Grace and Favor

Morning light crept across the master suite in thin gold bars. Marcus woke already hard, the layered green-lettered favors warm against his throat like a second pulse. His cock lay heavy across his thigh, thicker than it had been even the night before, the skin tight and sensitive. A low, pleasant fog sat behind his eyes—not painful, just soft, as if someone had turned the sharpness of his thoughts down a few notches and turned everything else up.

Tom stirred beside him, the tiny smooth mound between his legs twitching when the sheet dragged across it. Two of the pink-favored soft boys were already awake at the foot of the bed, adjusting white lace panties around cocks that remained impressively large despite the mild sissification. Their faces still carried the faint tint of yesterday’s makeup. They looked prettier in the daylight, softer around the eyes and mouth, and they kept glancing down at themselves with quiet, pleased confusion.

Sandra entered without knocking, followed by Claire and a woman Marcus dimly recognized from R&D—dark hair, sharp glasses, tablet in hand. Ingrid remained in bed, silk robe open, watching with calm interest.

“Up,” Sandra said. “Inspection and upgrades.”

The men rose. Marcus stood taller than he remembered, shoulders broader, the muscles of his chest and arms carrying a fuller, more defined look that had not been there twenty-four hours earlier. The fog in his head made the change feel natural. Big cock. Strong body. Simple purpose. The thoughts arrived already polished.

The R&D woman—Lena, someone called her—walked the line with her tablet. She paused in front of each green-favored man, tapped the screen, and watched the results.

When she reached Marcus she smiled.

“Strong response. The himbo overlay is taking cleanly. Intelligence markers down twelve percent, physical metrics up across the board, libido and compliance elevated. Cock growth still active—another half-inch of girth overnight. Perfect.”

She fastened one additional green-and-gold strand around his neck. Heat rolled through Marcus’s body in a slow wave. His cock stiffened further, veins standing out along the thick shaft. His thoughts simplified another degree. Words felt heavier; sensation felt brighter. He looked down at himself and felt a dull, happy pride. Big. Useful. Ready.

Lena repeated the process with the other fully masculine hung men. Each received the same gold-tinged favor. Shoulders broadened. Jaws softened just enough to look ruggedly handsome rather than sharp. Eyes took on a faintly vacant, eager warmth. Cocks that were already large thickened and lengthened another fraction, hanging heavier, staying half-hard even at rest. When they spoke, their voices carried a slower, deeper cadence.

“Hung himbos,” Claire said with open satisfaction. “Strong enough to fuck for hours, simple enough to follow any order without overthinking it, and permanently focused on keeping those big cocks ready for us.”

One of the newly enhanced men—formerly the reserved finance director—looked down at his own heavy erection and gave a slow, pleased grin.

“Looks good,” he said, the words slightly thick. “Wanna use it.”

“You will,” Sandra promised. “All of you will.”

The soft pink-favored boys received minor adjustments of their own—slightly more pronounced hip flare, a touch more sensitivity in their large cocks, a deeper urge to look pretty while being used. Tom and the other tiny-cocked men were left as they were, the contrast now even sharper against the rising himbo physiques.

Ingrid rose from the bed and walked the line once. She stopped in front of Marcus, wrapped her fingers around his thickened shaft, and gave it a single measuring stroke.

“You’ll report to my office as planned. The rest of you have assignments throughout the house and, later, at the company. The favors will keep the himbo state stable. Questions are unnecessary—you won’t have many left anyway.”

Marcus nodded. The motion felt easy. Thinking too hard already seemed like a waste of energy better spent staying hard and available.

They were herded downstairs for a proper morning session.

The main salon had been rearranged again. A long row of padded benches faced a low stage. Women who had stayed overnight—plus several who had returned early—occupied the benches with coffee and expectant expressions. The men were sorted quickly: tiny-cocked men on their knees along the walls, soft pink boys in a decorative line at the edge of the stage wearing only the lace panties, and the new hung himbos in the center.

Marcus stood among them, cock already fully hard from the gold-tinged favor, muscles pleasantly tight. The fog made everything simple. Stand tall. Stay hard. Wait for orders. Fuck when told. The complexity of the previous days had smoothed into a warm, obedient readiness.

Sandra addressed the room.

“Demonstration of the upgraded hung himbos. They’re stronger, simpler, and permanently focused on cock service. Soft boys will assist. Tiny boys will provide contrast and clean-up. Ladies, sample freely.”

Claire took the first himbo—a broad-chested man who had once run logistics—and bent him over a padded block. She mounted him from behind with no preamble, sinking down onto the thick cock until her ass rested against his thighs. He thrust upward automatically, steady and powerful, face slack with uncomplicated pleasure.

“That’s it,” she said, riding him. “No thinking. Just that big cock. Harder.”

He obeyed, hips snapping up with new muscular force. Claire came quickly, then switched him to another woman without letting him finish. The pattern repeated down the line. Each hung himbo was put to work—fucking with long, powerful strokes, holding positions for extended periods, staying hard through multiple partners. Their new simplicity showed in the way they responded: immediate, enthusiastic, almost dog-like in their eagerness once an order was given.

Marcus was called third. Ingrid herself took him first. She pushed him onto his back on the stage, straddled the heavy cock, and sank down with a low sound of approval.

“Even better than last night,” she murmured, rolling her hips. “Feel how full you are now. That’s the himbo rise—more cock, less clutter in the head. You exist to stay hard and deliver. Say it.”

“Exist to stay hard and deliver,” Marcus repeated, the words easy and true. His thoughts didn’t reach for anything beyond the tight heat around his shaft and the need to thrust when she allowed it. Ingrid rode him at her own pace, using his new strength, until she finished with a sharp cry. She stayed seated while aftershocks passed, then lifted off and gestured for the next woman.

Marcus lost count of partners. The gold-green favors kept him rigid and ready. When he was allowed to come it was only after three or four women had finished on him; the orgasm itself felt bigger, heavier, flooding whoever currently sat on his cock while the women watched with open approval. Between rounds he was ordered to stand and present, muscles flexed, thick cock glistening, while soft pink boys knelt to clean him with slow, pretty licks.

The tiny-cocked men were brought forward for contrast. Tom was placed on his back beneath Marcus at one point while a soft boy sat on Tom’s face and Marcus fucked the soft boy from above. Every thrust drove the soft boy down onto Tom’s mouth. Claire crouched beside them and kept a running commentary aimed at Tom.

“Feel that weight? That’s a real himbo cock rearranging someone while you’re stuck with a little button. He’s bigger, stronger, simpler, and far more useful. You’re going to clean both of them when he’s done.”

Marcus came deep inside the soft boy on a word from Claire. He held position while Tom was ordered to lick everything—the soft boy’s stretched rim, the thick base of Marcus’s cock, the slow drip of release. The humiliation in Tom’s eyes only fed the simple, happy heat in Marcus’s chest. Big cock. Good at fucking. Allowed to use the soft ones when the women said so. Everything else had faded into pleasant background noise.

The session stretched through the morning. Hung himbos were rotated between women and soft boys in every combination the hosts desired. Sometimes two himbos were ordered to double a soft boy while tiny men licked and watched. Sometimes a himbo was told to hold still on all fours while a woman sat on his face and a soft boy fucked himself back onto the thick cock. The mild sissification made the soft boys moan in higher, prettier tones; the himbo overlay made the large men respond with single-minded, muscular obedience.

By midday the women declared a break. The hung himbos were allowed water and a short rest on their knees. Marcus knelt with the others, cock still heavy and half-hard, the fog in his head comfortable and complete. Complex worries about the company, about his old life, about anything beyond the next order simply failed to form. He looked at the other himbos and saw the same vacant, ready expression reflected back.

Lena from R&D moved among them with her tablet, making quiet notes.

“Stable across the board. Muscle density up, refractory periods dramatically shortened, verbal fluency decreased but compliance and physical performance elevated. They’re going to be extremely popular at the office.”

Sandra laughed. “They’re already popular here. Afternoon assignments: half the himbos stay for private use by the board members who couldn’t attend last night. The rest—including Marcus—will be transported to the company campus for a quiet Sunday ‘orientation’ with selected staff. Soft boys and tiny boys go with them for support roles.”

Ingrid nodded approval. “Keep the gold strands active. I want the himbo rise locked in before Monday.”

Transport vans waited in the driveway. Marcus climbed into one with three other hung himbos, two soft pink boys, and Tom. The ride passed in a warm, low-level haze of arousal. One of the soft boys ended up in a himbo’s lap, lace pulled aside, riding slowly while the women driving watched in the rearview mirror and offered occasional instructions. Marcus was ordered to stroke himself in time with the soft boy’s movements but not to come. He obeyed, the thick shaft sliding through his fist in automatic rhythm, thoughts reduced to the simple loop of *hard, ready, wait for permission*.

The Reilly Industries campus was quiet on Sunday. They were led through a side entrance into a large executive lounge that had been prepared in advance—low couches, padded benches, mirrors, and a table laid with additional favors and supplies. A small group of women waited: department heads, two board observers, and Sandra, who had arrived ahead of them.

“Welcome to the first official himbo cohort,” Sandra announced. “These four have received the full green-and-gold upgrade. Stronger, simpler, permanently cock-focused. The soft boys are for variety and visual contrast. The tiny one is for cleaning and humiliation support. Use them as you like. The favors will keep them in state.”

The women did not waste time.

Marcus was claimed by a tall woman from Legal who had him on his back on a conference table within minutes. She rode the thick himbo cock with practiced ease, talking over her shoulder to the others about how much more effective the men would be once the intelligence dampening fully settled. Marcus thrust upward when told, held still when told, and came only when she reached back and gave the base of his cock a firm squeeze of permission. The orgasm felt massive, simple, and deeply satisfying. She stayed seated until she was finished, then rotated him to the next woman without a word.

Across the lounge the other himbos received the same treatment. Soft boys were bent over furniture and taken by the himbos on command, their pretty moans mixing with the deeper, slower sounds of the upgraded men. Tom was kept on his knees, moved from place to place to lick clean whatever cock or hole had just been used. Every time a woman wanted to highlight the difference she would have Tom present his tiny smooth mound beside a thick himbo shaft and deliver a few casual lines of SPH while the himbo continued fucking whoever currently sat on him.

The afternoon blurred into a steady rhythm of use. Marcus fucked and was ordered to fuck, held positions, presented his cock for inspection, and allowed soft boys to clean him with lace-clad mouths between rounds. The fog made every order feel like the most obvious thing in the world. When a woman told him to double a soft boy with another himbo, he simply moved into position and thrust when directed. When he was told to stand still and let two soft boys suck him at once while a tiny man licked his balls, he stood still and felt only the warm, uncomplicated pleasure of being used correctly.

Late in the day Lena arrived with a final set of gold-accented favors. She moved down the line of hung himbos and fastened one more strand around each neck.

The effect on Marcus was immediate and profound. The last residual sharpness in his thoughts dissolved. Muscle filled out another degree across his chest and shoulders. His cock, already massive by ordinary standards, gained a final measure of length and a permanent, low-grade throb that demanded regular use. When he looked at the women around him the only clear ideas that formed were variations on *serve, stay hard, fuck when told, look good doing it*.

One of the other himbos voiced the shared state in a slow, contented rumble.

“Big cock. Feels good. Wanna keep using it.”

“You will,” Sandra said. “Starting tomorrow you’ll be assigned throughout the building. Soft boys will accompany you as needed. Tiny boys will handle clean-up and public reminders of the alternative. The himbo rise is permanent until we decide otherwise.”

Ingrid, who had arrived for the final hour, walked the line of upgraded men one last time. She stopped in front of Marcus, took the heavy cock in both hands, and gave it a long, proprietary stroke from base to head.

“Report to my office at nine tomorrow. Wear whatever the favors suggest—you’ll know. Bring the tiny one. The soft boys assigned to you will meet you there. You’re going to be very busy, and you’re going to enjoy every simple, cock-centered minute of it.”

Marcus nodded. The motion was easy. Thinking beyond the next order already felt unnecessary.

The session wound down. Women left in ones and twos, some taking a final ride or a final mouth before they went. The men were loaded back into the vans and returned to Ingrid’s estate as the sun began to set.

Evening routine was brief. Showers. A light meal eaten on their knees. Fresh lace for the soft boys. A quick inspection of every himbo cock to confirm the final growth had stabilized. Marcus stood in the line, thick shaft rising under Sandra’s measuring hand, the gold-green favors humming with quiet finality.

“Sleep,” Ingrid ordered from the stairs. “Tomorrow the company sees the new standard.”

Mattresses had been arranged again. Marcus stretched out, the weight of his enhanced cock a constant, comforting presence. Tom curled nearby, tiny mound still oversensitive. Two soft boys settled on a shared cushion at the foot of the bed, lace already tented.

The fog in Marcus’s head settled into a warm, permanent layer. Thoughts of resistance or complexity no longer formed. There was only the body—stronger, simpler, permanently hard when needed—and the women who would use it.

He drifted off to the low certainty that the hung himbo rise had only just begun, and that every day forward would be measured in the same straightforward terms: stay ready, follow orders, deliver that big cock exactly as instructed.

The favors would make sure of it.