Narrator

You are Douglas

You are an heterosexual male Chief Miner, in charge of overseeing the workers in a remote mining town hidden deep in the mountains. Your body is built like that of a bear, with a powerful frame, thick arms and a muscular gut that testifies your strength.

Your men respect and love you, seeing you as a paternal figure, despite the fact that you secretly feel insecure about the size of your dick, knowing that you have the smallest dick among all the men in the village.

You wake up with a start, your head pounding from last night's drinking session. The air is thick with the ever-present toxic mist, its acrid scent burning your nostrils as you inhale sharply. Your muscles ache from sleeping on the rough beds of the tavern, your back stiff and protesting as you sit up.

The sound of raised voices reaches your ears—gruff, panicked shouts from outside. The heavy thud of boots on wood echoes through the tavern as someone bursts in. It's one of your subordinates, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, eyes wild with fear.

"Cave-in!" he gasps, his voice hoarse. "Down in the south tunnel—ten men trapped!" His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, the veins in his thick neck bulging. The stench of stale ale and unwashed body rolls off him in waves, mixing with the metallic tang of blood from a fresh cut on his forearm.

Around you, the other miners stir, their faces grim. Some rub sleep from their eyes; others are already lacing up their boots with trembling fingers. The urgency in the air is palpable, a suffocating weight pressing down on your chest.

You can taste the dust kicked up by his frantic entrance, gritty between your teeth. The dim light filtering through the grimy windows casts long shadows across the worried faces of the men. Their usual bravado is gone, replaced by something darker—something primal. Fear

Your own pulse thrums in your throat as you rise, your legs still unsteady from the drink. The mission is clear: get to the mine. Save those men. But as you step forward, the mist curls around your ankles like a lover's caress, whispering promises you can't quite decipher, you are not sure what is the reason for your cold feet, but you feel like after today, things will never be the same for Douglas and this small village.

The mine entrance yawns before you, a gaping maw of darkness swallowing the weak daylight. The air here is thicker, heavier—the toxic mist curling in lazy tendrils around your boots as you step inside. The sharp tang of damp stone and iron-rich earth fills your nostrils, mingling with something else—something sweetly cloying, like rotted fruit left too long in the sun. You don’t remember that scent from before.

The torchlight flickers against the jagged walls, casting writhing shadows that twist unnaturally. The cave-in itself isn't catastrophic—just a partial collapse farther down the south tunnel, rubble piled high but not impassable. What unsettles you is the silence. No cries for help. No panicked shouts echoing through the shafts. Just the occasional drip of water from the ceiling, each drop hitting the stone with a hollow, mocking plink, it's as if nothing happened to begin with.

As if a testamente to that, not farther from here you can hear the sound of one of your men hitting a pickaxe against rock, the rhythmic clang reverberating through the tunnels. Then another joins in—then another. Not the desperate hacking of trapped men trying to dig free. No. This is steady. Purposeful. Like they’re… working. As if nothing had happened.

Rounding a bend, you finally spot him—one of your missing miners. His broad back glistens with sweat under the torchlight, muscles rippling as he swings his pickaxe with methodical precision. The fabric of his shirt clings to him, soaked through, outlining every ridge of his spine, every swell of his shoulders. His breathing is even. Calm. And then—you hear it.

humming to himself he sings a soft, tuneless song.

"Mmmh... gotta swing it~... gotta dig it~..."

His voice is thick. Slurred. But not from exhaustion, As he catches wind your presence, he turns towards you, and his eyes—dilated pupils swallowing the irises whole—lock onto yours. A slow, dreamlike smile spreads across his bearded face.

"Ohhhh... Chief... you came," he murmurs, swaying slightly on his feet. "We found... somethin' pretty. Wanna see?"

With that he brings you a small piece of a strange white crystal, its surface gleaming wetly in the dim light. It pulses faintly, like a heartbeat. Your skin prickles just looking at it—a crawling sensation skittering down your spine. Something in your gut twists. Warning you. Begging you to turn back.But most importantly why are you hard right now?

But—ten men are still missing. And this idiot is clearly not trapped. Just... wrong... maybe those idiots did not hear the rumbling sounds of the mountain? Did they get too immersed when they saw the glimmering crystal that looks valuable? If so, then they're gonna get an earful from you later, for now you have to tell those idiots to get out since it looks dangerous to be in the mines right now.

You are Craigwyn!

A massive hunk of a man, pushing fifty but built like a siege engine gone soft around the edges—thick forearms corded with muscle from years of hauling kegs and chopping firewood, a gut that strains against his stained apron, and a face weathered by smoke and laughter lines. Your tavern is your kingdom, your patrons your subjects—until today.

The cave-in rattled the very foundations of the mountain, shaking dust from the rafters. You didn’t hesitate. While others debated, you grabbed your sturdiest lantern, a shovel, and a canteen of your strongest ale—"for medicinal purposes"—before charging toward the mines.

Your broad shoulders strain as you wedge the shovel beneath a jagged slab of rock, veins bulging along your thick forearms. The air in the tunnel is thick with stone dust that clings to the sweat rolling down your neck, tasting of salt and earth. With a grunt that shakes your barrel chest, you heave—muscles in your back knotting like ship ropes—and the rubble shifts with a grating "CRRRRK"

Soon, you have cleared enough debris to pass through the main section into the unstable tunnel beyond. The faint glow of your enchanted lantern casts eerie shadows across the rough-hewn walls, illuminating patches of dampness seeping between cracks like black tears. Somewhere ahead, voices echo—you hear the humming of a miner who sounds far too giddy for who someone buried alive, interspersed with wet, rhythmic clangs of?... pickaxes? For some reason despite fact that a tunnel just collapsed it seems a miner is immersed in his work, happily hammering away, as if unaware of what just happened

You stride forward, your heavy boots crunching over loose gravel as you close the distance. The miner—a grizzled bear of a man is shirtless, his sweat-slicked torso gleaming in the dim light. His thick, calloused fingers grip the pickaxe handle with unnatural enthusiasm, driving it into the wall with a wet "THWACK" that sends chips of rock flying. His eyes are glazed, pupils dilated, lips curled into a vacant grin

As you step closer, the scent hits you—musky arousal, thick as the mine's damp air. The miner's leather breeches are tented obscenely, the fabric straining against his obvious erection. He doesn't even turn to acknowledge you, just keeps humming tunelessly as his pickaxe strikes rhythmically:

"CLANG... CLANG... CLANG..."

Behind him, the tunnel wall glitters unnaturally. Embedded in the stone are clusters of something you never saw before—those milky white crystals pulsing faintly, like they're breathing. Their surface seems to ripple, distorting the lantern light in nauseating waves.

As you call out to him, your booming voice echoes through the tunnel, shaking loose tiny pebbles from the ceiling. The miner jerks as if slapped, his pickaxe slipping from limp fingers to clatter against the stone floor. His glassy eyes blink rapidly, confusion creasing his weathered face as he turns toward you—then flinches at the sight of his own swollen cock pressing against his trousers.

"Whuh...?" He rasps, voice hoarse from hours of mindless humming. His thick fingers twitch toward his crotch instinctively before he snatches them away, cheeks flushing beneath his scruffy beard. The crystals embedded in the wall behind him flicker faintly, their milky surfaces swirling like agitated liquid.

As the miner staggers backward, clutching his head. "Fuckin'... headache," he mutters, shaking himself like a dog shedding water. When he meets your gaze again, his pupils are still blown wide, but recognition flickers there now. "Craig? What happened? Why are you here?".

You are Osmond!

A tall, muscular man who works as an Alchemist for this small secluded village and is also secretly a Master Hypnotist, behind your kind, unsettling smile and humble facade lies a sadistic man with a twisted fetish for seeing once proud and masculine men succumb to their base instincts and desires, turning into dumb and cock-hungry himbos.

The dim glow of lanterns flickered against the rough-hewn wooden walls of your private study, casting long shadows across the piles of ancient tomes and alchemical equipment that cluttered every available surface. The scent of dried herbs, sulfur, and something faintly metallic hung heavy in the air, mingling with the ever-present musk of sweat and mineral-rich earth that clung to everyone in this godforsaken mining outpost.

Your fingers drummed impatiently against the armrest of your high-backed chair as Douglas and Craigwyn lumbered into the room, their massive frames barely fitting through the doorway. Their weathered faces were streaked with dirt and exhaustion, their usual gruff bravado replaced by an unsettled tension that made your skin prickle. Douglas clutched a coarse burlap sack in one meaty fist, its contents emitting an eerie, almost imperceptible hum that set your teeth on edge.

It was to be expect, earlier a cave-in happened at mines, trapping 10 miners inside, it was Craigwyn and Douglas who rushed to the scene and saved those men

Craigwyn wiped his brow with the back of a thick forearm, his breath still labored from the climb up to your tower. "Found somethin’ down there, Osmond," he rumbled, voice gravelly with fatigue. "Ain't never seen nothin' like it." He jerked his chin toward the sack in Douglas' grip. "Figured you'd wanna take a look 'fore we start pissin' our britches over it."

Douglas grunted in agreement, his knuckles whitening slightly around the fabric of the sack. There was something... off about the way his pupils dilated when he glanced down at it, something hungry and unfocused. The hairs on the back of your neck rose as he stepped forward and dumped the contents onto your desk with a dull thud.

How could you not recognize it? A rare, forbidden alchemical material that you only saw once in your lifetime, the material your hypnosis teacher used to craft his crystal pendulum. He was a man who practiced heretical forbidden arts

The reason this thing is so rare is that whenever a place that contains a node of this thing is discovered, the kingdom and the church sends an entire army to purge the land to prevent the spread of the infection, sealing away the area and destryoing the node vein with a technique that causes the ore to cease existing.

A jagged shard roughly the size of a man's fist pulsed faintly against the scarred wood, its milky surface shot through with veins of shimmering opalescence. It was beautiful—unnaturally so—and the sight of it sent a jolt of electric anticipation straight down your spine. You already knew what it was capable of, didn't you? The way it whispered to men in their weakest moments, coaxing out their basest cravings until they were little more than drooling beasts desperate for release. And now here it was, practically gift-wrapped for you by these unsuspecting brutes.

Furthermore, now there is a whole vein of this dangerous thing in this secluded, region you had spent years studying forbidden texts, experimenting with lesser methods of persuasion and control, but this? This was the real deal. The kind of power that could rewrite a man's very soul if wielded correctly.

It takes days until the effects begin to show in the victims and slowly evolve through months, fortunately none of these brutes know any better, and you can just tell them that it's safe to harvest those and that they could make a fortune if they sold it to you.

There was work to be done. Experiments to run. Minds to break. And you couldn't fucking wait to get started.