Baragon's Pleasure Barge

Indexed reblog and repost account - if you are the author of a CYOC or GSS story reposted here and want me to take the story down, please contact me.

[baragonspleasurebarge]

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[stenchsensibility-deactivated20]

Lost Potential

“Ok, we should be all set to go.”

“How long until the anesthesia wears off?”

“Any second now. Have you got the camera prepped?”

“I’ll start rolling once we see some movement.”

“Perfect. By the way, how does this guy relate to our target?”

“He’s the nephew. If our terms aren't accepted after this, then we move on to the son next.”

“Nice. You think he’ll actually fold?”

“They always do.”

—

The growing pain in Christopher’s stomach was what awoke him. It was a logarithmic ache, the type one got after eating too much at a holiday dinner. It took almost a full minute for the woozy young man to recognize the foreign surroundings. Why was he not in his bedroom? Judging that it was quite late at night–perhaps even into the early morning–Christopher was confused to find himself sitting in a folding chair all alone on the campus quad.

Christopher's first assumption was that this was some kind of elaborate prank. However, he did not really hang out with the type of people who played practical jokes like these. The Accounting majors were not exactly known for hijinks, and the majority of Christopher’s friends were online anyway. Before he had a chance to draft up another hypothesis, the cramping in his stomach began to expand across his entire midsection. Christopher groaned in discomfort, struggling to move from his seat.

Still a bit conked out, Christopher loosened up and succumbed to the pain. He was unable to interpret the strange gurgling that began to rumble from his torso. Gradually, the layers of fat began to melt away. The effects of late nights spent in front of the computer with snacks on standby dissipated, revealing toned abdominals. A rich end-of-summer tan began to bloom out from the hardened muscles, carrying along a trail of hair as it spread out across Christopher’s skin.

The progression continued across the rest of Christopher’s midsection. Edges tightened and curves reversed, sinking inwards to create taut angles. The previously unremarkable upper chest firmed into two solid pectorals, forcing the shoulder blades to protrude farther out to allow for a wider wingspan. These changes, while certainly noticeable, were partially blocked by Christopher’s outfit. The battered gray tee and used running shorts he had been clothed in would have never been found in his closet before, but they would become a staple of the new man being created.

While hair fluffed into Christopher’s pits and meat expanded into his arms, the progression had also begun to work downwards. After his waist was cinched nicely, Christopher’s reproductive system was launched into overdrive. His balls nearly doubled in size, descending from the newly-pungent bush protecting his manhood. The dick itself remained rather average, but its width increased dramatically. The girth became a bragging point, one that would later earn Christopher the nickname of “Beer Can” amongst his fraternity brothers.

Christopher blinked, stirred slightly by the new memory that appeared in his head. Fraternity brothers? He was not a part of any fraternity? Although he did appear at a lot of the parties. And he attended every single meeting. Wait, did he live there too? As Christopher considered this new fabricated reality, more memories began to emerge. The rapidly increasing amount of evidence began to sway Christopher towards this new background, unaware that with every passing second, a bit of his former reality melted away.

Once the changes finished plumping out each of Christopher’s fingers–making them incapable of holding any wooden pencil beside his musky own–the progression was rerouted towards the neck. Vocal chords were stretched thin, tearing away the rich character to create a tunnel that could only create the simplest of words and phrases. In the lower half, Christopher’s legs had been forced apart into a permanent manspread by two thick, hairy thighs. His calves grew shapely, creating a flawless shape that symbolized athletic ease and innate young masculine perfection.

By now, the drug that had been forced into Christopher’s system had cleared out over half of his previous existence. A newly clefted chin ushered in a natural cocky attitude. A trendy haircut brought forth a desire for other males’ approval. Bushier eyebrows showcased a lack of tolerance and empathy. Even his feet, which were quickly filling out the large dirtied socks in their equally large dirty slides, helped construct a presence crafted solely by machismo and nothing else.

All of these were overwriting any of Christopher’s former potential. With his intelligence rapidly decreasing and aspirations drastically reduced, Christopher’s future lacked the promise of any high-ranking positions. He would not able to rise the ranks and become a CEO, nor would he be offered a spot in any executive suite. And most certainly, Christopher would now never be considered to become his uncle’s successor.

Thanks to the drug, Christopher’s promising, yet unforeseen destiny had now become predictable and standardized. He would remain in the fraternity for another year after failing to graduate on time (although he would claim that it was to prioritize his “social obligations”). After knocking up too many sorority chicks (leading to an onslaught of unwanted kids and child support), Christopher would settle down with “the one” (who he would stay married to for decades despite having numerous affairs). Golf, high school football games, and maintaining his upper-middle class home would be his main priorities until retirement, having never achieved anything besides a decent amount of cash from simply being a straight, white man.

The ultimate conclusion came out as a lackluster, yet heavy glob of semen into the new frat bro’s shorts. Nothing life-changing or extraordinary, just a thick splat. The jock remained unphased as two men dressed head-to-toe in black appeared from the bushes in front of him. The pain he had experienced gradually subsided, allowing him to interpret the scene playing out before him. One of the men was taking apart a camera attached onto a tripod. The camera had been recording the jock the whole time, but he did not mind.

“How are you feeling, Christopher?” the second man asked. His approach was guarded, but composed, as if he was repeating dialogue he had gone through many times before.

“It’s just Topher, bro.” Topher did not care who these men were, or why he was out in the quad at this time of night. 

“Do you remember how you got here?”

Topher shook his head.

“You can blame your fraternity brothers. They hired us.”

Topher nodded, smirking. They were always pranking each other. 

"I must've drank too much…” The words fell out with a dull thump. "Guess I gotta like, get back to the bros or somethin’.”

Satisfied, the second man turned back to the first, who had packed the camera away and was ready to depart. With a nod, they made their exit, disappearing into the night. Topher quickly forgot about the men and how he got into his current situation. No matter the time, there was almost always a party going at his frat house. And if there was a party, that meant there would be some ladies too. 

Topher proceeded to bolt up and break into a sprint; he wanted to get black out drunk and lay waste to a few grade-A pussies.

[sanzaibian]

"What do you mean my funding has been canceled !"

I shout at the representative of the university, as she was announcing to me the bad news.

"You see, since our university has… refocused its research efforts, we decided that a project aiming to…" The woman in a corporate skirt squinted while looking at the sheet of paper she was holding. "Find phonological rules common to varieties of Chinese ? Hahah, how was that even approved in the first place !"

I give her a stare as she mocks my life’s work. Yes, the application of this work is not yet evident, but it will create the foundation for more work that will further our understanding of human communication !

"Sorry, sorry." She wipes a tear of laughter. "The funding for the project aiming to find phonological rules common to varieties of Chinese has been pulled. Any question ? ‒ Why !" I give her my most sarcastic look and body posture. ‒ I just explained to you ! Our university is‒ ‒ Ugh, what a joke, they just want to suppress any learning that might be politically dangerous by replacing with dumb sports…" I sigh. "And just what am I supposed to do, now ? ‒ Well, you could start by looking at how you can refocus your specialty towards physical studies ? I don’t know, studying body language ? I don’t know, you’re the one who’s supposed to know about that, I’m not a linguist. ‒ 你他妈的官员！" I cuss, appropriately in Chinese, the language(s) I love and study. "I… have no more questions. ‒ Have a good day !" She leaves, chipper. What an hypocrite.

I slouch down on my chair, letting all the breath in my lungs out as tears start forming under my eyes. The work of my life, stolen from below my feet. A mountain of future knowledge evaporating in front of my eyes. I knew that I wasn’t engaging in the field of research to get rich, especially not in such an obscure and under-appreciated field as linguistics. But to have the funding I fought tooth and nail to obtain be taken for me in such an undignified manner is… disheartening.

I hear someone knocking on my door.

"Yes ?" I wipe my tears, letting Sandro in. "Oh. Hey. ‒ Are you alright ? I… just heard the news. It’s a bloodbath. ‒ Who else ? ‒ Well, Mael’s project on future reference in Romance languages, Michiko’s project on children’s acquisition of tone and accent systems, Lea’s project on pragmatic cues in autistic women’s humor… ‒ Stop, stop, I… I can’t."

We look at one another in silence for a while. Me looking at the sunkissed Brazilian man with short coily hair, him looking at the bespectacled dark blonde nerd that I am.

"You want to go for a walk ?" Sandro breaks the silence. "You know, to flee that damned university who’s chasing us away ? ‒ Yeah, let us…" I stand up and take my keys. "And the sun’s already going down, I guess I’ll say that I had a short day at work ‒ you know, considering I basically don’t have any work anymore. ‒ You’re right…"

Sandro and I both take up our things, each in his own office, and we join back up in front of the Language and Literature faculty.

"You took your time !" I tease Sandro, the only type of mischief I can do in these kinds of circumstances. ‒ Well, I did have to walk back to my office, if that’s a good enough excuse ? ‒ I’ll let you have it, but only because I lost my funding."

Again silence drops on us as we start walking down the paved plaza in the center of the campus.

"I knew the fact that they announced a new focus on physical studies to be bad news for us." I start complaining. "But I didn’t think they would go as far as canceling ongoing funding. It seems like it’s bordering on illegal… ‒ Yeah. I guess they don’t want to waste any time having a university full of jocks instead of controversial thinking heads… ‒ What do they want us to do ? Go try our one in a thousand luck in other universities ? Magically become jocks who are into… researching how stretchy the Achilles tendon is after some kind of injury ? ‒ Hahah, still thinking about that one PhD student you had a crush on, back in the day ?" Sandro mocks me in the way only a student buddy can. ‒ Not fair !" I smile back. "But yeah, I don’t know what they’re expecting from us, in linguistics ! What can we even study that has something to do with sports or physical medicine ! ‒ I don’t know… bro-speak ? ‒ Hah !" I snicker at Sandro’s suggestion. "I think they rather expect us to use bro-speak rather than study it ! Like they want to say bro or something ! ‒ God, can you figure that ? Noah rolling up to us and saying bro out of nowhere!" Sandro laughs back. ‒ What, bro ? You can’t handle that, bro ?" I hit him with my elbow, deliberately leaning into the stereotype. ‒ Oh my god, you’re so good at that !"

I stick my tongue out to Sandro, taking my revenge for his mockery. Though he is right, I’m nailing the accent a lot better than I was expecting.

"Try it, dude !" I grin. ‒ Okay, uh, bro." He smiles. "Heheh, that’s so weird, bruh. ‒ Yeaah…" Somehow, I got the impression that the last… bro ? wasn’t intentional. "But yeah, that aside, what are you going to do with your free time ? ‒ I don’t know… maybe go to the gym, you know ?" Sandro thinks for half a second. "You know, maybe this year I’ll be able to stick to my new year’s resolution, this time ! ‒ Nice, man !" Man ? "I guess I’ll also go there more frequently, now that I have more time… ‒ Huh ?" Sandro scowls a bit. "I guess I didn’t see that you had grown some muscles."

I look down, and see my arms glow with light muscles under the waning light of the sun. I guess… I didn’t notice my progress ?

"Yeah, I guess I progressed faster than I expected !" I put my arm behind my head, involuntarily flexing to him. "That’s what you get when you are consistent, bro !" Bro ? ‒ Hey ! I go there often, dude !" Dude ? ‒ Like once a week tops ?" I try to temper, considering he just said that it was for a New Year’s resolution. ‒ No ! … I mean, about, but I often go twice a week." He admits, also discreetly flexing his biceps to me. "Though, to be honest, you’re the gym freak between us two. ‒ Bruh." I cannot help but utter in consternation, voice weirdly deep. "Me ?"

I turn towards Sandro and hold up my arms to showcase my whole body. But as I do that, I feel my shoulders almost pop out towards the side, as if making more space for my muscles. Looking down, I find a defined musculature, both in my arms, my torso and my hips… where there wasn’t supposed to be any ? And… where is my gut ?

"Wait, dude, something’s happenin’ to us ! I… I wasn’t this muscular when the woman told me my… my… my project on like Chinese was canceled, bro !" I start panicking, suddenly aware of my shift in speech pattern. "I mean, not bro, dude ! ARGH ! ‒ You alright, brah ?" Says Sandro in a concerned, deeper tone, scratching his longer coily hair. "You… you were always ripped, no ? Like me, dude ! ‒ What ! No, no, you weren’t, bro !" I take my head with my hands as I try to get my thoughts back in control. "Fuck dude, you have a fucking goatee now ! ‒ Uh…" Sandro scratches his chin where black hairs are still worming their way out of the skin. "Yeah ? I mean… I’ve always wanted one, bro… ‒ But you’ve never been able to grow it, dude ! And your hair ! It’s like twice as long as it ever was, bro ! ‒ I…" Sandro recoils a strand of hair. "I mean, I’m not sure what you mean ? I’ve always taken tons of time to set my hair alright ? Bruh, you were there when I decided to let my hair grow !"

He… he’s right… I remember, a younger Sandro, with big pecs (?) and his buzzcut, telling me he wanted to see what his hair looked like when longer like the people on Tiktok and Instagram do it…

"Fucking hell, dude ! You’re not supposed to be this ripped ! We’re both like linguists at uni, bruh ! Not like… gym rats ! ‒ Linguists ?" Sandro furrows his brows, seemingly thinking hard. ‒ Yeah ! You were studying… like… fuck, it’s getting hard to remember, but like translations of the Bible ? Yeah ! Like Hebrew and stuff, bro ! ‒ Seems boring, dude. ‒ Fuckin’ hell it is, dude!" I take a breath, noticing how out of character what I just said is. "I mean, you loved it, bruh ! And we got problems with uni or something ‘cause like they wanted to focus on sports or something, man ! ‒ I dunno what you’re going on about, bro. But I’m glad uni’s gone this way, I love bein’ able to focus only on sports !"

Sandro suddenly takes his shirt out, showing off his muscles and his tattoos showing the image of a snake and the word "Devil". The Garden of Eden. Sandro’s favorite passage to study.

But the more I look at him, the less I can remember that old nerdy guy. I can only remember the jock I have in front of me, especially as his jeans morph into a tracksuit, and earrings and a pearl necklace materialize around his handsome face. A hunk with big muscles, big pecs and a nonchalent attitude about everything. The type to go to every party even if he isn’t invited, and be accepted because of how much effort he puts on his look.

"But bro, you seem like the one who’s confused. I dunno what you’re talking about Chinese stuff, but you’re my gym bro, bruh ! In fact, it’s more like I am your gym bro, considering how much of a muscle freak you are, dude !" Sandro snickers at his own joke. ‒ I… I… No, we’re not supposed to… dude…" I spiral in confusion. ‒ Take off your shirt, bro. You’re gonna think better."

I take off my shirt, which becomes a black tank top that I hang on the side of my pants. They’re getting stretchy, becoming gray sweatpants, getting folded inside white Nike socks and bleaching sports sneakers.

I look down, seeing the muscles of a bodybuilder. The slab of pecs, on which a "学术" (science) tattoo is inscribed, obscures my six-pack, and is sat right below a high set of traps, and between big shoulders and big biceps. The body of a giant, with a very visible V down to the crotch. The kind of jock that has its place inside the university, unlike the researcher that was in his place previously.

"I… I’m big, dude…" My thoughts are clearing up. ‒ You see, bro ! You’re the biggest ! The muscle freak of uni, dude ! ‒ Huhuhuhu" I can’t help but gloat at Sandro’s remark, my voice ever deeper. "Fuck dude, I dunno what I was on about with that whole uni… conspiracy thing, bro ! ‒ Ahhh, you’re back, bro !" Sandro taps my shoulder. ‒ Fuck yeah, bro !"

I flex to him, and he flexes back. We spend a few minutes cycling through flexing position and taking pics of one another before Sandro asks :

"By the way, the tattoo is new, right dude ? What does it mean ? ‒ I dunno, I think it’s like Japanese ? The first word means like discipline, and the second like martial arts, bro. ‒ It’s dumb, dude ! ‒ Huhuhuhu, well not as dumb as you having a fuckin’ butterfly, bruh ! ‒ Fuck you, bro !"

As we continue walking down the road towards our dorm, I feel something in my left eye. I scratch it, wiping away… tears ? Why would I ever cry, when I am living a fucking dream ! I get to focus on sports and not on dumb smart people stuff like in high school ! And not only that, but I have now tons of bros with whom to get a good pump, no nerds in sight !

Cuz dude, why would anyone do dumb stuff like fuckin’ linguistics, huhuhu

================================================

Happy new year ! Best wishes to you all !

I cap off 2025 with only 5 stories, and a bunch of drafts I wasn't able to finish. I'm really sorry about my slow rate last year ^^'

This year, I'll try to write shorter stories to hopefully be able to finish more concepts and publish them for you all to see ! and maybe to save me from having to find solace in AI chatbots

I hope you liked this story, and see you all for the next one !

In the meantime, if you have any questions for a short impromptu Q&A, don't hesitate to ask, my inbox is always open ! ^^

[transform4u]

so my girl best friend, Cassie, recently just got broken up with by this total douchebag jock, I mean he was a tiktok f-boy all throughout. But she’s been super super sad about it. I guess i’m just wishing to Tharnis that I wish I could make her feel happier and better.

Cassie’s sobs shake the small dorm room. She’s curled on the edge of the bed, mascara streaking down her face, shoulders trembling like the weight of her grief is trying to drag her through the floor.

You sit beside her, helpless. Your fingers twitch in your lap. You hate seeing her like this. She doesn’t deserve this pain. Not because of him, that smug, protein-stuffed meathead who treated her like an accessory. You feel your jaw clench, teeth grinding a little too tight.

“I wish I could make you feel better,” you whisper. The words aren’t directed at her. You’re not even sure who you’re talking to. Just a desperate, half-formed prayer in the pit of your stomach. You glance at the little iron figurine on your shelf, a stupid trinket from the oddities fair. Tharnis. Demon of exchange. Desire for price. You thought it was cool, edgy. Just a decoration.

Then the lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

The room hums, no, vibrates, like a breath held too long. A chill licks down your spine, so sharp it makes you jerk. You blink, suddenly dizzy.

"He was a total asshole, Cassie," you manage. But your voice, it's deeper, slightly distorted, like someone else is speaking through your chest. You swallow. "A pig. You're better off without him."

The air feels heavy. Your skin crawls. You lick your lips, and a strange metallic tang hits your tongue. Not blood. Not sweat. Venomous. Like something bitter and dark has seeped into your mouth.

Your eyes shift, almost involuntarily, to Cassie. She’s still crying, vulnerable, soft. You stare longer than you mean to. She’s glowing in the flickering light. You feel something twist in your gut. Wrong. Alien. Predatory.

No.

You blink hard. “I mean, he was nothing but a meathead jock,” you say, your words slower now, slurring at the edges. Your usual lisp is gone. Vanished.

You clutch your stomach. It burns.

Then your body starts to ache.

No, tear.

A sharp crack radiates from your shoulder, like your bones are being reset against your will. Your arms stretch unnaturally, bones thickening beneath the skin, muscle crawling over them like vines twisting too tight around an old tree. You whimper, or try to, but it comes out as a low grunt, guttural, inhuman.

You glance down. Your arms, their familiar thinness is gone. Now, thick cords of muscle ripple under your skin, veins snaking like rivers of molten stone. Your fingers tingle, stretching slightly longer, fingers tapering with unnatural strength. You flex hesitantly — and the muscles swell, pulsing visibly beneath the skin, hardening into tight, defined ridges.

Your heart thunders as your shoulders suddenly broaden, the bones grinding, cracking in protest as they widen against your ribcage. Your shirt groans under the strain, threads popping, fabric tearing as your torso expands, the ribs pressing outward, forcing a proud, square chest.

The sensation is maddening — like your body is both burning and freezing at once, muscles knotting and stretching, skin pulling taut over your swelling frame.

You stagger toward the mirror, the floor tilting beneath you.

In the glass, your reflection stares back, but it’s not quite your own.

Your jaw has sharpened into a hard, angular line, thick and square like a statue carved from granite. The shadow of stubble dusts your chin and cheeks, coarse and dark. Your cheekbones thrust forward, pronounced and cruel, under skin bronzed with a sun-kissed glow you don’t remember earning.

Your lips, fuller than before, curl into a crooked half-smile. Your eyes gleam bright, piercing, alive with a predator’s fire. Your thick hair tumbles over your forehead in a messy, deliberate chaos that somehow looks effortless.

You watch in horror as your torso tightens further, the once-skinny waist now solid and compact, muscles rippling with every shallow breath. Your pecs rise and fall with a rhythm all their own, firm and hard enough to cast shadows on the floor.

You raise your arms again, flexing unconsciously. The biceps balloon, swelling with power, veins throbbing beneath the surface. Triceps flare wide, cutting deep into your skin like sculpted wings. Your forearms, once slender, are now dense, the sinews thick and knotted.

Cassie’s eyes widen, cheeks flushing as she stares, frozen between shock and fascination.

You try to speak but your voice is deeper now, rougher, slipping easily into a tone you don’t recognize but feel compelled to wear.

The scent hits you next. You. You reek of sweat, musk, testosterone, raw and unclean, like a locker room that hasn’t been aired out in years. It pours off you, suffocating. Your shirt clings to you, wet and tight, before it finally tears.

Your hand flexes. Massive. Veins crawl up your forearms like serpents. You feel powerful. Untouchable.

You laugh.

It's too loud. Too confident. You slap a hand over your mouth, heart hammering. That wasn’t you. That laugh belonged to someone else. Some thing inside you.

You turn, and Cassie is staring at you. Wide-eyed. Blushing.

No. No, no, no—

"Yeah, that dude was such a dumbass fuckboy," you say and the words fall out easily, too easily, like you've said them a thousand times before. Like they’ve always belonged in your mouth.

You feel memories slip, like water through your fingers.

Your boyfriend’s name, what was it?

A book you loved, gone.

You see a club instead. Neon lights. Girls. Curves. Your thoughts dull, heavy. Your brain struggles to hold on to words with more than two syllables.

“W-what’s happening…” you whisper, slurring now, voice thick and slow. But something inside you laughs again. And this time, it’s not you who hears it.

But inside, your mind is fraying, memories slipping away like water through trembling fingers. The familiar thoughts, the things you used to care about, drain out, replaced by a hazy fog.

And as your body continues to throb and swell with new, terrifying strength, you realize with growing dread: you’re fighting a battle you might already be losing.

You feel her hand rest on your shoulder. A spark flares, but you push it away. No way, you tell yourself. You’re totally gay, right? Right. So why does your brain trip? Why do your lips part, and before you can stop yourself you blurt, “Dude was such an obnoxious homophobic straight asshole.”

Suddenly the air changes. The room tilts. Your senses narrow into this foggy tunnel where everything smells like defeat of stale gym shorts, sour armpit musk, and that unopened package of performance underwear you bought thinking it’d make you more… something.

Your sheets have gone from gray to a sickly taupe, crusted with the residue of neglect and loneliness. You haven’t washed them since that girl came over six months ago, when you thought maybe you’d be more than this.

You glance back at the mirror. Your reflection stares back—tight, pumped, like a meme incarnate. The muscles ripple under skin that doesn’t feel like yours anymore. You flex your arms, veins snaking like rivers of overconfidence, and you wink. You genuinely believe you’re hot shit. Zac Efron meets Andrew Tate, if Andrew Tate was emotionally constipated and allergic to introspection.

But then your mind scrambles.

The sharp edges of your thoughts blur, getting duller and heavier, like walking through water. You try to hold onto something—anything—that’s you, but it’s slipping through your fingers.

You’re the guy in every gym mirror selfie, tongue out, middle fingers up like the world’s a locker room and you’re about to yell, “Let’s fuckin’ goooo!” at a stoplight. But the funny thing? You get mad at stoplights now. You yell at your steering wheel, at vending machines. You don’t even like protein shakes anymore, but you keep drinking them because loyalty to the grind is all you’ve got.

Your voice drops, thick and bassy, coated in energy drink fumes and bad barstool podcast takes. You catch yourself calling women “females” like you’re narrating a nature documentary. “Sweetheart” slips out in arguments, and you swear it’s a checkmate. You say “no homo” when your eyes lock with a guy’s—because you have to. Even if it’s your reflection in the mirror.

Your mind rewires itself in slow, maddening increments. The clarity you had is replaced by noise of crude thoughts, anger, simple instincts. You think therapy is for “broken people,” even though you haven’t felt anything but rage and horniness since 2016. You bottle emotions like poison, let muscle speak where words fail. You ghost instead of apologize, post thirst traps like war cries.

Every memory you had of who you were is fading. The smart kid who loved books, who cared about things beyond flexing and followers—that guy’s drowning in this sea of dopamine and muscle ache.

You see yourself in the mirror and all you feel is the pump, the grind, the endless performance.

The cold truth claws at your ribs: you’re dumber now. Your thoughts crawl, simple and raw. You talk like a podcast, but only the loudest, dumbest parts. You know the right words but can’t string them together. Every nuance fades to a blunt, bass-heavy growl.

You rage at pronouns, at “woke” culture, at anyone who challenges your worldview. Your social media is a shrine to ego and bravado, a battlefield where every like is a victory and every ignore a defeat.

You stand before the mirror, your chiseled abs glistening under the dim light. Your eyes, filled with a primal hunger, scan your muscular physique. Cassie lies sprawled on the bed behind you, her presence barely registering in your single-minded focus."Bet you'd be happy with just a quick fuck to get over what's his nuts," you sneer at your reflection, flexing your biceps. "You mean Dylan?"you mutter, trying to remember the guy's name. "Yeah, that's right. Uhhhh, Dylan. Wait, that's my name brah" The words hang in the air, sealing your fate as the campus's dumbest, horniest, most homophobic fuckboy. You turn away from the mirror, your gaze drifting to Cassie's prone form. She's just another conquest, another pair of legs to wrap around your waist. Tomorrow, her face will be a blur, her name forgotten.

You stride towards the bed, your movements predatory. Cassie stirs as you approach, her eyes fluttering open. She smiles weakly, still dazed from whatever substance you slipped her earlier. You climb onto the bed, hovering over her petite frame. Your hands roam her body possessively, squeezing her breasts, her thighs. She gasps, arching into your touch. "Dylan…" she whispers, her voice laced with desperation and desire .You smirk, knowing she's putty in your hands. You lean down, your lips brushing against her ear. "Shut up," you growl, "and spread your legs." Cassie complies without hesitation, her legs falling open, inviting you in. You position yourself between her thighs, your hardness pressing against her entrance. Without warning, you thrust forward, burying yourself deep inside her. Cassie cries out, her nails digging into your back.

You begin to move, your hips slamming against hers with brutal force. Each thrust is a statement, a reminder of your dominance. Cassie's cries fill the room, a symphony of pleasure and pain.You lean down, your lips curling into a sneer. "You like that, don't you?" you hiss, "being fucked by the campus king?" Cassie nods frantically, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and ecstasy. "Yes," she gasps, "oh god, yes!" You laugh, a cruel, mocking sound. Your hands grip her hips, pulling her closer, deeper. You know she'll regret this tomorrow, but right now, she's yours. Completely, utterly yours. You continue your relentless pace, your body moving like a machine, designed for one purpose only: pleasure. And pain. Especially pain. You reach down, your fingers finding her throat.

You wrap your hand around her throat, squeezing gently. Cassie's eyes widen, her breath coming in short gasps. You smirk, enjoying the power you hold over her. "You're mine," you growl, "all mine." You thrust harder, deeper, your other hand gripping her breast roughly.

[hypnotizedjockthoughts]

To say I was surprised when Jake came and sat with me would be a bit of an understatement. He had only just moved into town and we almost came to blows the first time we met.

He had been trying to bully Ethan. Ethan was the small, academic type, so Jake probably wasn’t expecting a guy like me to come to Ethan’s defense. Even if Ethan and I hadn’t been best friends our whole lives, it’s not like I would just stand by and let someone smaller than me get hurt. Ethan would even joke about what a Boy Scout I was, watching out for anyone smaller and weaker than myself (which at this point was pretty much anyone). Still, Jake had backed down pretty quickly once he understood I wasn’t going to let him pick on anyone. He clearly wasn’t used to dealing with someone bigger than himself, lol.

“Hey Danny, bro.” At first I thought he was trying to provoke me– everyone called me Dan. But then he eagerly began chatting away at me, as if we were best friends. It had been a long day, though, and I didn’t want to deal with any drama, so I just ignored him as best I could. In fact, I must have been more tired than I thought because I had zoned out so much that even Jake had noticed.

“You okay, bro? You should probably head home and rest.” Jake was right, I was feeling pretty out of it. Jake seemed to understand– smiling as if he knew exactly what I was going through. I excused myself, sent a text to Ethan letting him know movie night would be a no go, and headed home to go to bed.

Somehow, I just couldn’t fall asleep, though. My thoughts felt like they were trying to swim through molasses. They kept coming back to Jake. It was a shame we had gotten off to such a bad start– after all we did have so much in common. We were both used to our bodies making us superior to everyone else. Wait, superior? I guess I had never really thought of it that way, but that was the simple truth– even I had to admit it. I had put a lot of effort into being the best, and I was better than everyone else. But what about Jake- he simply was superior, naturally. I guess that made him even more superior. (That’s why he was the only one that could call me Danny.) But since we both wanted to be the best, and we would both do whatever it took to be the best, it meant we had the same goals as well. We wanted the same things. We really ought to be bros.

By the time morning came around, I had resolved to make peace with Jake, see if we could get along. I headed over to Jake’s place. Even though it seemed a bit early, it just felt like I had to get there right away.

Even though it was only seven (precisely), Jake was already outside, as if waiting for something. As soon as he saw he me, he was clearly happy to see me. He smiled– a knowing, triumphant smile like he had just secured some victory. He clasped my hand, placed his hand on my shoulder, and said “Hey Danny, bro.”

I felt an overwhelming sense of relaxation wash through me. I felt so safe with Jake. He understood me even better than I knew myself. He had known that I was coming. He knew that we should be bros! He had known even before I had. It was like there was some kind of unspeakable bond between us. We had the same desires and goals. We were both superior to everyone else, and no one else could understand that. But somehow, he had known that before I had. I hadn’t even realized our shared superiority until last night. In fact, since he always knows first, it would be so much better and easier if I just let him decide everything for us. I really should just follow his lead.

“You okay, Bro? You should go walk for a bit- clear your head.” It was true, I was feeling a bit loopy. I started walking around town. It was a good thing no one would be foolish enough to mess with me because I was pretty out of it. How was it already nearly three in the afternoon? I couldn’t shake the feeling I was supposed to be somewhere, but I couldn’t think of where, so I kept wandering aimlessly.

As I turned a corner, I saw Jake towering over Ethan, huddled, cowering in fear. When he saw me, Ethan immediately looked relieved– Jake was clearly tormenting him. I walked past Jake and picked Ethan up. I was absolutely furious- I had never felt such a sense of betrayal.

I threw Ethan against a wall. “How does a fucking nerd like you think it’s okay to piss off Jake‽” I was about to punch Ethan for daring to get on Jake’s bad side when Jake grabbed my hand.

"Nah, that’s enough. Let the dweeb go. A smart guy like him knows his place. He gets that you’re MY best friend, now, and he understands how things are going to work.”

As Ethan scurried off, Jake just smiled at me. Some people would describe it as a sinister smile, but I knew it was just my best friend, my bro. When we were together I was completely safe. He placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “hey Danny bro”

Everything seemed so clear. I had spent my life watching out for people weaker than myself, but who had ever watched out for Jake? He had never had known someone stronger than himself. I was the first person. In fact, since I was the only one strong enough to watch out for him, it was only natural I focus completely on him. (After all, there were plenty of people who could worry about those other losers.) I had spent my entire life building my body for him. That’s why I’m not the brightest. Fortunately, I can count on him to think for me since we always want the same thing.

My body was naturally my whole identity– it’s not like anything else about me could compare to such superiority. And he had always driven me to be better- and I was. Better than anyone. I had done everything to achieve the perfect body for him. I owed him everything… I owed him myself. That’s why my whole life had always revolved around him. Making sure he got anything he wanted was the least he deserved. No one else mattered– there was no one else as far as I was concerned. "You okay, bro? What was that that just happened?”

I shook my head, thinking was hard- fortunately Jake usually took care of that for me. “Sorry, bro. I know I wait for you to tell me what to do, but I just snapped. I’ve just always hated that twerp.”

"Why, who is he?”

“I dunno,” I shrugged

Jake smiled– a cocky, triumphant smile that only someone as superior as him deserved to have. I had no idea what had caused him to smile like that, but I would do anything to make sure he always has that smile. He deserved every triumph available. With both us together, it’s not like anyone could stand against him.

“Well, let’s hit the gym. You’ll need you to be your best so we can make sure you’re ready for what I’ve got planned.”

I didn’t care what it was he had planned. He’d let me know what we wanted when he was ready. It just feels good knowing that he has my strength and power available at his whim. While I’m always eager for him to use me, for now I’ll do my best to get even stronger – so that he has even more power available to wield.

[thefunkfactory]

Stinky Slobs

Erik and Vinny had always been a little proud of how well put together they were as a couple. Erik, the bigger of the two, had that clean-cut gym guy look with a broad chest, thick arms, and rectangular glasses that gave him a sharp, almost academic vibe despite his muscles. Vinny was the opposite: thin and stylish, with bleached streaks in his dark hair, earrings that glinted under the light, and a wardrobe filled with pastel sweaters and fitted jeans. Between Erik’s steady, strong presence and Vinny’s colorful charm, they looked like the kind of couple who had it all figured out. Their apartment reflected that too   spotless surfaces, candles on the counter, laundry always folded neatly in drawers.

But all that started to unravel one Friday night.

They’d both been lounging on the couch after dinner, a movie paused while Vinny scrolled through his phone. “Babe, you have to see this clip,” Vinny said, his voice bright. Erik leaned over, chuckling. As Vinny tapped the screen, a weird flash of static replaced the video, followed by a low, almost whispery voice.

“Why keep trying so hard? Just relax. Be normal. Be messy. Let go.”

They both blinked at the screen. “Uh… what was that?” Vinny asked with a nervous laugh.

“Some dumb ad?” Erik shrugged, but for some reason, the words wouldn’t leave his head. Something about letting go felt heavy and strangely inviting. He stretched his broad arms over his head, feeling the familiar tightness of his muscles, but instead of pride, a wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Man,” he muttered, “I’m sick of working out all the time.”

Vinny looked up at him. “Wait, really? You love that stuff.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Erik mumbled, slumping further into the couch. “But… I dunno. Feels like too much effort, y’know?”

At first, the changes were subtle. Erik rubbed at his chest and realized the lines of his pecs weren’t as defined. His muscles felt softer, his stomach just slightly less firm. He frowned but then shrugged. “Whatever. Who cares,” he muttered, scratching lazily at his side.

Vinny, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably. His jeans felt tight across his thighs in a way they hadn’t that morning. He tugged at them, confused. “Uh… Erik, I think my legs are like… thicker?”

“Thicker?” Erik repeated with a smirk. “Good for you, dude. Maybe you’re bulking up.” The word “dude” slipped out naturally, and he didn’t even notice how strange it sounded compared to the affectionate “babe” he usually used.

Vinny tried to stand, but his jeans pinched. With an annoyed grunt, he yanked them off and tossed them aside. “Ugh. Whatever. Pants are overrated anyway,” he muttered, plopping back down in just his underwear. Erik didn’t even tease him for it   in fact, seeing Vinny lounge around like that gave him a strange sense of relief, like they didn’t have to try anymore.

It didn’t stop there. The apartment had always smelled faintly of lavender from Vinny’s candles, but now the air felt heavy, almost stale. Erik’s shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat from doing nothing but sitting on the couch. He sniffed his armpit and frowned, then shrugged. “Guess I’m kinda rank,” he said with a laugh. “Too lazy to shower though.”

Vinny wrinkled his nose, but the smell didn’t really bother him like it used to. “You are kinda ripe,” he said, giggling. Then, to Erik’s surprise, Vinny lifted his own arm and gave himself a sniff. “Huh… I guess I’m not exactly fresh either.” Instead of rushing to shower, they both just laughed about it.

Their tidy apartment started to suffer. Vinny dropped his sweater on the floor and didn’t bother picking it up. Erik kicked his sneakers off near the couch, leaving them in the middle of the room. “I’ll clean it later,” he muttered, but neither of them did.

By the next day, their transformation had only gotten worse. Erik woke up with his hair sticking up in every direction, and instead of reaching for his usual clean outfit, he pulled on the same sweatpants he’d worn the night before. They smelled faintly like his own sweat, but he didn’t care. Vinny, meanwhile, grabbed a baggy hoodie and sniffed it. It had that musty, unwashed scent, but instead of tossing it in the laundry, he shrugged. “Eh, it’s fine,” he muttered.

Their once carefully curated outfits were now replaced with old gym shorts, stretched-out shirts, and socks that didn’t match. Erik scratched his chest absentmindedly, feeling the skin slightly tacky from not showering. “We should get breakfast,” he said, yawning.

“Or, like, order pizza,” Vinny suggested, grinning. “Less work.”

“Yeah, pizza,” Erik agreed instantly.

By Sunday, their apartment was unrecognizable. Dirty plates piled in the sink, crumbs littered the couch, and a faint but undeniable stink hung in the air: a mix of old food, unwashed clothes, and the lingering musk of two guys who’d barely left the couch. Vinny sat cross-legged on the floor, eating straight from a pizza box, his hoodie riding up over his growing thighs. “Man, I don’t think I’ve showered in two days,” he said with a laugh.

“Same,” Erik said, scratching his chest and yawning. “We’re gross, bro.”

“Yeah,” Vinny said with a grin, “but, like, who cares?” He leaned back and let out a loud, unapologetic burp.

Erik cracked up. “Nice one. Bet I can top that,” he said, grabbing a soda and chugging it before letting out a burp that shook his chest. They both laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Their hygiene habits quickly spiraled. Erik noticed that his armpits smelled even after he’d changed shirts, not that he was changing often anymore. “Guess I’m just… permanently funky now,” he joked. Vinny snorted. “Dude, I think I’m sweating through my hoodie, like, constantly.”

“Yeah, you’re kinda stinky,” Erik teased, but there was no judgment in his tone. In fact, he leaned over and exaggeratedly sniffed Vinny’s armpit, making a face. “Whoa, man, you reek.”

Vinny laughed, shoving him. “Like you’re any better!”

Erik lifted up his leg and shot out a reeking fart.

PPFFFFFRRRBRBBBTTTT

By the end of the week, the couple that once looked like an Instagram ad for style and fitness had completely disappeared. Erik’s muscle definition had softened; he had a slight pudge forming where abs used to be. His rectangular glasses were smudged, and his hair was perpetually messy. Vinny’s once-skinny frame had bulked up in all the wrong places, his thighs and hips thick and awkward, his sweaters stretched tight across his torso.

The apartment had transformed into a pigsty. Dirty laundry sat in piles on the floor. Half-empty soda cans and crumpled chip bags covered the coffee table. The air was warm and stale, carrying the smell of sweat, food grease, and just a hint of sour socks from Erik’s sneakers.

They didn’t even care anymore.

“Yo,” Erik said, leaning back into the couch cushions with a groan. “I don’t think we’ve cleaned anything in, like, a week.”

Vinny grinned. “Yeah. Just everything is so stinky…huhuh awesome.”

And with that, they both burst out laughing again, sinking deeper into the messy comfort of their new lives, two lazy, smelly college boys who couldn’t care less about who they used to be.

[misctf]

Damage Control

"I can't believe I fuckin' agreed to this." Chris sighed as he shifted uncomfortably on the hard, plastic chair, "This is definitely overkill."

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the makeshift dunk tank setup in the middle of the bustling tailgate party. Laughter and chatter filled the air as fans milled about, while eyeing the football star perched precariously above the water.

Chris couldn't meet their gazes. After his drunken social media rant went viral and pissed off the entire town, he'd been forced to agree to this humiliating spectacle as penance. But as he gazed out at the sea of camouflage hats, flannel shirts, and pickup trucks, he couldn't help but think that maybe he hadn't been entirely wrong in his assessment of this place. The whole damn town reeked of pig shit and ignorance.

"Step right up to say hello to our resident football star!" The dunk tank operator's voice boomed out over the crackling loudspeaker, "Chris Mason is here and ready! Y'all know what he said last weekend!" The crowd booed, "That's right folks, this city slicker thinks he's too good for us!" The operator continued, clearly relishing the opportunity to publicly humiliate the disgraced athlete. "So step on up and show him how we do things 'round these parts!"

A line quickly formed- one by one they stepped up to the mark, sizes ranging from wiry farmhands to barrel-chested factory workers.

"Hah! Look at 'im squirm!" Cackled one patron.

Chris watched as it hit the target dead-on. He could feel the chair underneath him to give way.

"Oh shi…!" Chris plunged into the cold water beneath him.

Chris surfaced from the frigid dunk tank water, sputtering indignantly as he hauled himself back onto the seat. His lean, muscular frame glistened in the sunlight, water streaming down his handsome features.

"Whatever." he muttered under his breath, trying to ignore their laughter. "Think they're so fuckin' clever." Despite the embarrassment of the public humiliation, he knew he looked good- his toned physique on full display, "Let them laugh." A smirk played across his lips as he scanned the crowd, "Bunch of…"

Chris's thoughts were interrupted as his gaze landed on some nearby cars. He was expecting to spot his sleek sports car among the sea of pickup trucks, yet there was no sign of his ride. In the spot that he knew he parked his car was instead an old, rusty pick-up truck.

"Hey! Where's my car?" Chris called out to the dunk tank operator, his brow furrowed in confusion. "It was right there, I swear!"

"Don't you worry none 'bout that, son. We gotcha covered. Ain't nobody gonna be needin' a fancy sports car 'round these parts anyway."

Something about the man's tone set Chris on edge, "What does that even mean? Seriously man, my car…" He can't even finish a sentence as the chair gives out from under him once again, "Oh fuck!" He plunged into the icy water beneath him.

"Ahhh, fuck me," Chris groaned as he resurfaced for the second time, shaking the water from his hair, "Seriously, my car..." His voice trailed off as a new desire filled his mind, "What...?"

He couldn't name it, but as his eyes drifted over the crowd, taking in the sight of the locals guzzling from cans of cheap lager and lighting up cigarettes with practiced ease- to his shock, he found himself almost salivating at the thought of joining them. He looked over at the dunk tank operator, who was lighting up a cigarette of his own.

"Hey uh…" Chris paused, unable to process what he was about to ask, "… you got a spare smoke?" The words felt foreign on his tongue. Wrong. His body was a temple. Smoking? He didn't smoke.

The operator just grinned, "Thought ya might be askin'. Here ya go, son." He tossed a cig and a cheap lighter over to Chris.

"No no no no.." Chris fumbled with the lighter, his hands unsteady. "What am I doing?" he muttered, the confusion and dread rising inside him. He lit the cigarette, brought it to his lips, and inhaled deeply. The harsh smoke filled his lungs, burning like fire.

But somehow, it also felt strangely comforting, like coming home. He coughed slightly, then exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching it dissipate, "Shit," he whispered, his mind reeling as he tried to make sense of it all.

But he didn't have much time to process as he was once again plunged into the icy waters below.

"Goddamn it!" Chris cursed as he broke the surface once more, gasping for air, "Ugh fuck..."

His stomach hurt. Bad. And as he ran a hand over his abdomen, he froze. His abs... gone? He looked down, confirming what he was feeling- a soft paunch instead of his rock-hard abdominals. His chest felt different too, slightly hairier than usual. Hadn't he just shaved yesterday morning? Confusion swirled in his mind as he tried to rationalize the changes.

"Looks like someone's lettin' themselves go!" One of the locals jeered, pointing at Chris's now pudgy midsection. His buddies snickered in agreement, the sound grating on Chris's nerves.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Chris snapped, his voice laced with irritation. "I'm in peak condition, asshole."

"Yeah, sure ya are," another local chimed in, his words slurred from too many beers. "Peak condition for a lazy good ol' boy, maybe!"

The insults stung more than Chris cared to admit. He was used to being admired for his athletic physique, not ridiculed for it. But this wasn't him. Something was definitely off about his body.

The dunk tank operator seemed to read his mind, a knowing smirk playing across his weathered face. "Best get used to it, son."

Chris stared at the operator in disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest. Get used to what exactly? Before he could demand an explanation, the chair gave way once more, plunging him into the icy depths below.

"Fuckin' bullshit!" Chris exclaimed, as he came back up, his arms flailing in frustration. He could feel a hot flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks as he sputtered, spitting out water. He was done with this. Done with the jeering, the mockery, the bizarre changes to his body.

"I want the hell outta here, ya hear?" Chris demanded, turning to the dunk tank operator, "Ya better lemme outa here real quick-like or… or…" His words trailed off, "No, wait…"

"Or what, son?" The operator drawled, leaning back against the side of the tank, a smug grin plastered across his face. "Whatchu gonna do 'bout it?"

Chris opened his mouth to retort, but the words that came out sounded foreign to his own ears, "I… I ain't gonna take this no more, ya hear? This here's… this here's bullshit!" He cringed internally at the twang in his voice, the odd phrasing. What the hell was happening to him?

The operator just laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "Sounds like somebody's gettin' awful worked up. Might wanna settle down 'fore ya say somethin' yer gonna regret, y'hear?"

Chris clenched his fists, anger and confusion warring within him.

"I ain't settlin' fer nuthin'," Chris growled, his voice low and threatening. Or at least, it would've been threatening if it weren't for the pronounced Southern drawl that colored every word. "Now ya best git me outta here 'fore I…"

Before he could finish the threat, the chair gave way once more, sending him plummeting into the icy depths below. Chris crashed into the water with a splutter, his breath stolen by the force of the impact. When he finally surfaced, gasping for air, his whole body felt… different. He glanced down, horror dawning on his face as he saw the unmistakable signs of change—his once-taut, chiseled muscles had grown bulkier, but not in the way he wanted. His arms had certainly grown larger, swelling obscenely, now sporting an excess of hair and girth that would rival even the largest of the local farm boys.

"Wha… wha's happenin' to me?!"

He ran trembling fingers over his chest, feeling an unfamiliar layer of softness atop his pectoral muscles. His meaty hands traveled south, where he cautiously poked at his belly. There was a distinct, rounded curve to his lower belly now, a noticeable gut that jutted outward. He gasped as his fingers sunk into the pliable flesh of his gut.

"This ain't… this cain't be happenin'." Chris muttered, panic seizing his chest. "What the fuck's goin' on?"

His stomach gurgled, demanding sustenance, and suddenly all he could think about was sinking his teeth into a greasy double bacon cheeseburger, followed by a thick slice of apple pie, and finishing it off with a couple of beers. This new body had no cravings for his carefully planned out macros.

"Oh mah god." Tears stung at his eyes.

He stared into the water as his face broadened- his features aging and settling into a rougher, coarser look. His stubble had thickened too, blanketing his cheeks in the beginnings of a small beard. Finally, the weight of his situation started to sink in. Gone was the chiseled, sculpted physique he had prided himself on. In its place was the body of a stereotypical redneck - big, burly, and unkempt. The type of man he had always scoffed at- the type of man who lived in this town.

"Please… Please lemme outta here!" Chris pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice as he turned to the dunk tank operator. "I don't… I don't wanna do this no more!"

"Aww, but we're just gettin' started, ain't we?" he drawled, his tone mocking.

Chris felt a chill run down his spine at those ominous words. What else could possibly happen to him? He was already a far cry from the person he had been mere hours ago. As if in answer to his silent question, the chair beneath him gave way once more, plunging him back into the icy depths.

Chris burst forth from the water, his skin flushed and burning. As he wiped the droplets from his eyes, he caught sight of his arms—and froze. Intricate tattoos adorned his flesh, twisting and curling in elaborate designs. Skulls, snakes, and flames danced across his skin, the colors vivid and bold.

"No… No, this ain't right!" Chris cried out, his voice cracking with emotion. "These ain't mine! I ain't never had no tattoos!"

He frantically searched his body, only to find more of the same. His chest, his back, even his neck—they were all covered in the same garish ink.

"Please, I'm beggin' ya," Chris sobbed, his words heavy with desperation. "Is this 'cause of what I said? I didn't mean none of it, honest! It was stupid and I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry!"

Chris's mind raced with thoughts of his future—of going pro, of making a name for himself in the NFL. How could he do any of that now, looking like this? Like some backwoods hick instead of the promising young athlete he was meant to be?

"Nobody's gonna recognize me like this. I'll lose everythin' I worked for!" Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the tank water. The thought terrified him- his friends, family? Did he even want them to see him now? "I swear, I'll change. I'll do anythin', just please…"

The dunk tank operator's grin widened as he savored Chris's despair. "Ya know, we could just wipe that pretty lil' brain of yours clean. Make ya forget all about bein' some bigshot football star. Make ya just another dumbass redneck, content as a pig in shit." Chris whimpered, watching as the dunk tank operator casually tossed a baseball between his hands, "Just one more plunge."

"No… I'll do anythin'." The thought of totally losing himself made him sick.

He chuckled darkly, reveling in the power he held over the once-proud athlete. "But maybe… maybe we can work somethin' out. Ya seem like a reasonable fella, all things considered. So here's the deal…"

--------------

The dimly lit bar was filled with the raucous cheers and jeers of its patrons as they watched the football game playing on the mounted TVs.

"Didja see that play? That new quarterback just ain't cuttin' it no more!" Jed slurred, downing his beer in one gulp.

"Aw, quit yer bellyachin'!" his buddy replied, elbowing Jed in the ribs. "Least he ain't as bad as that pansy-ass pretty boy."

"That city boy who done thought he was too good for us?" Jed scratched his beard and belched loudly.

"That's the one! Chris Mason, or whatever his fancy pants name was." Another of the group chimed in, "Done dropped out. Serves 'em right."

Jed nodded sagely, a faraway look in his bloodshot eyes as memories surfaced, "Well, I reckon that boy learned his lesson real quick-like."

"Ah enough about that prick. Say Jed, whatchu doin' this weekend?" one of the men asked, taking a swig of his beer. "We was fixin' to head out to the lake for some fishin' and drinkin'. You oughta come along!"

Jed mulled it over for a moment, his mind sluggish from the alcohol. Fishing did sound mighty fine right about now. "Reckon I could stand to spend a day out on the water," he drawled, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Count me in, boys!"

The group erupted in whoops and hollers, raising their bottles in a toast. "To beer, fish, and good company!" one declared, and the others echoed the sentiment. Jed clinked his bottle against theirs.

As the group stumbled out of the bar, Jed's eyes locked onto a familiar figure loitering near the exit. The dunk tank operator. Curiosity piqued, he excused himself from his friends with a mumbled "Be right back, y'all."

Jed ambled over to the operator, swaying slightly on his feet. "Evenin' there, sir," he drawled, tipping his cap. "Can't help but notice you lookin' mighty pleased with yourself."

The operator's grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "Well, well, if it ain't my favorite customer from last week's festivities. Enjoyin' your new life, Jed?"

Chris scowled, crossing his burly arms, "It ain't exactly paradise, if ya catch my drift."

"Now, now, don't go complainin' to me. You made a deal, remember? Live as Jed, maybe one day you can go back to yer ol' life. Just gotta give this one a chance." His voice lowered to a menacing whisper. "But trust me, boy, I can make this here arrangement a whole lot more…permanent, if'n you keep gripein'."

Chris's blood ran cold at the threat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew all too well the power this man held over him. "N-no, sir, I ain't complainin' no more. Just…just feelin' mighty homesick is all."

The operator patted Chris's shoulder condescendingly. "Aw, you'll get used to it soon enough." He grinned, "Besides," the operator continued, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement, "you're doin' just fine as Jed. Why, I heard tell of your grand plans for the weekend - fishin', drinkin', carryin' on like a proper redneck. Ain't that just what the doctor ordered?"

Chris couldn't argue with that. As much as he loathed to admit it, he had fallen into the role of Jed with a frightening ease. The beer, the camaraderie, the simple pleasures of a life far removed from his old one - it was becoming... comfortable. Terrifying, but comfortable nonetheless.

And as Chris lay in bed that night, in a body that was becoming increasingly more comfortable and familiar, with a new name increasingly becoming his own, he grappled with the unsettling realization that perhaps...he didn't want to go back. The aches in his muscles from a hard day's labor on the farm, the burn of whiskey on his tongue, the smell of tobacco clinging to his clothes, drivin' his pick-up while blastin' country music - it all felt so right, so natural. Was he really contemplating throwing away everything he had worked for, everything he thought he wanted?

"I reckon I am." Jed mumbled to himself, as sleep threatened to overtake him, "Ain't nothin' wrong with that, is there?"

[misctf]

Gone Fishing

There were few things that rivaled this feeling for Alex. The early summer morning, the sound of birds chirping, the cool lake breeze running through his hair and over his exposed arms. He wiped some sweat from his brow, as he finished preparing his boat for another day of cleaning up the polluted lake.

"Alright..." He whispered, going over his mental checklist for the day and ensuring he had all his supplies.

As Alex busied himself with the final preparations, he couldn't help but steal glances at the man fishing on the nearby pier. The guy appeared fairly ordinary, maybe even a bit scrawny. But he was certainly doing his best to reel in whatever was on his line.

Alex watched with mild curiosity as the stranger struggled with his catch. He found himself oddly invested in the outcome, despite not typically caring for fishing. As he turned away to double-check his supplies, he heard a grunt of exertion from the pier.

When Alex looked back, he did a double-take. There was no way that was the same man on the pier. His frame was broader, muscles bulging. A confident smirk played at his lips as he held up the fish he had just caught.

The man noticed Alex staring and called out, "Morning!"

Alex blinked, trying to process the drastic change in the man's appearance. Had he imagined it? No, there was no mistaking the newfound bulk and bravado radiating off the fisherman. But it didn't make sense- surely he was seeing things.

"Uh, hey," Alex replied, still taken aback. "Nice catch."

"Thanks bro." He smirked and threw the fish back into the lake, "That your boat?"

"Yeah. I'm heading out to do some lake cleanup. Try to keep this place a little cleaner for everyone." The man sauntered over, exuding confidence.

"Cleanup, huh?" the man said, looking Alex up and down appraisingly. "That's pretty cool of you, dude. I'm Lucas, by the way."

"Alex, nice to meet you." Alex smiled politely.

"This might be a bit forward," Lucas started, "But I heard there's some bigger catches out on the lake. Mind if I tag along on your boat. Promise I won't get in the way, man."

"Sure, why not," Alex agreed with a shrug. "Just don't expect me to be much help with the fishing part. I'm more here for the environmental stuff."

"Let's fuckin' go!" He bellowed. He grabbed his fishing gear, a case of beer, and hopped onto Alex's boat, "I owe you one, man."

They set off across the calm waters of the lake. The sun glinted off the surface as Alex navigated towards a spot known for heavier debris buildup.

"So, you come out here often?" Lucas asked, casting his line into the water.

"Almost every weekend," Alex replied, steering the boat. "There's always more trash to collect. It's my way of giving back to nature." Alex shrugged modestly, "Plus I enjoy being out on the water."

Suddenly, Lucas's rod bent nearly in half, "Holy shit! I think I got a big one!" Lucas grunted and strained against the powerful tug on his fishing line, his muscles flexing. "Fuck yeah, it's really fighting!"

"Whoa, looks like a real monster," Alex said, glancing over.

"I need some help here, man!" Lucas panted, his face flushed with effort and excitement, "Here take this while I grab the net."

"Wait! I don't think..." But Lucas thrusted the rod into Alex's hands.

As Alex gripped the fishing rod, he felt an unfamiliar surge of strength flow through his arms. His forearms began to swell and expand beneath his skin, growing larger and more defined with each passing second.

"What the… Oh god," he gasped, eyes wide with shock and confusion as he watched his biceps balloon to an impossible size.

The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced - a tingling warmth spreading through his limbs, followed by an intense stretching and growth- years of going to the gym manifesting in mere seconds. Alex's heart raced as he grappled with the enormous fish on the line, the rod bending dangerously under the immense pressure. Each time he managed to reel in a bit of slack, more muscle packed onto his growing arms.

"I-I can't control this!" he cried out, voice cracking slightly.

"You're doing great, man!" Lucas cheered on, "Fuck, you definitely caught a big one." He poked Alex's engorged biceps appreciatively.

The fabric of Alex's tank top stretched taut as his chest rapidly expanded, pecs swelling outward. With a loud rip, the shirt tore open, exposing his newly muscular torso glistening with sweat.

"No way, dude! This is crazy!" Alex exclaimed, voice dropping an octave.

Each tug on the line sent shockwaves of power coursing through Alex's frame. His shoulders broadened, lats flaring out as he strainedaagainst the rod. The muscles in his back bunched and corded, causing him to grunt.

"This ain't right, man. How the fuck am I gettin' all jacked and stuff?"

Just then the massive fish gave another powerful tug, pulling the line. Alex let out a grunt and looked down, eyes widening as he did. His pecs deflated slightly, losing their hyper-defined shape. The bulging muscles in his arms and back softened and reduced in size, though they remained noticeably larger than before.

"What the hell...?" Alex breathed, his voice sounding more like his own.

"Come on bro! You're letting it get away!"

"No!" Alex cried out, but found his arms moving of their own accord, reeling in the fish. That familiar tingle spread through his body once more, "Ah fuck!"

"There ya go buddy!"

"Aghhh! Not again!" he groaned as his muscles began to swell and expand rapidly. His chest puffed out, pecs inflating to an even greater size than before. The skin tightened as dark hairs sprouted across his pectorals in a light dusting.

"This is insane, dude! What's happenin'g' to me?" Alex's voice deepened again, taking on that exaggerated frat boy tone despite his obvious distress.

He could feel the power surging through him, an overwhelming urge to flex and show off his growing physique.

"I mean, look at these guns." Alex thought absentmindedly.

Just then, Alex felt a strange tightness in his face as the bones shifted and reshaped themselves. His jawline hardened, cheeks filling out to create a more chiseled, masculine profile. Dark stubble prickled across his chin and upper lip, rapidly thickening.

"Even my fuckin' face?" Alex yelped, voice now a deep, resonant baritone. He ran a hand over his newly bearded jaw in shock, "I don't even look like me, bro!"

But even as panic flooded his mind, Alex noticed his thoughts starting to change. A newfound confidence and competitive spirit surged through him, clashing with his usual laid-back demeanor.

"Yeah, you're fuckin' sexy." Lucas smirked, giving Alex's pec a squeeze, "So fuckin' sexy dude..."

"Fuck off brah!" He wanted to say this was wrong- he wasn't into this, but instead he heard himself say, "You're gonna get in my way! Gotta fuckin' show this fish who's boss, bro!" he declared, grinning fiercely even as fear lurked in his eyes. "It's got nothin' on me, brah!"

Horrified, Alex realized the foreign words spilling from his mouth, the aggressive posturing - none of this was truly him. Yet the urge to embrace this new identity pulsed strongly within, clouding his thoughts. Each time he reeled in the line, he felt this new, oafish personality solidify more in his mind. Becoming more familiar. Becoming who he was.

Images flashed unbidden through his mind: Throwing frisbees on the quad, shotgunning beers at parties, hoisting trophies high after winning a big game. His body thrummed with the desire to dominate, to compete, to revel in machismo.

"This… this isn't me," Alex whimpered, even as a primal part of him roared to let loose.

He saw the giant fish nearing the surface, mere feet from the boat now. In that moment, he understood with bone-chilling clarity: If that fish came aboard, if he fully landed it, there would be no turning back. He'd be consumed both physically and mentally. Dread seized Alex's heart, he felt his grip tightening on the fishing rod, knuckles white with strain. The burning need to conquer, to prove his supremacy, surged through his veins, beckoning him.

"I… I shouldn't…" he growled, knuckles white on the rod. But even as the words left his mouth, Alex felt his muscles coiling tighter, readying for the final pull. His heart hammered in his chest, "This isn't fuckin' right." Alex panted, voice thick, "But fuck, I need this. I NEED to win." With a roar of surrender and triumph, he heaved back on the rod, hauling the titanic fish up and over the side of the boat.

The moment the colossal fish slapped against the floor of the boat, Alex felt the last vestiges of his former self shatter like glass. A thunderous laugh burst from his chest.

"FUCK YEAH! That's how you do it, bro!" he bellowed, grabbing a can of beer and downing it in a single gulp, "Did you fuckin' see that, bro?"

Alex stood tall and proud, muscles rippling. He flexed, admiring the way his beefed-up arms bulged obscenely. He held up the fish, a fierce grin split his ruggedly handsome face, eyes blazing with newfound dominance.

"Yo Lucas, check it out!" Alex crowed, hefting the enormous fish. "Told ya I was the best, didn't I?" He laughed loudly, uncaringly tossing the empty beer can into the lake.

"Fuck yeah, bro!" Lucas slapped his new bro on the back, "I fuckin' knew there were bigger catches out here." His eyes roamed over his new bro, his hand resting comfortably on Alex's pec, "Definitely bigger catches." He trailed off.

Alex smirked, gazing down at Lucas- soon to be another conquest of the day. Gone was the shy, environmentally-conscious conservationist. In his place stood a cocky, muscle-bound bro oozing confidence, waiting for the next opportunity to get drunk, party, and fuck. Alex tossed the enormous fish back into the lake, his new muscles and throbbing cock already itching for their next challenge.

[salmonskinrolltf]

Emilio Bedilio

[Author’s Note: Proof of life! I can’t say I’ll be back to writing consistently any time soon, but I’m really trying to master short stories that are ACTUALLY short, because that would help me at least dip my toe into TF writing more often. So here’s my attempt to do that. Of course it’s over 2,000 words. Oops. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!]

I am Emilio Bedilio, the genie of the- sweet Agamemnon, this man is beautiful!

Sorry, I got sidtracked. I am Emilio Bedilio, the genie of the lamp. That lamp over there. The one that just got rubbed by this hunk. It looks a little dented and tarnished, sure, but it’s home. I’ve lived there a long time. Such a very long time. So long, in fact, that my English is a little rusty. It’s not my fault! I speak 16,000 languages, after all, and English is one of the newer ones.

Last time I was out, a guy wished to be the hottest person at his school, so I changed his internal temperature to 99.7 degrees Fahrenheit. He wasn’t too happy with me. But I thought I was giving him what he wanted! So that’s why I reeeeeeeally need to pay attention to what Aaron wants. That’s this guy’s name, by the way. My powers give me access to so much more information than you mortals could ever process. Anyway, stop distracting me! I’ll let Aaron tell the rest of the story, so I can focus.

——————————————

Holy shit! There really was a genie in that lamp I bought at the flea market that Stacy dragged me to! I didn’t even rub it. I was just heading back from the dorm shower and brushed it with my towel, then this huge purple plume of smoke came out, clarifying into a floating man with a huge mustache. The genie of the lamp, apparently. He says I only get one wish, which seems like a ripoff, but who am I to complain? Genies are fucking real, man!

I don’t need much time to choose my wish. I already look like.. well, like this. I’ve already got the best, hottest girlfriend in the world. And the coolest friends. All I need is some cash, so I can ditch this shitty dorm and move into that swanky off-campus apartment I’ve had my eye on. And live a comfortable life down the road and shit. Anyway, it takes me like three seconds before I say, “I wish I was the richest person in town!”

The genie sits there for like a full minute and a half. Did he not hear me? But then all of a sudden he snaps his fingers and dissolves back into smoke, which gets sucked back into the lamp. I feel a rush of energy sweep over me and my body begins to tingle. Weird. I kinda just figured my wallet would feel heavier or something, but maybe being rich would fundamentally change how I look in some way. Nicer teeth or whatever.

I look over to the warped full-length mirror on the closet door. I pull back my lips and inspect my teeth. Nope, nothing. I glance down, making sure my dick is still the same size it always was. Yup. Weird…

Suddenly, I feel a chill on my solar plexus. A silver chain has appeared around my neck, and a ring that’s hanging on it is pressing into my skin. I inspect it. Does it have like… my new family crest? Nope. It looks like a pretty normal ring. I set it back down, but instead of the cold feeling returning, the skin on my chest suddenly feels boiling hot. I watch as dark ink begins to flow across my skin, seemingly emanating from the spot where the ring is touching me.

It forms a word in loopy script that I can’t read in the mirror, and I’m distracted when the burning sensation envelops my left arm and more tattoos emerge on my shoulder. A shark and a cross. My chest and arm hurt at first, but the feeling slowly fades, as does the ink, settling into a dark grey, like I got them done a few years ago.

I’m confused about what’s going on. But haven’t I always said that if I won the lottery, the first thing I’d do was get a tattoo? That probably explains why - ouch! My cheek is hurting now.

Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. I watch in horror as another cross tattoo inks its way across my cheekbone, right where a gangster would have a teardrop tattoo. Fuck. I rub my face. Do these things come off? It looks so trashy. Why would I get that, even if I was rich? I- I feel- I feel… full.

My stomach is inflating, starting from the beltline, each row of abs disappearing one by one behind a layer of fat that forms a small but sturdy gut. All that hard work, gone in just a couple seconds. I want to cry. I rub at my new stomach, feeling its heft. I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet a bit. At least it’s not jiggling too much. It’s like… tight. I can fix this pretty easily I think, if I up my gym time over the next couple months.

I remove my hands from my stomach, leaving two handprints behind on my skin. The skin there looks darker than it was before. Redder, almost halfway between a sunburn and a tan. As I look, the color slowly spreads from my handprints across my entire stomach, speeding up as it races downward, turning my dick, legs, and feet the exact same human-lobster color. It goes upward too, spreading across my chest like I’m flushed, filling in the formerly ivory skin beneath my new tattoo, spreading up to my neck, my cheeks, my nose, my eyebrows, my forehead… Which I can suddenly see more of.

As the color rushes upward across my forehead, my still-damp bangs begin to retract, shrinking past my eyes until I can only see them in the mirror. They stop halfway up my forehead. Then, as if I’m watching a time-lapse video of someone using a hair dryer set on high, my hair frizzes out, going from sleek salon-cut bangs to a dry, unconditioned mess that looks like it was cut by a three-year-old with safety scissors.

But I don’t even have time to process any of this as the changes accelerate. My forehead is now fully brown-orange, and as the color reaches my hairline, it spreads to the roots of my hair, too, as they begin to fade from my standard brunette to a light auburn, the color rising to the ends of each strand like that time in grade school when we put food coloring in the water those roses were dipped in.

I turn my head to see that the new hair color is spreading on the back of my head too, but it doesn’t stop at the ends of the strands this time. As the auburn color reaches each tip, it just… keeps going. The strands lengthen and twist, forming cascading waves as the mass of frizzy, newly lightened hair extends to my neckline and cascades down to my shoulders. Some strands in the messy mullet - and that’s what it is now, a mullet - are even spilling out over my ears in their eagerness to bounce in every direction possible.

I shake my head, feeling the voluminous hair tickling against the back of my neck. It feels kind of… nice? But fuck no, I look like a tool. This definitely isn’t what I wished for. But… I shake my head a little more, enjoying the sensation. As I do so, my eyebrow color begins to fade to a lighter auburn, too. And… did one of them fall over my lips? No, a bristly mustache is beginning the form, the same color as the rest of my new hair. As it fluffs out over my lips - god, that’s going to get in my mouth when I eat - more scraggly hairs burst out from under my lip, forming a bristling soul patch that then spreads into a straw-colored goatee, reddening further as it spreads up my cheeks, my sideburns, and eventually connects to my hair. My… My mullet.

A few more straw-colored hairs burst forth in the center of my chest, though they don’t spread quite as thickly. They just seem to be… hanging out. Lazily, almost. Sparse. Prickly. Ruining my whole smooth aesthetic, not that I have the same musculature to highlight anymore. My pecs grow thicker, smoother, the tattoos tightening against my newly forming bulk. The same thing happens to my arms and legs. They don’t swell with fat, they just get… thick.

I rub my beard, feeling the prickly feeling against my sensitive palms and trying not to enjoy it. But I’ve always wanted to be the type of guy who could easily grow facial hair… Haven’t I? I must have tweaked my nose when I was doing that, because it looks shorter now. Rounder. My lips are thinning out, too. Fuck. No. The magic is still going. My face continues to shift. Eyebrows grow a little closer together. Skin gets a little drier. But then… everything settles. I poke at my new face and body, in awe of how different I look from the way I was just a few minutes earlier.

I stare at the mirror in trepidation, but nothing else seems to change. I think… it’s over? Thank goodness. I need to-

There’s a knock at the door. Suddenly I remember the reason I was showering in the first place. Stacy was coming over. Fuck! I can’t let her see me like this. Or… can I? Maybe she can help. And a growing part of me feels like I mostly look pretty good. But I should at least try to cover the gut. And the tats. Well, the ones I can cover. I can’t look so different that she won’t believe me. Maybe I can convince her that my drama kid roommate was testing out a wig and fake beard on me or something.

I go to grab a button-down from my dresser, but all I find in there is a vest with an American flag pattern. Shit, that won’t cover the tats at all. But at least it’ll hide the gut.

Pants. Need to find pants. I open the next drawer down, and of course all that’s in there is a pair of worn denim overalls. This will have to do. I slip the overalls on easily (it feels so natural), then turn toward the door and swing it open to reveal Stacy. She has her same dark black hair, bold red lips, and sultry look as usual.

She stares at me, jaw agape. “… Aaron?”

Thank fuck. She recognizes me. Maybe it’s the eyes. Maybe we really are in love. I’m so elated and grateful. I want to hug her, kiss her, nuzzle her neck. But I don’t do that.

As if on autopilot, I lean against the door, revealing a thick thatch of auburn armpit hair in the process. She wrinkles her nose. Do I smell? I just showered!

I try to act nonchalant and say “hey,” but my voice cracks. Is it higher than usual? More nasal? And is that a hint of a drawl I’m detecting? While trying to hear the sound of my own voice, I don’t even notice what I’m saying.

“Hey, darlin’. You look sweeter’n a spoonful of molasses. How ‘bout we get you out of them clothes?”

Stacy’s face falls. “What the fuck did you just say to me? We’re going to the movies, remember?”

I’m so embarrassed by what just came out of my mouth that I can’t even figure out what to say next. My mouth moves anyway, and I say, “I ain’t going to no chick flick. I’m a real man. Now get over here or get out.”

“What is WRONG with you?” she snaps. “And are these tattoos real?” She grabs my collar and widens it to read my chest. “RENECK? Is that supposed to say ‘redneck’? It’s not even spelled properly.”

I splutter, staring down at my chest. Is that what it says?

She gives me a long, hard stare. “You have nothing to say for yourself? You know what? I have finals next week. I can’t handle this right now.” And just like that, she turns around and storms out.

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck! What the hell is going on? I need to talk to that stupid-ass genie. I know he said I only get one wish, but the least he can do is reverse whatever the fuck he did. I rub the lamp, but nothing happens. I rub it again. Nothing. I knock, and the lid opens up a crack. Emilio’s voice emanates from within. “Your wish has been granted. What is it, Aaron?”

Exasperated, I ask “What did you do to me? I asked to be the richest man in town, not some redneck asshole.”

To my surprise, Emilio laughed, saying “Well, isn’t that funny? Now, I gave your request a lot of thought. It turns out the word “rich” means a lot of things in English, and I had trouble figuring out which you meant. But given the high concentration of men named “Rich” in your area, I assumed you were talking about exhibiting their qualities, but in a more concentrated way than any other Rich. The Rich-est if you will. And more than 70% of those men named Rich live in trailer parks in the area. I didn’t know why that’s what you wanted, but humans are funny that way. Sorry about the mixup. It can’t be fixed, but at least you’re healthy and safe. No harm, no foul!”

The lid snaps shut as I scream “Very harm! Very foul!” My accent is definitely a full-on country twang now, emerging in my agitation. I need to fix this. All of it. I decide that I can at least get rid of the beard right now. The hair would have to wait for a proper stylist and the tattoos would be a whole process, but I can shave. I turn around to run to the bathroom and grab my razor, but as I spin, the world whirls around me. When my dizziness settles, I’m no longer looking at my dorm room, but the dingy interior of a trailer home. Empty beer bottles are on the couch, dirty laundry is in the sink. A huge Confederate flag hangs above a bed sitting against the far wall.

I try to peer out the window on the front door, which has blinds so dusty that they look black. I can’t really see, so I open it up and step outside, the steps creaking under my newfound weight. Yup. I’m in a trailer park. In a daze (but not so much so that I don’t lock the door behind me, using a key that has materialized in my pocket), I wander aimlessly, trying to get my bearings and find my way back to the school.

As I make my way through a park I swear I’ve never been in before, I catch sight of a swing set. A vivid memory of pushing a kid on those swings blossoms in my mind. Oh yeah. Colton. My son. Had him back in high school, before I dropped out. I get to see him once a month, make sure he learns to be a proper man. Go to football games and spit on the ground and all that shit.

As I look around, my sense of direction grows clearer. Oh yeah. That corner is the liquor store where I get my Bud Light. Across from the bar where I try to pick up girls on Saturday nights. Where was I trying to go, again? Some school? Nah, I’m not looking to bang any college chicks today. Too snobby. Maybe I’ll hit up the tattoo parlor though, I picked up a few extra shifts this week at the EZ-Mart and I know exactly what to spend the extra cash on…

[salmonskinrolltf]

Spicing Things Up

Content Warning: Incest

That’s Nick on the left and me, Sam, on the right. We have been together for a few years, and things are great between us. Mostly great. We love each other, we like each other’s families, we have common interests, and all that. It’s just that we’re finding things a little stale in the bedroom.

That’s how the TF dice (from that local sex shop I swear I’d never seen before, or since) ended up here in my hand tonight.

We figured tonight was the perfect time to mess around with something a little more extreme. My little brother, Cooper, had just spent the past two weeks with us before driving back to college. I’m not saying we didn’t have a nice time! Even though Cooper is a bit of a lacrosse bro and shouldn’t gel with Nick’s “cup of tea and a good book” vibe, they get along great.

However, during the visit, our sex drought grew even longer. Nick and I weren’t exactly going to be taking each other to pound town while Cooper was sleeping on our couch. Our apartment is neither large nor soundproof.

Anyway, we figured we’d go the extra mile now that we’re alone again. These dice promised a transformative experience. Like literally. They were supposed to incite a physical and/or mental transformation for both of us. We wouldn’t get to choose what the transformations would be. We would just have to… well, roll the dice. But the instructions promised that we’d end up being sexually compatible no matter what, and that it would be the hottest night of our lives. That sounded good to me. I’d been pent up for a while, long before my brother came to town.

There were different types of TF dice on the shelf. One was labeled “spicy,” one “romantic,” one “kinky,” and so on. But I wasn’t fucking around, so I opted for “turbo kinky.” How bad could it be? I’m thinking it’ll probably make one of us a gimp of both of us furries or something. Something that I’m not into now but my new self will be very into. Whatever it is, it’ll be an exciting adventure, I think.

I’m holding the obsidian black dice in my hand right now. I’m a little confused by the fact that they don’t have any dots on them, just six perfectly smooth sides. But I’m already so fucking hard. My boner is tenting my gym shorts just thinking about finally getting some kind of new, exciting release.

Nick is a little more nervous than I am, tapping his foot on the floor. His skinny frame looks so cute in his blue button-down and nice jeans. He dressed up like it’s date night, isn’t that sweet? I love him. I can’t wait to rip that outfit off of him.

I look up at him, palming my hard-on. “You ready, babe?”

He gulps. “Yeah, babe. Let’s do it.”

I hand him one of the dice and on the count of three, we roll them onto the mattress. They land, one smooth black side apiece facing upward and stubbornly refusing to tell us what’s going to happen.

For a little while, nothing does. My boner deflates.

“Fuck,” I say. “I knew this was too good to be true.”

Nick shrugs. “It was worth a shot. But maybe we can still pretend. Roleplay a transformation. You be the cop and I be the criminal or something. Ooooh Officer Hoffman, please don’t charge me with anything. Is there anything I can do to… get off?”

He starts rubbing my crotch, and I decide to set my annoyance with the dice aside and just embrace having regular, mildly kinky sex with my lovely and caring boyfriend. Could be worse. But no matter what he does, I can’t get hard again. He licks up the side of my neck. Nothing. He reaches into my shorts and fondles my balls. Nothing. None of the usual tricks can bring my raging boner back. I begin to wonder if the dice are just some cosmic joke. Was this my transformation? Fucking erectile dysfunction?

But right in the middle of kneeling down to try and initiate a blowjob, Nick reels a little bit and falls back onto the bed.

“Babe, are you alright?” I ask, rushing to his side. He nods, grunting. But I can see he’s beginning to sweat. When he starts to tug at his collar, sweat pouring down his face, I rush to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When I get back, he’s standing beside the closet. He’s changed his clothes. He’s now wearing a white T-shirt underneath an open plaid button-down, with tight athletic shorts and a brown shark tooth necklace completing the ensemble. He’s just standing there, staring blankly at me. Is he about to pass out?

“Babe, aren’t you already warm? Why would you change and add a layer?” I ask. “Here, I got you…” But my voice trails off. I recognize that outfit. Cooper was wearing it the day before he left. Did my brother accidentally leave some clothes behind? Did Nick find them and decide to play some sick joke?

The outfit looks a little baggy on Nick, but suddenly… it doesn’t. His chest swells with taut muscle, pressing against the fabric of the tee. The slight bulge his stomach made against the shirt is shrinking back. I can see it forming into six distinct ab-like shapes before it is no longer pressing against the shirt at all, his firm chest having caused all the fabric to drape in an entirely different way over his torso.

His thighs thicken, bulging against the tight shorts like they’re sausage casings. His calves harden, too, transforming from skinny chicken legs into tense, coiled muscle. They must have lengthened in the process too, because now he’s a couple inches taller, his eyes right at my level instead of looking up at me like they usually do.

And those eyes… They’re not his. He’s blinked and the light color has darkened to a soft chocolate brown that seems weirdly familiar.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I just stand there goggling as my boyfriend goes from lanky nerd to full-on jock. What the fuck is happening? His face looks so strange perched on top of that Adonis body, I almost laugh. But then his face starts to change, too.

His beard retracts, leaving his cheeks and chin baby smooth. All the better to track the difference as his chin sharpens and his jaw widens, the bottom half of his face seeming to pry themselves apart as the bones beneath his skin shift. This can’t be happening.

His face starts to flush, and I wonder if he’s overheating. I move to offer him the water again, but the color settles into a permanent red-cheeked look that reminds me of Cooper, who is always embarrassed about how he permanently looks like he’s blushing.

Actually, come to think of it, all of this reminds me of Cooper. The eyes. The cheeks. That pimple that is blossoming below Nick’s lip. And the one on the bridge of his nose. Wasn’t Cooper complaining about those same pimples just the other day?

Suddenly, the mole below Nick’s eyebrow - the one I love to kiss - vanishes. His eyebrow seems to react to this, rippling from left to right as a wave of light brown color washes over it. His other eyebrow similarly lightens, matching its brother.

The light brown color also swirls up from his hairline, spreading from the roots to the tips of all the hair on his head as Nick’s signature short hair begins to flutter, like a ghostly hairdryer is blowing it in every direction. The light brown strands begin to lengthen as they move, the air bending the straight hairs into slightly wavy, messy strands. The breeze subsists and the hair falls back down, landing perfectly over his face in a “just rolled out of bed” swoop.

And suddenly… It’s not Nick standing in front of me anymore. It’s Cooper.

He blinks, speaking at first with Nick’s deep voice before it cracks and lightens into Cooper’s tenor. “SaM? Sam? Bro, what’s wrong?”

He suddenly looks at me with concern in his eyes, as if I’m the one who just transformed utterly and completely. I mean, I’m shaking slightly, and I’m sure I’m white as a sheet, but I figure that’s understandable given the situation.

“Nick, what just happened? Are you OK?” I ask, taking a big gulp from the glass of water that I’m still holding.

He looks at me quizzically. “Nick? Who’s Nick?”

“My boyfriend. You.”

He blushes, red sweeping across his already rosy cheeks. “I- I’m not your boyfriend, bro. I didn’t think you had one. You never really date.”

What the fuck is Nick talking about? Is this some sort of joke? Or… Did the TF dice actually work? But why would they deflate my boner and turn Nick into my brother? I make a mental note to check if I still had the receipt so I can get my money back.

“Bro, are YOU alright?” Nick asks, grabbing my shoulder with a much tighter grip than I’m used to. Such a strong, firm grip. A lacrosse grip. My boner returns with such a sudden, urgent intensity that it makes me lightheaded. My thoughts scramble as the blood rushes away from my head. Why do I feel like this? What’s going on? Who even are we? My questions are interrupted as my hard-on strains against my shorts, demanding all my attention. It feels so firm and all-consuming and undeniable, like it’s practically about to rip the mesh. God, I need to do something about this… About Nick… About my… This is… This is so embarrassing, popping a boner in front of my brother. I’ve gotta get out of this situation.

“Sorry, Coop,” I say quickly, trying to come up with a cover story. “I just got back from a run, can I take a quick shower and then we can talk about whatever it is you came over to talk about?”

By some miracle, he doesn’t seem to have noticed my dick tenting my shorts. I awkwardly turn to grab some clothes from my dresser. He lets go of my shoulder, but I still feel the ghost of his hand on my skin.

“Sure, Sam,” he says, his voice careful. “Take your time, I’ll just snag a beer from the fridge and watch Netflix or something.”

“You do that,” I say, as my brother turns to leave.

“And then maybe you can tell me about Nick,” Cooper says.

“Who?” I ask. “I don’t know any Nick. Is he a friend of yours?”

“I…” he shakes his head as if clearing it. “I don’t know why I said that. Must be confused. Anyway, catch you when you’re done.”

“Sure thing,” I say, surreptitiously tucking my boner into my waistband while gathering clothes to change into, then turning around to fist bump him.

—————

I’m trying to jerk off in the shower. I want to work out my excess sexual energy so I don’t embarrass myself with another boner, but I just can’t get hard. None of my usual fantasies are working at all. A hairy bear plumber who wants to do more than snake my drain. Zilch. A skinny, adorkable nerd who holds me like I’m the love of his life. Not a twitch down there. A baseball team making me their servile water boy. Not one of their imaginary hard, dripping cocks made mine move an inch.

What the hell is my problem today?

I give up, turning off the shower, drying myself off and stepping into some clean clothes (a tank top and some tight underwear with actual non-mesh shorts, hoping the additional support will help me disguise any further groin-related issues).

Attempting to look casual, I move one of my decorative pillows from the couch and sit with it in my lap, for further protection.

“So what brings you over, Coop?” I ask, hopefully nonchalantly, willing my penis to behave.

He pauses the show he’s watching on my TV and yawns, his shirt lifting to expose a tiny sliver of his taut stomach and chestnut brown happy trail as he does so. My cock instantly stiffens again, resisting the constraints of my underwear and defiantly giving my shorts a defined tent. Traitor. Good thing I have the pillow as backup.

“Well… I wanted to talk to you about something, man,” he says sheepishly. “I broke up with Ashley.”

“You did?” I ask, shocked. They’d been together since high school, I thought they were in it for the long haul. “Why?”

“I- I realized that I’m in love with someone else,” he says. “I think I’ve maybe ALWAYS been in love with someone else.”

As I try to think of the most comforting thing to say, a vision arrives unbidden in my mind. A vision of Cooper saying “It’s you, Sam. It’s always been you.” My boner twitches so hard that the zipper on my shorts slides down an inch. But where did that thought come from? I don’t have feelings for my brother, do I? And this boner isn’t for him, it’s just… It’s for…

I try to think of what could be causing my sudden excess of energy, but it just seems random. Maybe I’m just horny. Reaching, I try to assign my desires to anything that makes sense. Anybody. I think of Zac Efron. My boner instantly deflates, which is a relief in the sense that I no longer have to hide it, but certainly doesn’t reassure me. I think of Dylan Efron. Nope. Tyler Hoechlin. Dormant dick. Chris Evans. Nothing. Tyler Hoechlin and Chris Evans making out. Not a peep.

“Sam, are you still with me?” Cooper asks. I am shaken out of my reverie and look into his deep brown eyes. My dick instantly stiffens again. My mind is flooded with images. Accidentally walking in on Cooper in the shower after lacrosse practice. Having to share a bed on family road trips. Watching him make out with Ashley through the living room blinds. The zipper moves another inch, my boner straining to be seen, to be touched.

No, this can’t be right. I loudly cough and try to keep my voice at the right volume to sound perfectly normal but cover up the sound of me zipping my shorts back up from behind the pillow. “No, nothing’s wrong, Cooper. Must just be tired from my run. I’m sorry. What were you saying? You’re in love with somebody else? Who is it?”

“It’s… It’s you, Sam. I’m in love with you. Always have been.”

Cooper says it. He actually says it. My heart gives a swoop. My boner twitches again. It’s exactly what I wanted. Or wait, what am I saying, I don’t want this at all. Nor should I. I-

Cooper continues talking. “And I think you’re in love with me too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you looking at me like… Like the way you’re looking at me right now. And it would explain why you’ve never had a real boyfriend.”

I try to protest at that, but suddenly my memories go swimmy again. I try to remember my boyfriend, or one of my exes, but I end up drawing a blank. I HAVE always been single, haven’t I? Nobody can live up to the standard of the perfect, caring, hunky man I have back at home, who I couldn’t possibly be with? Suddenly the only sexual history I remember is hookups with random Grindr men who looked like Cooper, but who almost always left unsatisfied because I just couldn’t get it up for anyone but… him.

“Fuck, Coop.” I say, in a last ditch attempt to stave off these feelings. “I don’t think you should be saying things like that. It’s really not-“

But he’s touching the pillow now. His hand is so close to my crotch. As if my cock can sense his presence, it twitches again, harder, and again, shoving the zipper down, poking through the flap in my briefs, the tip quivering as it is exposed to the open air.

“Stop trying to resist this, Sam,” he says. “It’s ruining both our lives. We need to be honest with each other, after all these years. I think we both deserve that.”

I’m sweating profusely now, afraid to come anywhere within a mile of being honest. Maybe I- Maybe I shouldn’t… Maybe we DO deserve that. Maybe he’s right.

Cooper removes the pillow, smiling shyly when he sees my hard cock, drooling precum. I see a huge wet spot on the back of the pillow when he tosses it aside.

He peels off his button-down and his undershirt, exposing his hard, muscular torso. That tantalizing happy trail leads down into his shorts, which are tented even more prominently than my own. “May I?” he says. “I’ve been imagining what it feels like for years, now.”

My mouth a tight line, I begin to shake my head. But my hands don’t listen to my brain. They unbutton my fly, pulling the zipper down all the way. My lower half completely ignores my commands too, shimmying out of my underwear and shorts. Now naked from the waist down, I’m too far gone to possibly find a way out of this predicament. I nod my head.

With all the deftness and speed of a true jock, the second I nod, he has his hands on my cock, using my precum to lube the shaft. A tsunami of pleasure rushes over me, and the last lingering objections on my tongue are swept away. I decide to put that tongue to better use. Without being asked, I lean forward, licking one of his hard nipples, then the other.

I haven’t felt pleasure like this since… well, ever. My boner finally has the thing it’s been screaming for all evening and - as far as I can remember - for many years before that, too. The next moments are a blur. I don’t even remember how, just a few minutes ago, I got to the point where I was completely naked, my younger brother standing above me, his nine-inch cock jutting out proudly, casting a shadow on my eager face. I don’t recall how I could possibly have mentally justified what I’m doing now, which begging him to pound me faster, harder, more, more, more.

I am filled with a bright red sensation of shame, of pure, unalloyed guilt. I shouldn’t be doing this. I am supposed to be protecting him, to be comforting him about his breakup, not running my hands across his muscular chest, biting his powerful shoulder as he thrusts his cock in and out of my ass, pumping my own dick in his meaty, greedy fist, his necklace slap-slap-slapping against his sweaty skin. But the red alert in my head turns pink, then fades completely to white, white, white-hot ecstasy as my brother cums, filling me up, and I cum too, pleasure like I’ve never known, pleasure that is so much stronger because we shouldn’t be doing this, because we’re getting away with something. Something bad. Something so fucking bad and so fucking good.

He pulls out, collapsing, panting on top of me. Our sweaty bodies are tangled together in a satisfied heap. I don’t know whose foot I’m looking at. Could be mine. Could be his. They look the same. He brushes his hair out of his eyes as he pulls me in for a kiss. The hair that’s the same color as mine. My cock twitches again. This is going to be a good night.

[salmonskinrolltf]

Alumni Relations

[Thank you to @twistedtfs for contributing the second image for this not-so-short story.]

That’s my boyfriend, Blake, lying down, and me, Tyler, lying on him. As you might be able to tell, I’m a top. Not that he and I actually do anal all that often. It’s a lot of work, honestly, and a lot of cleanup. We often prefer just trading blowjobs, which is what we’re getting ready to do right now.

We’re on a time crunch, anyway. I’m on my lunch break at the law firm where I work, and he’s about to start his closing shift at the art supply store.

Just as I’m kissing my way down to Blake’s waistband, his phone starts blaring Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club.” Again. This is the fifth time that an unknown number has called in the past three minutes. Blake blocked the last three callers, but the calls keep coming from different numbers, so it isn’t working.

“Ugh, might as well see what they want,” grumbles Blake. I reluctantly roll off of him and he gets up, walking over to the bureau and answering his phone. “Who is this?”

I palm my tented briefs and he winks at me as he says, “No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong-”

Suddenly, his eyes go glassy.

I take my hand off my dick, sit up against the headboard, and watch him, curiously. What’s going on? Is it bad news or something?

“Well, yes,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. He must be nervous. He’s mussing his hair hard enough to pull the strands back, or something, because the part above his ears looks a lot shorter. When he moves his hand, I see something odd. His hair is shorter.

The back and sides are cropped close, and the only remaining length is at the top. I’m about to ask what’s going on when Blake does something that causes me to freeze in surprise. He grabs a blue baseball cap from the top of the dresser and puts it on, backward. He’s never worn a baseball hat like that. He’s never worn a baseball hat period. We don’t even own any!

The hat should be pressing his bangs flatter to his forehead, but they’re actually rising. They’re almost floating, like he’s touching one of those static electricity machine things at Spencer’s Gifts. They bristle and curl into a styled swoop that looks like it has been trained to flow in that exact way by years of cap-wearing.

I feel like my nerves are firing wrong, because I can’t move. All I can do is panic and try to process what I’m seeing.

“Yeah, of course,” Blake says. Is it just me or is his voice slightly deeper?

While the way he speaks has grown more masculine, his face is starting to look more boyish. His cheekbones rise, his lashes lengthen, and that beard that I love running my fingers through begins to fall from his face in small tufts, like flakes of paint being chipped off a wall. What’s left behind is patchy stubble, dark and thick on his chin and upper lip, but pretty sparse everywhere else.

“Totally, dude,” says Blake, letting out a deep guffaw that rumbles through his chest.

His ribs expand, as if they’re trying to properly contain the booming laughter that is bursting out of my normally restrained boyfriend. His thick pelt of chest hair holds on for dear life as his flat chest rises, his nipples suddenly perched on two solid mounds of muscle.

As he nods and continues to agree with whoever is on the other end of the phone, more details keep shifting. His septum ring glints as it vanishes into thin air. His underwear strains against a growing bulge. The stench of musk floods the room as he idly scratches an armpit. His eyes grow even more vacant and blank than they had looked at the beginning of the call.

He turns to look at me and I jolt. I was so shocked by Blake’s sudden transformation that I had forgotten I was actually in the room and not just observing this nightmare from afar.

“It’s for you, bro,” he says, holding the phone out to me. A goofy grin splits his face.

What the fuck do I do? Do I run? No, I can’t do that. This is Blake. The love of my life. Something weird is happening, and I need to fix it. I take the phone.

“Who is this, and what the fuck have you done with Blake?” I bark out the second the phone touches my ear.

“I don’t know any Blake,” said a calm voice on the other end of the phone. Male. Maybe early 20s? “But I asked Brody to hand the phone to you, so you can add to his generous donation.”

“Donation? What kind of scam-”

“My name is Evan and I’m calling on behalf of the local chapter of Beta Theta.”

“The frat? Look, I-”

“We’re raising funds so we can remodel the frat house. But our fraternity dues aren’t quite enough to cover everything.”

“OK, so talk to your frat alumni. Isn’t that how you people usually raise money?”

“I am talking to the frat alumni.”

“No you’re not.”

“Our tastes run expensive, as you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“We’re a relatively new frat, so there aren’t enough alumni in the area to get us what we need. I’ve had to get creative. I’ve been making frat alumni… calls.”

“OK, so you’re making calls. Why call us? And what did you do to Brody? I mean Blake.”

“You’ll understand in a minute. Look, the reason I’m calling is that you’re a former Beta Theta yourself.”

“I’m telling you, I’ve never been part of Beta Theta. Or any frat, for that matter.”

“My listings are never wrong. Don’t you live at 999 Hawthorne Place?” “Well, yes,” I say, as my fingertips start to tingle.

“And you have close-cropped brown hair?”

“I mean, yeah,” I say, running my hand across my shorn scalp, enjoying the prickly feeling. It’s weird how much darker my beard and chest hair are than my head hair, but I’ve always liked the way the length and the color clash. “But what does that have to do with-”

“And you’ve never been able to grow a full beard?”

I rub the patchy chestnut hairs on my chin and grimace. “Well, that’s true too, but you didn’t have to roast me like that, man.”

“And you’re just as muscular as Brody, but have way less chest hair?”

“All that is on the form?” I ask, looking down at the light brown hairs that are scattered along my shelflike chest.

“And your handsome face gets flushed when you drink, right?”

I suddenly felt dizzy. My deep voice slurs slightly when I respond “Yesh.” I take another swig from my Corona and set it down on the nightstand.

“And you’re always dressed in the frattiest clothes possible?”

“I mean duh, bro,” I say, rolling my eyes as I run my thumb along the length of my chain and adjust my backwards mesh hat.

“And you’re as dumb as a box of rocks?”

It takes a minute for that question to sink in. My gears have never turned all that quickly, and I got distracted by grabbing my package and leering at Brody. I can’t wait to get off the phone so I can bury this cock in his ass, to the hilt. Oh wait, didn’t that Evan guy ask me something? “Oh.. uh, yeah.”

“And your name is Tigger?”

“Yeah, bro, but it’s just a nickname. They called me that because Prez kept catching me bouncing on Brody’s dick,” I say. God, I’m so horny. My ass aches to be filled. Brody is taking off his underwear and jerking his fat cock. I’m drooling at the thought of it. I can’t resist jumping his bones every two hours or so whenever we’re alone together between shifts at the gym. The Beta Theta tattoo on his wrist flashes up and down with every stroke.

“And you’re a devoted Beta Theta?” Evan asks.

Is that even a question! “Uh… doy,” I say. “And they say I’m the dumb one. I have the tat on my asscheek to prove it. So you need money, yeah? Would 10K do? I have that much saved from my lame old job.”

“$10,000 would suit us perfectly well,” says Evan.

“Hell yeah, boyyyyy,” I say. “Just, like, make sure to put up a plaque or something when you build it. ‘Brody & Tigger’s Beer Pong Stadium’ or something like that, y’know?”

“Will do, Tigger. And thanks again,” says Evan.

“Anything for Beta Theta, man! These are the best years of your life, I wouldn’t want them to go to waste on a sucky frat house!”

After making the Zelle transfer, I hang up the phone and lumber over to Brody, grabbing his dripping cock in my meaty hand. I can’t wait to crash my mouth against his and feel his sexy stubble scrape against my chin. “Now, where were we, bro?”

[baragonspleasurebarge]

Nice Young Men

[Since it seems like CYOC may be down for good, I’m going to share some of my favorite stories that were once available on that site, spruced up with grammar fixes and some AI images. 

This story was published anonymously. If you are the author and either want this taken down or want me to link to a place where fans can support you, please DM me.]

I'm not a cruel man. I just feel that society has rules that need to be followed. I’m feeling a bit lonely, so I headed down town to The Bijou. They show classic movies on Sunday nights. I round the corner to find three young men mugging an older man. I guess I should tell you I have a unique set of talents. As I walk closer, I can see that the young men were wannabe thugs, with their sagging jeans, tattoos, shaved heads, and wifebeaters.

My eyes flash an emerald green. 

"Do we have a problem, boys?” I ask. 

"Fuck off, old man,” the one with blue eyes retorts. 

"Walt, we'll take care of him, too,” the one with the lip ring and nose ring says. The third just smiles, holding a tire iron and trying to look menacing. I walk up to them. I put my hand up to my lips, so it looks as if I am blowing a kiss. 

"What the hell are you doing,” Walt yells. The three thugs find themselves stuck in place. 

“Run,” I say to the older man. I come closer. "You boys need to learn respect.” "You're going to regret messing with us, Mister" the one with the piercings says. "I have never regretted anything I've done,” I say, caressing his face. His piercings fall out, the holes growing shut. I run my hand across his shaved head, his hair grows back as neatly coiffed pompadour. I rub his arms and chest, his tattoos fade and disappear. A mat of jet black hair grows on his chest. 

His pectoral muscles get thicker, his abs more defined. I grab his shirt, it slowly transforms from a wifebeater to a blue gingham button-down, unbuttoned just enough to show his chest hair. I smooth out the wrinkles on the shirt. As I do, a navy blue sweater vest appears over it. I pull his pants up, transforming them into nicely pressed chinos.

“What the hell did you do to Moose, I mean J-Dawg,” Walt yells, as his memories of his friend change. "Are you jealous?” I say, trying to pull Walt's shirt down where it belongs. I quickly realize the young man is not wearing underwear. I continue to adjust the boy’s clothes. I tug his shirt down to cover his abdominal muscles, it changes to a yellow cardigan over a white button-down. A light dusting of blonde hair can be seen on his chest. 

I am tempted for a moment while pulling down his pants. This action, and my lust, causes him to grow a thick blonde bush. I stop myself from taking pleasure in the delights of his body. I return his pants to their proper position, as they become a pair of khakis. I pat him on the head, and his hair grows in as a slicked-back blond high and tight.

“Gosh, you look swell, Wally,” Moose says with a smile. “You're looking boss yourself, daddy-o,” Wally replies. I smile. The third takes a swing at me with the tire iron as I approach him. I give him a stern, fatherly gaze, and he immediately drops his weapon. "Don't be afraid, son,” I say, wiping a tear of fear away. Touching his face causes freckles to appear. I laugh as red curls grow atop his head. 

I completely remove this boy’s shirt, shaking it out. As I work with his clothes, his muscles thicken and thick auburn curls grow on his chest. I redress him, his shirt now a red and white pinstripe button down covered by a red letterman's jacket. I am tired of being nice as I adjust this one’s pants. I grab his crotch. He moans, his average cock growing to 10 inches while still soft.

I look at my three 1950s wet dreams touching themselves. I am pleased with my handiwork. “Gee Mister, we’re sorry how we acted,” Wally says. I begin to leave, the boys following me closely. They won't hurt me. They can’t. They are my good little boys.

[baragonspleasurebarge]

A Different Future

[Since it seems like CYOC may be down for good, I’m going to share some of my favorite stories that were once available on that site, spruced up with grammar fixes and some AI images. 

This story was written by Galao. If you are the author and either want this taken down or want me to link to a place where fans can support you, please DM me.]

“Ah, welcome, welcome! I’ve been expecting you. I’m Eric Johnson. You could say I’m the big boss around here,” the man said, extending his hand and giving you a hard handshake that nearly crushed your hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m…” The other man laughed, interrupting you. “Put yourself at ease, boy” Mr. Johnson said as he drew a cigarette. “You want one?” he asks. “Hm, no, thank you, sir,” you reply, feeling uneasy. What kind of employer was this? You were expecting something more sophisticated than this. Was the man mocking you? Testing you in a stressful and awkward event? Argh, but that disgusting cigarette smoke was really irritating your nose and eyes. “Well, as I say, we are a small but firm company, a family of sorts. When I started up I was a kid, much like yourself.” You were by no means a “kid,” but you let that pass by. After all one should never interrupt their possible employer when they speak. You find it easy to ignore the man’s personal story as you keep focusing on that disgusting cigarette, up in the man’s big mouth or waving around as he spoke. You don’t seem to notice but your breathing got faster, unconsciously trying to inhale as much smoke as you can. After a while, the smoke stopped being so irritating and more… appealing. “… so yeah, that’s the story of our truck delivery company”. Wait… truck delivery? Weren’t you scheduled for an accounting job in some multi-millionaire firm? What was it called anyway? “So, tell me about yourself, Jeremy” Mr. Johnson asked. Feeling distracted by what is going on, you did not even notice the man had got your name wrong. You sit in a firm pose, following all the rules you ever read about speaking during job interviews. “I’m a cool guy. I like to work, especially physical work I’m not that good at papers and stuff. I…” You suddenly stop, having just processed what you are saying. This is all wrong. This isn’t the right job, the right employer, and you are not even being yourself! You scratch your usually smooth face, but in shock, you realize you have a short beard. “This can’t be happening” you mutter. “What was that, son? Couldn’t quite catch that. Mr. Johnson said, hiding a smile as he inhaled from his cigarette and blew the smoke on you. “You sure you don’t want one?” You look at the man and see him offering a cigarette. Your hand seemed to move on its own. When you finally notice, not only did you take the cigarette, it is already hanging in your mouth. Your hand then begins looking for something in the trouser pockets of your suit but doesn’t find anything. You don’t know what you’re looking for, but you know you always keep it in your pockets. As you search, the fabric of the trousers changes, and you find yourself wearing dark jeans. But the best part is that you finally find the lighter in your pocket and proceed to light up your cigarette. “This is the shit,” you think as you take a big drag. “Thank you, sir”. 

“No problem. Now, Jeremy, you were saying?” Mr. Johnson asked. “Oops, sorry sir. Yeah, so I dropped out of college, man. I never knew why I went there to begin with. My parents had insisted, but it wasn’t for me. I don’t have the smarts, you know? But a guy needs a job, you know? Gotta provide for the kid.” Your judgment seems numbed by the tobacco. You can’t even understand what you are saying anymore. However, as you spoke, the rest of the suit changed as well. Your expensive leather shoes became old, worn tennis shoes and you found yourself wearing a cheap mossy green shirt instead of your expensive and sophisticated shirt and jacket. “A father, huh? You seem too young for that”. “Sir,” you say as your voice becomes deeper and assertive with a distinct street slang, “my baby boy hasn’t been born yet. I’m 21 but I’ll be a good example for my child”. As you said that, your face began to change. Your bones reshaped, your jaw became square and your nostrils wider. Your pale white skin darkened a bit, as you ended up with a natural tan due to being outside so much. You take a final drag on your cigarette before dropping it in the ashtray. Despite getting younger, you actually start looking more manly and mature.

“That says a lot about you, Jeremy. We are always looking for men willing to commit. You see, kid. We’re a family as well. And don’t worry about college and that nonsense. You certainly don’t need to be a smart to drive around and deliver some packages, do you?” Suddenly your own judgement returns. “NO! This can’t be,” you try to yell, but your mouth no longer obeys you. “Yeah, I’m not into reading papers and shit, I like action!” You say. For a second your body tingles as your body grows a few inches, your feet and hands begin expanding and your nonexistent muscles bulk up a little, so that no one would ever doubt you were an athletic guy. At the same time, your mind becomes lazy. It takes you a bit to think. Even your vast knowledge seems to be shrinking. All your hours of intense study begin disappearing from your mind. Instead, memories of hanging out with your friends playing soccer come out of nowhere. Hours in the library, writing essays disappeared and in its place you remember dating a bunch girls, kissing and fucking. “No, I can’t be… this. I am… fuck. Who am I?” You ask out loud. “Who are you?” Mr. Johnson asked with a sly grin as he rose from his chair and put his hands on your shoulders. “My boy Jeremy, you are our newest employee!” A feeling of happiness flows through you and the last changes occur. Your hair turns darker and darker until it becomes a deep black. A tribal tattoo appears on your muscular left shoulder and a five pointed star comes up out of nowhere on your right elbow. All your doubts and questions seem to evaporate into nothingness. “Thank you, sir. Thank you! I’ll do my best. Shit, I swear I will”.

“Atta boy, Jeremy. Stop by tomorrow. We’ll show you the ropes”. Mr. Johnson said, shaking your hand with a strong grip, a grip youalso returned. You walked out the door happy. You found a job and his boss seemed like a great man. Sure, you was probably the youngest at work, but you figured that as you were raising a family at home, you would also become part of a family himself at his new job.

[baragonspleasurebarge]

Sibling Rivalry

[Since it seems like CYOC may be down for good, I’m going to share some of my favorite stories that were once available on that site, spruced up with grammar fixes and some AI images. 

This story (which combines a few branches) was written by ThePsycho. If you are the author and either want this taken down or want me to link to a place where fans can support you, please DM me.]

In the not too distant future, an elite group of scientists, belonging to a nameless sect and working in secret to develop questionable technology, have had a breakthrough. The same geniuses responsible for numerous advances in transformation technology have developed an implantable chip, nearly microscopic in size and yet indestructible that can transform its host at a molecular level, altering their DNA temporary. The changes are slow, agonizing yet potent, affecting the host’s physical and mental structure and though means unknown even their clothing. Somewhere in the shadows of Washington, a nameless senator responsible for the funding of this twisted team has also given approval for the testing of this technology on young criminals as part of a double-edged scheme that will attempt to rehabilitate them through the threat of making them something they despise and at the same time allowing the scientists plenty of specimens to help them work out a few… glitches. Centers have already been set up in countless major cities across the US where juvenile delinquents are pouring in from flooded reclamation centers eager to pass the punks off on someone else without a word. All of them are tested to determine their personality, physical makeup, likes and dislikes and all of them are chipped. None are told more than that their will be dire consequences for future disobedience.

The doors opened and in walked two brothers, though by the looks of them you would never know they were even closely related. Standing tall and confident was Brad. Brad was 18, 6 feet tall, 200 pounds of muscle, and captain of the football team. His blond hair was in a neat crew cut. A sports jersey hugged every curve of his built chest and tight cargos (exposing a prominent bulge) clung to his hairy, tree trunk legs. Expensive Nikes adorned his rather large feet. Even in this disquieting place, his rugged face bore a winning, cocky grin and his brilliant blue eyes glowed with victory. Every cell of his body radiated power, confidence and masculinity. Brad was the favorite son, playing sports since he could grasp a ball and popular with everyone, especially the ladies. Brad was proud to be scoring as much off the field as on. Like all popular jocks, he didn’t shy away from partying and the occasional drink, but he wasn’t dumb. He actually maintained fairly good grades so he could get a good scholarship and have something to fall back on after football. He was the all American dream and his parent’s pride and joy. His brother, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Andy was the little brother, 16, 5’5" and lean. He wasn’t without muscles. Indeed, constant surfing endowed him with a nice overall tone and a striking tan that made even the athletic Brad look like a ghost next to him. His long dark hair hung like a veil in front of his mysterious green eyes, always staring into an unseen world. As he walked the slapping of his flip flops could be heard. Flowery boardies came to just above his knees and a wife beater hugged his chest, exposing his dark, toned arms. A red, yellow and green anklet gave a clue to his favorite hobby. Abhorrence and jealousy of his popular brother had warped his personality for the worst, and rather than strive to be like his brother he had taken to loathing all he stood for. Andy spent his days surfing and smoking weed, chilling with friends and letting the herb take all his concerns away, never mind that he worried his parents to death and was in danger of being held back. 

Brad consequently came to hate his little brother, who his parents had to constantly tend to, drawing attention from him. Brad despised everything about Andy, his small frame, his apathy and disregard and most of all his smoking. 

Their parents knew sibling rivalry was natural and inevitable and were content to let it run its course, but the fights grew worse, Brad on one occasion broke Andy’s arm and Andy in response took his lighter and burned Brad’s cheek. They heard from a friend of a center that dealt with juvenile delinquents and was also trying out some experimental, revolutionary sibling therapy. They were quick to send in their kids, the several thousand dollars for participating was more than enough to get them to sign any and all waiver papers.

The boys were quickly separated and placed in separate rooms where they were evaluated and secretly chipped. The man in the room with Brad informed him they had placed an experimental chip in his brother and that if he called him “Rob,” he would trigger a several hour long transformation into the perfect jock brother he had always wanted who would play sports and go to parties with him. Brad smiled at the thought of being able to make his useless brother a strong jock, a real brother to play catch with, go on double dates and get shit faced with to celebrate a victory. 

In another room, a man was explaining to Andy that by calling his brother “Chad,” he would temporarily transform his uptight, sports-centered brother into a laid back stoner who loved surfing and chilling. Neither sibling was informed of there own chip or trigger and both were sent home with no directions or orders on how or when to use the command, they were left to their own wills.

——

Not long after they got home, Brad was working out in his room, already planning to teach Andy a lesson and turn him into Rob. Their parents were out for the day, likely not to return until late in the evening. Conditions were perfect to spend some good brother time with the football star, Rob. With renewed strength and determination, he finished his set, wiped the sweat from his brow and walked over to Andy’s room. In contrast to Brad’s large, relatively clean room, which he adorned with his sports trophies and posters of cheerleaders, Andy’s room was small, with clothes and surfing magazines scattered in piles every which way and the foul stench of pot drifted into the hall. Brad covered his nose at the offensive odor. Andy lay in his bed, likely blazed, as he stared up into the ceiling and listened to his stoner music through his headphones. Brad never liked any of that crap. Like all the popular jocks, it was rap all the way, the better to win over the ladies and fuel his already burgeoning ego. Andy soon noticed his brother hovering over him and took off his headphones; his eyes were already dilated as he sat up and gave a stupid grin. Unknown to Brad, Andy was not going to hesitate. He wanted to see Chad as soon as possible, he was sick of his bossy older brother. “Wassup, dude?” He asked, drawing out each word as if it was a struggle to speak. The long, sleepy syllables only fed Brad’s frustration and reassured him he was doing the right thing. “Nothing much man, was just thinking we need to hang out more like real brothers, don’t you think?” Andy’s smile broadened and he nodded his head. “So right, dude. We do need to hang out more… Chad.” Brad looked confused and then stumbled back as the name hit him. There was power behind the word, power and a familiarity, like it struck a certain part of him. Thoughts raced through Brad’s mind. First, he realized he had obviously been duped. He had been chipped as well, he could already feel the change being pumped into his blood stream and a voice in the back of his head whispering to him to be like his brother. He knew he had to fight it, he had no other choice, he couldn’t let himself be a brainless stoner like his brother, they were so dumb and like relaxed and laid back… He shook his head defiantly; already the chip was beginning to assert control. It wouldn’t be long until Brad was Chad, Andy’s ideal stoner brother. Already he felt his will being nibbled at; his muscles ached soon to be much smaller. “C’mon dude, don’t fight it, Chad, be like me! We’ll like get stoned and shit together it’ll be totally awesome!” To the growing part of Brad that was now Chad, that did sound good. He stared down at the floor, feeling like he was going to be sick as he watched the carpet race up to greet him. He was dropping in height, all those proud inches that made him the indomitable force on the football team were slipping away, little by little, until he was staring his once “little” brother right in the eye. 

His jersey from earlier that had once looked painted on was now barely clinging to him, ready to fall off at any moment. His cargoes likewise were down to about his ankles and he had to constantly pull them up to keep them from sliding off completely. “Those fucking liars, I’m gunna… I’m… like totally lovin’ this, dude!” Brad’s hands raced to cover his mouth; he never meant to say that. Not only was he talking like his stoner brother, but even his tone had changed, the power in his voice replaced by the slow, subtleness of his brother, the laid back tone that he had once hated. His eyes swept the room desperately looking for something to help him, someway to escape. He saw his brother’s CD collection: Sublime, Dirty Heads, Red Hot Chili Peppers… somehow he knew all the songs, they played in his head as if he had grown up listening to them. He tried to think, to focus and force Chad, he thought of rap, of sports, of football statistics but all those bored and disgusted him now. 

“Awesome, you sounded like me! Do it again Chad! Say ‘dude’!” Brad violently shook his head, noticing a lot more hair waving about as he did, his once short blond hair creeping down past his ears closer to his shoulders. 

But his body and mind were at the mercy of the chip and his brother. “Dude!” He exclaimed slowly and with more enthusiasm, adopting his brother’s dopey grin for a moment as he mentally screamed at himself. His voice had raised a few octaves now sounding like a mid-puberty teen and not a giant jock anymore. He looked down at his arms as they trembled uncontrollably in agony, his muscles dwindled away, giving way to nice even tone. His arms became shorter and more proportional to his short frame. His giant hands became smaller with slender careful fingers that automatically knew how to roll a perfect blunt. Like a dark wave a tan just like his brothers washed over his arms and hands making his skin golden brown, flawless and with only few blond hairs instead of the many he had before. The wave moved across his body, slowly but surely. He felt it working under his jersey and gave minimum resistance as Andy helped him out of it. “From now on, dude, you hate wearing shirts, you only put that shit on when you have to, its boardies and flip flops for you dude.” Chad/Brad secretly smiled at the thought of dressing like a surfer, the clothes part of him still loathed sounded so comfortable and liberating now. He barely noticed as his chest took on the same golden brown hue as his arms, all the hair falling out except a small blond treasure trail on his slight six-pack. Not a hair was to be found on toned but small pecs. He looked down at his revealed chest, loving and hating it. Chad thought he looked sexy; Brad was mortified at his lean, disgustingly figure. Brad blushed in embarrassment as the changing wave worked its way down south causing his pants and boxers to finally slide off revealing his large equipment which sadly dwindled down a few inches as it regressed in age like the rest of him. 

Andy snickered. “Don’t worry dude, soon you’ll see how awesome pot is, you’ll forget all about sex.” Brad felt his once thick legs now slender, almost smooth but very tan sticks. His calves and thighs were toned and sizable from surfing but they were nothing compared to what he once had. Brad walked forward, stepping out of his too large clothes, even his shoes and socks were ridiculously big on him and fell right off exposing his small, slender size 7 feet which were just as tan as the rest of him. His socks and size 14 boats vanished into thin air leaving him cold and stark naked in his brother’s room with a mind and body that were quickly turning against him. Brad felt his hands move on their own accord as he eagerly grabbed a pair boardies identical to his brothers and slid them on over his tan legs, they felt so awesome. Andy found a pair of old flip flops and helped his brother into them, they fit perfectly, hugged every curve of his feet. He wiggled his toes, Chad in almost full control of his body. “Please dude, I mean Andy you gotta like stop thissss is so sweet!” Chad’s eyes rolled back as another wave of changes racked his body and mind, his nostrils caught the sweet scent of weed, he sniffed the air finding to his pleasure and humiliation it was coming from him. He watched in the mirror as within seconds his eyes dilated. Though they remained green, there was now something different about them. The keenness and sharpness was lost, like nobody was home anymore. His shoulders slouched as his overall posture became forced into that of a carefree stoner. A general disregard and goofiness gripped his façade as a witless smile permanently etched itself onto his face. His blonde hair continued to lengthen until just past his shoulders, becoming thick and messy. 

A tickling feeling brought his attention back to his face where, to his horror, scraggly blond hairs were popping out his chin, one by one. He plucked and pulled but to his bewilderment they grew faster than he could stop them until he had a shaggy stoner goatee. He ran a hand through it slowly, hesitantly, enjoying the feel, wondering if he was already lost. Part of him couldn’t help but enjoy the changes, they felt so right, he felt so relaxed, calm, his life had always been stressing about the next big game, the next test. He made no motion to stop his brother as he lit a blunt and stuffed it into Chad’s waiting mouth, a few puffs were all it took to drive the rest of Brad deep deep down, trapped until the change was over. So good, they thought, as Chad/Brad held the smoke in his lungs like an expert, letting the chemicals take over his mind. As he felt Chad overshadow him he thought, at least I won’t have to worry about anything… The new Chad put an arm around his awesome brother. “Dude, pot is sweet; we gotta chill more often bro!” Andy smiled. “We will, I’ll make sure of it.”

[baragonspleasurebarge]

Life Swap

[Since it seems like CYOC may be down for good, I’m going to share some of my favorite stories that were once available on that site, spruced up with grammar fixes and some AI images.

This story (which combines a few branches) was not written by me, but I don’t have the author information saved. If you wrote this and either want credit or want it taken down, please DM me.]

The small silver ring was the ring of truth.

It granted the wearer of the ring a powerful ability, the power to always be correct. Essentially, the ring alters reality itself in order to make any statement by the wearer of any question accurate.

If the wearer were to say, for example, that man's best friend is the cow, then reality would change so that cows would replace dog's as people's faithful companions.

Or if the wearer says that the allies lost World War 2, then the ring will make it so that they had lost all along. The ramifications will be anywhere from practically unnoticeable to life changing.

While the ring alters reality to make the wearer correct, nobody will notice the changes.

——

Alex was having a kinda mediocre day. Sure, school had gone alright, but he definitely messed up on a test. Either way, not much happened.

Alex was a 17-year-old half-Latino kid. He had curly dark hair that reached his ears, a decent figure, all things considered, and at 6’1" he wasn't half bad. Still, he wasn't that great, considering he was the quarterback and STILL hadn't managed to get a girlfriend yet. Maybe it was his sense of humor or his interests, but either way it frustrated him to no end.

"Ugh, man, maybe I'll ask Steve for advice… he always knows what to say." He sighed as he continued to walk towards practice.

However, his mope session was thrown for a loop when something bright flashed in his eye. He winced slightly, then quickly swung his head around ready to sneer at whoever nearly blinded him only to find nobody there. He detoured into the small sitting area that he didn't recognize and looked around."Huh… this new?" He thought aloud.

Alex was about to leave, chalking it up to some passing car until something caught the corner of his vision. Sitting on the edge of the fountain was a small, silver ring. It didn't look like anything major, but still for some reason it caught his eye. He picked it up, giving it a once over, then scratched his chin with his other hand.

"Hmm, wonder if it's worth something,” he thought, hoping that maybe it could help pay for the PS5 he'd been dreaming of. Alex slid the ring onto his hand.

"Shit, gotta get going, don't wanna be-" He started to hustle before getting a call on his phone. Alex pulled it out and raised an eyebrow at the caller I.D. "Really, a call from Henry now?" He thought.

Alex accepted the call and said “Yeah, Henry, what’s up?”

“Hey man, I was just checking to see if you were down to come over to play Call of Duty once you’re cleaned up. Still down for that?” Henry asked. The guy was a gamer geek who had been Alex’s friend since they were little.

“Yeah, sure,” Alex said distractedly.

“Everything ok? I know Delilah turned you down earlier. That must be hard,” his friend said sympathetically.

“I still don’t get it.” Alex vented. “I mean, no offense-”

“None taken.”

“-but somehow I have even more trouble pulling in girls than you. I mean seriously, sometimes I think, have we switched lives and I’m the geek and you’re the jock?”

Suddenly Alex felt a vibration from the ring, and the world suddenly swirled and went black.

When he woke, he was in his room at home, but it was different. There was more geeky stuff about video games, such as posters, that looked like he’d stolen them from Henry.

He glanced in his mirror and gasped. Alex barely recognized himself as he’d become a total geek. He was the same height with the same black hair, but he was paler and quite thin, he now had thick glasses, and he was wearing baggy jeans and a Halo T-shirt that was way too big.

Alex then saw the picture of himself and Henry he kept on his dresser. He saw this new version of himself dressed very similarly to his current outfit, but also a changed Henry. His blond hair was in a pompadour, his skin was more tanned, he wore no glasses, and he was clearly bigger and more muscular, wearing a tight Colts T-shirt.

“Well, sorry, I’ve got to run home and shower,” he heard Henry’s voice come from the phone he realized he still held. “Talk to you when I get there?”

“OK,” Alex croaked out, bewildered.

[artificial-transmutations]

Relationship goals

The moment Toby's butt touched the couch, he could start counting seconds. Five, four, three...

"Toby! Where are you again?!" The shouting voice of his girlfriend, Norah pierced the peace before it had even started. Fuming like a small steam engine, she turned around the corner.

"I see. Slacking off again." She gave him a stern look, but still didn't wait for an answer. Instead, she walked over to the kitchen where they usually ate breakfast together.

"I'm sorry," Toby mumbled.

"Don't be sorry, be useful!", she snapped. Toby had heard this sentence a lot. "Did you make me any tea?"

"No..."

Norah sighed. "Well, I guess I'll have to do without."

She sat down at the table and took out her phone. She scrolled through the messages there for a few minutes before looking up.

"Where is my tea?" she asked annoyedly.

"I thought you didn't want any, because you said..." Toby began, but was cut off by the sharp voice of Norah.

"I don't need excuses! Just do it! I made myself perfectly clear, I think."

So, Toby stood up and started preparing tea. Living with Norah had become... difficult. She used to be a sweet and caring girl, or at least that's how he remembered her. But now, she was constantly angry about everything. Ever since they moved in together, she had been getting angrier and angrier every day. Not to mention controlling. He even had the thought of breaking up with her because of it, but he had quickly discarded it again. They were together for so long now, and they were engaged. Not to mention that he didn't think he would find anyone else like her again...

"Toby! Where. Is. My. Fucking. Tea?" Her voice echoed through the apartment once more.

"Coming!" He replied while pouring hot water into a cup.

He put the kettle back on the stove and looked up at Norah. She was sitting there, glaring angrily at him.

"Here you go, sweety." Toby said in a calm voice, trying to soothe her mood.

"Right now, there is nothing sweet about me!" She snarled. "Just give me the damn tea."

"Okay..." Toby sighed and walked over to her, placing the cup next to her.

As Toby sat down on his chair, her eyes glared at him once more. "Don't you have anything better to do than sitting around? Did you already do the dishes?"

So, Toby sighed and went to do the dishes. On some days, it was really bad, and today was one of these days. It was probably his fault, though. If he just tried harder, she probably wouldn't be so angry all the time. He looked over to her, swiping on her phone while drinking the tea, and sighed. Still, in moments like these, he sometimes wished they had a different kind of relationship. There was nothing wrong with a dominant part in a relationship, if the other one still enjoyed it, but sometimes what they had felt just wrong. Besides, with her being angry all the time, their bedroom activity had pretty much come to a halt entirely.

His thoughts and wishes continued as he was working the soaped dishes in the sink. Perhaps he just needed to be a bit more confident. Yes. Perhaps that would help. He finished his work and got back to the kitchen, where Norah was already waiting for him.

"Took you long enough. Now, head to the garden, the lawn needs mowing." She commanded.

Toby was just about to follow her order, when he remembered he wanted to be more confident, so he replied: "I don't want to, sweety. Perhaps you could do it?"

Norah stared at him like he was an alien.

"What? That's a man's work!" she hissed.

"Then perhaps you need to be a man about it." Toby said, his voice a bit firmer now.

He would have expected about every reaction from Norah except the one she did: Obviously at a loss of words for a few moments, she finally said "Fine!" in an angry tone and stood up, walking to the garden. Toby was more than a bit surprised, and he followed her outside, sitting down in a garden chair, while Norah was getting the lawnmower.

As soon as she started it up, though, Norah started to change. The most obvious and immediate change was her height. While she had trouble handling the mower at first because she was just a bit short, that problem quickly solved itself, as she shot up at least a dozen centimeters. Moving the device forward became a lot easier, too, because her arms and legs packed on muscle mass quickly. She looked really ridiculous like that, with muscular arms and legs, but still her petite female torso in-between and her narrow girly head with the long blonde ponytail on top of it.

That was about to change, too, however. Her torso filled up with muscle while at the same time, her boobs receded into her body, leaving only a pretty masculine chest covered by a white t-shirt behind. Toby's mind told him to be disappointed by the loss of boobs, but he really wasn't. She looked good that way. Toby wasn't gay, but that firm chest got him excited pretty quickly. Perhaps he was bi, to some extend?

He got really curious of how Norah would look like if her face and the contents of her pants were male in anatomy as well. He didn't have to wait long for an answer. As if whatever magic that was changing her had noticed his thoughts, her face became somewhat more masculine. Her hair got shorter until it was a medium length male haircut, and sharp, somewhat masculine features became prevalent.

As her tight jeans transformed into a pair of long blue shorts made of nylon, Toby could see a small bulge forming in the front, clearly a sign of male anatomy. At the same time, Norah's butt grew larger and firmer, as it filled up with muscle.

Toby was really enjoying the view now. His dick had grown hard in his ...speedo? Toby took a double check. Yes, he was lying in the lawn chair only wearing a tight fitting speedo now, that was clearly showing his erection. However, Toby felt confident enough not to hide it! Why shouldn't he hide his hardon from his girlfriend? Was it even his girlfriend anymore or was it a boyfriend now? It didn't matter right now, and Toby continued to check out his own body. Unlike Norah's, his body had become a bit more compact, smoother, more elegant. He was probably even less muscular than before. What little strength remained was well hidden in a lean build, not a trace of bulging biceps. He made sure to keep his body always in his best condition, though. He shaved his chest and pubes every morning along with his face, to keep his smooth boyish charm, but there was more to him than that. Sure, his dick was on full display right now, the slightly above average length straining against the speedo, but his real asset was his juicy behind, an ass worthy of a gold star bottom like himself.

He turned back to the man mowing the lawn, shouting across: "Hey, Noah! Loose the shirt! And the shorts! I want to see your meat!"

'Noah'? Wasn't he called something else?

Noah shook his head to get rid of the distracting thought. Thinking had never been his strong side, no need to start with it now. He looked back to Tobias and answered in his considerably deeper voice than before: "Sure thing, boss!"

He started to pull off his shirt, which was getting more and more difficult along the way. His upper body continued to stack on muscle, and with each pound of muscle added, his intelligence diminished further, leaving him not much more than a drooling idiot once he had finished peeling his shirt off. He chuckled dumbly. He just loved to expose his muscular, hairy body, especially for his boss. As he pulled down his shorts, exposing his filled to the brim jockstrap underneath, as always in a state of arousal, as the wet patch from his precum on front of his underwear proved.

He had really been lucky to have met Tobias and got together with him. He was so smart, and he didn't mind thinking for the two of them. Noah knew fair well that he was dumb as a brick, but that didn't matter. He loved following orders, so his boss and him fit together like... something that fit together well.

"Yo, Noah. When you finished with the lawn, I need you to fill up a hole back here!"

Noah grinned. He understood that order (at least he was pretty sure about it) and his fat cock strained his jockstrap even more, as he got back to mowing.

Here it is! The first story to come out of early access and hit tumblr! If you like to always get the earliest possible access to all my stories PLUS awesome exclusive content that will never reach Tumblr, consider subscribing at my riot page!

[jd07201990]

I shouldn't have opened my mouth. All I had to do was just walk away, and I'd have been fine. Now, It takes 3 showers a day, and a can of Axe a week, just to control the apocalyptic funk of athlete that pours from my pits... and feet... ok, ok I just stink, ok?! And its all because I tried to stop Pops, a local Gym Owner, from bullying one of his regulars.

The massive man was absolutely raging, as he berated a Jock for skipping sessions, despite the young man explaining desperately that he couldn't miss any more assignments or he'd lose his scholarship. It didn't seem to quell Pops's anger, as I watched the man drag the boy to a bench, and force him to lift rep after rep, until the Jock was panting, begging for a break, promising not to miss any more sessions. 

I'd been walking on the treadmill the whole time, and decided to get involved. My first mistake. Walking up to Pops, I cleared my throat, and told him to lay off, that clearly the Jock was exhausted. Pops grabbed my collar and hoisted me up off the ground, before I could react, his face nearly against mine as he went off, first about my nosing about, then about how ridiculously thin I am. I stammered, my legs dangling, until Pops put me down, and smirked.

"You know, a little meat on those bones wouldn't hurt. Maybe with a few pounds, those big, sweaty dawgs you've got wouldn't look so clownish!"

My jaw dropped, a squirmed under his gaze, as a shiver went down my spine, and a dull, warm itch began in my feet. I don't know where he'd gotten the idea that my feet were clownish, I'm 5'7" with size 9.5s! But suddenly, my sneakers felt cramped, warm, with a dull humid dampness making it feel as if I'd stuffed my foot into a wet towel.

Then, I groaned, as a sharp pain shot down my ankles, and my sneakers burst open, revealing wide, reeking Jock-feet, at least size 13. A dense funk rose, and I gagged, the intense reek of Athlete poured from my torn shoes. Pops laughed heartily, then sneered. 

"And those pits! You'd think with hairy, sweaty pits like those, you'd be top of the roster! Not even Big Billy has pits as bad as yours! There's a bull inside you, just waiting to come out!"

Again, that cold shiver ran down my back, and my armpits felt as if fire ants were biting them. Hundreds of itchy bumps formed, then, hair sprouted, filling in and dampening until the stink of the locker room oozed out from them. I whimpered as I caught the scent. Looking up at Pops, I begged.

"Please! Don't do this! You gotta undo this! I'm not a Jock!"

Pops laughed, taking both my shoulders in his massive rough hands, and pushed me down onto a bench, taking my arms and forcing them up onto the bar. My pits were fully on display as he growled.

"Lift. Don't stop until I come back, or those pits and feet will be the least of your worries."

I believed him, and tried to pull the bar down, barely moving the weights. Pops facepalmed, moved to a backpack next to a mountainous young brute lifting what had to be the weight of a small car. He fished out a protein shake, pressed the nozzle to my lips, and forced me to guzzle a few mouthfuls, pulling it away as I heard my stomach gurgle. 

I hiccuped, then burped, as my body seemed to warm, sweat forming, soaking down my shirt. Then, muscle began to swell under my skin, not huge, round bulk, but enough to look as if I'd been hitting the gym for several months, not days. When it settled, I must've gained 10 lbs, all of it hard muscle. When I pulled the bar down this time, it wasn't easy, but I wasn't lifted off the seat this time. Again and again I tested my new size, and Pops grinned. giving my thicker shoulder a punch. 

"I'll make an athlete out of you yet. Like it or not, you're gonna be one of Pops's boys! No one mouth's off to pop, unless they've earned it here at my gym! got it!"

I wanted to be defiant, to insult him, or run, but the look in his eye told me if I so much as thought about leaving, I'd be waddling out of here, sideways through the door, looking like the Behemoth that Pops had taken the shake from! I gulped, looked down, and forced myself to lift. Maybe if Pops is happy, he'll at least tone down the absolute fog of stink that screams, "Big Dumb Jock" from a mile away!