“Obedience… is peace…” Sam murmured, his voice trembling with something caught between defeat and relief.

“Submission… is purpose.”

Tyler raised a hand again, touching Sam’s chest.

“You're not their hero anymore, Sam. You're my tool. My pet. And the sooner you accept that, the freer you'll be.”

Sam didn’t speak. He just stood there—silent, still, owned.

Tyler smiled.

He let his eyes wander over the footballer's body once more, and he crouched slightly, one hand settling lightly on Sam’s thigh. Not urgent. Not invasive. Just… curious.

He let his fingers move slowly—tracing the definition carved into flesh from years of relentless training. Muscle under skin. Strength without thought. Power without will.

“Look at these legs,” Tyler murmured, almost to himself. “Monsters on the field. All that speed. All that force. But now? Just part of the machine. And I’m the one holding the controls.”

His thumb drifted just slightly up the inside of Sam’s thigh—not pushing, not testing boundaries. Just claiming space. Quietly. Confidently.

Sam didn’t flinch. He just stood there, eyes half-lidded, arms loose at his sides, waiting.

Tyler tilted his head, examining him like a craftsman admiring his own creation.

“You’re not even thinking about why,” he said. “Why you're letting me touch you. Why you're listening. And that’s the beauty of it. You don’t need a reason anymore.”

He stood upright again, meeting Sam’s eyes with a firm, expectant gaze.

“Kneel.”

Sam hesitated for half a breath, maybe a flicker of his old pride lingering—but it was no match for the programming Tyler had wrapped around his mind. Slowly, deliberately, the star defensive end sank to his knees before him. No words. No resistance.

Just surrender.

Tyler looked down at him, his voice a quiet murmur.

“Look at you. Kneeling for someone no one else even notices. For the guy who carries towels and wipes sweat off benches.”

He smirked. “And yet, you feel more certain now than you ever have in your life.”

Sam nodded once. Almost reverent.

Then, with the same quiet authority, he reached out and cupped Sam’s face.

His palm slid along Sam’s jaw, fingers tracing the shape of it—not with desire, not with warmth, but with ownership. Admiration twisted with power. His thumb swept gently under Sam’s eye, dragging across cheekbone, studying him like he was memorizing something valuable. Something that belonged to him now.

“You were made for this,” Tyler whispered. “Big, strong, silent. Built to obey.”

Sam didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His breath was slow. His expression empty, relaxed. Vulnerable in a way no one had ever seen him—not on the field, not in the locker room. Only Tyler had this version of him now.

Tyler ran his fingers along Sam’s temple, brushing damp strands of hair back, the touch slow and oddly tender.

“Doesn’t it feel better like this?” he murmured. “Not having to lead. Not having to pretend to be more than muscle. You were never meant to think, Sam. You were meant to serve.”

A twitch passed across Sam’s brow—something flickering deep inside—but it passed just as quickly. His voice came low, hollow with trance:

“…Yes, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… satisfied.

His thumb dragged across Sam’s lips once, softly.

“Good boy.”

Tyler brushed his hand through Sam’s damp hair. A mock-gentle gesture.

“Good. Stay there a while. Get used to it.”

He turned away for a moment, grabbing his gear, his voice calm and amused.

“After all… this is where you belong.”

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