The bell rings, as gym class is finally over. I usually just skipped this class, but god I needed some credit on it. Anyways, I also have a very... Special reason to come here today. I'm gonna get revenge on Andrew
This is me, Matthew. I’m freshly turned 18, and as you can see, a bit of a twink. This would’ve never been a problem, i’m gay as i can be, but the issue is, i’m a top. And i have a 3 inch pecker on “top” of that. No guy i know wants a skinny twerp to top them. But my fortune is about to change.
Last night, i was visited in my dreams by something. It said i was chosen by it to bring change, and that my power was to be my voice, for me to do as i pleased. When i woke up, i realized it was real and not a dream. I told my mom she looked so young for her age, and her wrinkles instantly dissapeared. I tried to point it out later, but she didn’t notice it all either. With this knowledge in mind, i began planning my rise.
As i exited the locker room shower, just as i’d hoped, Andrew stood in my way
Andrew was unfairly hot. He had unnaturally big EVERYTHING. From being so jacked you’d swear he was using roids, to being tall AND having a truly massive dick. He was basically running this place, fucking girls left and right, having an influential dad and well, looking like this. He was also, as you’d guess, the biggest jerk you know.
“Hey, Andy.” I said, mockingly
“Someone’s got an attitude today. Looking to get beat up again, faggot? What happened, were you unable to jerk your baby sized dick this morning?” He answered, smiling confidently. Oh this was gonna be good.
I took a deep breath.
Well, it's now or never
"Opposite, actually. My dick is kinda sore, on account on me having to use it so much. When you’ve got a thing this big, it requires using, y’know?." I said, trying not to cringe
Then... I felt something. Like my brain had just skipped a beat. My crotch felt heavier. I let the towel go and... There it was. Holy shit. My dick was fucking massive. It was easily what, 12 inches? Maybe even bigger. I just stood there, smiling at Andrew.
His eyes widened, he looked confused even.
"Y-yeah, whatever. What use is a dick this big when you're just a skinny loser? I bet my forearm is bigger than that bony thigh of yours." He replied, trying to change the subject
I laughed.
"Skinny? Dude, i’m bigger than you. I’ve been training longer, harder than you for years now. Why are we lying again?
As the words left my mouth, I looked down and... Fuck. I was so big. My arms were gigantic mountains. My pecs were so huge I could barely see my feet, and my legs were tree trunks. My mind began to race, and my dick instantly hardened. I was this close to orgasming right there
“I-i… The fuck you getting hard for? Fucking fag! Just because you’re bigger than me doesn’t mean i can’t still fuck you up, Matt, you little shit!”
I stared at Andrew. Or better, Andy, as he was going to be known from now on.
“Look, just because you want me to fuck you, doesn’t mean you gotta put up all of this to attract my attention. You’re already my type, Andy.”
“W-what t-the fuck are you talking about…?” He said, looking disoriented
“Your slender frame is pretty fuckin’ sexy, Andy. I wanna grab your little waist with my hands, shove your bubble butt on my cock and watch as you moan and your tiny dick cums onto my chest. And i know you want that too”
Andrew went silent, as his body transformed right in front of me. His muscles deflated, leaving only the bare minimum, his clothes falling off his now skinny frame, and his cock going from huge to tiny in a matter of seconds. His butt didn’t change much, he always did have a pretty juicy one, but his features also softened, leaving more of twink and less of alpha jock
“Matt…” He said, with a much softer voice now “I really want to fuck right now. Please” The hunger in his eyes was enough for me.
“Knew it.” I said, as my cock bursted a stream of cum on the floor. Fuck! I got excited too fast!
Andy looked at me, in shock
“Huh… Don’t worry babe, i can cum a lot in one sitting” I said, feeling my balls churn more and more semen. From now on, his life was gonna be something else, man.
He approached me, putting his hands on my pecs
"Your body... It's insane..." He said, with barely contained lust
"What can i say, i've worked for it." I said, laughing loudly
"He got on his knees, and like he was starving, began to suck my dick.
"This is just the beggining" I thought to myself "I"m gonna have so much fun."
Sometimes, when you get the power to alter reality with your words, you gotta lay low and enjoy yourself. I mean, what if there is someone else with an app or a tome that can bend reality like me? If i try to make myself king of the world or some shit, they’re gonna have the power to stop me, and i don’t wanna go back to being a shrimpdicked runt. So now that i’ve tested my powers on my ex bully, now boytoy, Andy, I’m gonna have my fun locally.
This is Josh, a good friend of mine and my roomate. Right now, I think he needs a bit of a rebranding. You see, now that i’m a muscle god among men, I simply can’t have my friends being 5 foot something nerd virgins, so i’m gonna help him become a real man, just cause I can.
“dude, can you grab me my key and come to the campus gym rq? I forgot it in my room” i texted him, setting up the stage for his glow up
“sure, see you in five” he answered
I smirked, cock already hard just thinking about what I was about to do.
Then he walked in, promptly handed me the key, and was just about to leave when I stepped in the way.
“Josh, Joshua, my friend, my pal, don’t you want to do a workout with me today? I can set up a routine for you and stuff” I said, winking
“Matt, come on” he laughed shy-ly “You know I’m not exactly the athletic type like you… I mean, if anyone here sees me next to you they’ll think I’m your hole of the week”
I smirked
“Get outta here man, you’ve been playing basketball nonstop since what, middle school? You’re a natural, you’ve even got the perfect height for it!”
As the words left my mouth, I saw him grow just before my eyes, going from a measly 5’4 pipsqueak to a, admittedly still a bit of a pipsqueak, but now 6’5. His build also became a bit more athletic, gaining some semblance of lean muscle, in virtue of his many years as a basketball player for the school team.
He blinked hard for a second, before continuing “I mean, I guess you’re right… But still, you know the gym is not really my thing…”
How was I gonna spin this conversation in my favor? This was always the most thrilling part
“Yeah, okay Mr ‘I’m jacked without ever stepping foot on the gym’, I’m telling you man, if you ever decided to actually work out, you’d be running for mr olympia” I laughed “Unfair world man, while some guys just get to be naturally big, handsome and charming and have tons of women flocking to ride them, I gotta work my ass off in the gym to even get some twinks”
Josh’s expression went blank as his muscles quickly ballooned. The once slightly defined biceps became as big as a football, his back widening as his frame got ever wider, his chest growing into mighty pecs, a delicious 6 pack appearing in his stomach and his legs turning into thick trunks. His face still remained similar, but he looked like he went trough one of those blackpill programs, his facial bones changing size and shape, all in order to make him into a hot fucking piece of meat. After his body was done changing, I also noticed ink began flowing trough his body, covering Josh in a myriad of tatoo’s with mysterious meanings. My power sometimes seemed to have a life of it’s own.
Fuck, he looked hot…
“I mean… I guess you’re right.” He said, flexing his biceps, his mind clearly trying to adjust to the new reality “I just don’t know man, I-i get really embarassed a-and…”
He was still shy, how cute
“Speak like a fucking man, Josh. You’re not a huge pussy.” I said, laughing
“Yeah okay, hop off my cock, Matt. I’ll do the fuckin’ set with you. But make it quick, I got Lizzy from Kappa coming over in one hour and if I miss all of that, you’re never sleeping with a guy without me throwing a bucket of water in your bed.” He said, with his new comanding, deep and sexy voice
“That’s more like it! Besides, I know Liz is gonna like seeing you all sweaty *wink wink*” I said, smiling proudly at my new and improved best friend.
“Eh, you’re right. Think I’m even gonna run on the way back to get there glistening, hehe.” Words i never expected to hear from Josh, but here we are
Oh shit! I almost forgot a *very* important part
“And bro, please use condoms this time. I think I bought some extra large ones for you, they’re in my bedside table. I know your horse dick doesn’t like being contained, but we don’t need another pregnancy scare like that time with Tiff
I swear I almost heard his cock make a cartoon sound as the bulge in his pants suddenly doubled in size. Fuck, he was looking so hot I might just have to make him Bi one of these days…
“Uh huh, yeah, thanks for the talk dad. Now let get to the damn workout already, I don’t wanna be late. I’ll take a picture to get her mind running and I’ll meet you by your locker.” He said, clearly thinking with another head
”Ok, don’t bail on me!” I answered
I took one look back, as he took off his shirt to take a mirror picture
Hm, I’m getting really good at this, I thought to myself. Who’s gonna be my next project? ;)
I looked up, seeing the new and improved Josh spot me as i lifted the i-dont-even-know-how-many pounds bar, feeling my big and juicy muscles burn with every rep. After I was done, i went to the mirror to take a photo to send to my favorite boytoy
”thinking about you rn, fag” anddd send. I’m already getting hard just thinking about it… Tonight I think I’m gonna experiment with ol’andy, all this Josh talk has me wanting an asian twink tonight… Fuck, It’d probably alter his entire family too…
“Bro, are you on fucking steroids? Every week you get bigger and lift more, and now you’re daydreaming, that shit is eating your brain” Said Josh, a bit jealous probably
“Yeah yeah, cry about pip- loser.”
Fuck, that was close. I can’t just go around calling people insults anymore, what if Josh turned back into his skinny self? I’d have to do the work all over again! I am in the gym though… I could just walk up to one of these guys and try it to see if it’s safe.
“Hey Josh, something popped up here, I’ll be gone for a while” I said
“Yeah, go inject your roids, I have a workout to finish” He said, giving me the bird. Man, I love this guy
I looked around, and saw this handsome jacked guy, i think i have bio with him? I could call him a pipsqueak and see if its working, then maybe give him a few pounds of muscle and some inches of cock as a reward. I walked towards him, readying my tongue, when…
“Matthew! The big man on campus, how you doing brocacho?” Someone said, grabbing my shoulder
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
Fuck this was perfect. Now I wouldn’t even have to transform a random guy, I could just transform this absolute douche!
Alejandro, formerly Andrew’s bro and probably the most annoying person I know. He’s an absolute moron, and from what I’ve heard from my gal pals, a huge dick (with a huge dick that he knows how to use) to the poor ladies he manages to swoon using his admittedly sexy latino body, naturally tan with his strong muscles, from years of training hard, playing soccer and pursuing pussy. Now that Andy is not a huge jock anymore, the universe probably just tried to make him friends with the current biggest guy on campus, which happens to be Mr Reality Bender over here.
“I heard there’s a huge party happenin’ today at that girl Tiff’s house like 40 minutes away from campus, you and Josh commin’? There’ll be plenty of women crazy for an asian stud with all that bts shit thats going around, and i’m sure there’ll be some fag- i mean, twinks for you too. Maybe you can even wingman some bitches for me, wink wink.” He said, even his voice annoying me
“Yeah, I’ll go, fag” I replied
Nothing changed. Maybe…?
“FUCK YEAH! We’ll be the only two tops there broski, all those boys are gonna go crazy over us!” He said, rather enthusiastically
“Like you would ever top, you big queen” I said, holding back a big smirk
Suddenly, his posture seemed to change, taking a more relaxed sway, then his lips became a bit fuller, his muscles grew a bit. Then, his hips began to grow to child bearing size, his thighs growing to insane proportions. His ass basically doubled in size, with a healthy layer of fat around it. His quads looked so big and strong, but his ass was looking so warm and inviting behind those pants.
“Ugh, you’re soo annoying matty. Good thing you’re such a hottie or I wouldn’t tolerate this smack around me.” He replied, his voice much more stereotypical of a flamboyant gay man. Guess being called a Queen does that.
“Yeah, I’m so annoying but I bet those cocksucker lips of yours are dying to get to know my dick. Your friend Andy isn’t exaggerating, you know?” I said, letting out a big smirk
“Ohhh, I know Papi… Andy tells so many crazzyy stories…” He said, getting down on his knees
I took out my shorts, as he quickly and hungrily sucked down on my already throbbing hard footlong. Fuck, his mouth feels so good… velvety fucking lips choking around my huge dick... Serves you fucking right, you fuckhead.
I grunted and moaned loudly, not a care in the world that I was getting my cock sucked off behind a machine in the middle of the gym. I’m a fucking god, I can do whatever I want anyways!
“What the hell are you two-“ yelled my original target, Jack or John or something, walking up towards us, an appropriatly shocked expression on his face
I quickly turned to him, a cocky smile on my face, I know no one is gonna stop me.
"Hey, you little pipsqueak, you better shut the fuck up about this, or I'm gonna beat you up black and blue later, capiche?" I said, with the most indimitating voice a man getting his cock sucked off could muster
Just before my eyes, all those years in the gym this guy probably had dissapeared, his biceps deflating into twigs and his pecs receeding back into his body as his frame narrowed.
Poor guy, all that hardwork thrown into the trash! He was pretty nice too, a shame. Mental note, If i ever see him again, I'm gonna make him even bigger. Meanwhile, enjoy twerpdom.
He started shivering, then nodded and quickly left the gym without looking back.
One more transformation and all that action in my dick was enough for me, I felt a wave of immense pleasure as my seed spewed with tremendous force across Alej throat and mouth. I groaned, and instantly grabbed him by the neck, turning him around as my still hard cock went into his massive ass.
"Fuck Matt, you're so huge... Fuck, fuck..." He moaned down there, enjoying himself on my huge fuck stick as I rammed it again and again down his tight cunt.
My mind wandered as I fucked this asshole's asshole relentlessly. I could really do this all day... Maybe I should go to that party anyways, my intuition tells me i'm gonna have so much fun in a place with so many people to transform. Fuck, I love being a huge fucking sexgod, thank you powers from beyond!
Hey! I have a possible request, I see a lot of your stories revolve around role reversal stuff etc. What about a story where a jock bullies this chubby ugly anime obsessed nerd but then the tables are turned and at the end of it the jock becomes the fat nerd and reality is changed etc. It’s just an idea if you don’t like it all good :)
A Reversal
When he was a kid, Jared was as skinny as a stick, but ever since puberty he started putting on pound after pound, consequence of a very sedentary life style, not playing any sports, just staying home all day, studying, playing games and watching anime. The most exercise his body saw was the daily right arm workout sessions to anime girls. At school, he had a few his friendgroup, all varying levels of nerd like himself, who were considered the weird kids, which meant no one really liked associating with them. Some even went out of their way to make their lives harder, such as Blake.
Blake would sometimes just send photos like these, showing off his shredded body, huge muscles and the hefty bulge of his 10incher, to both the girls he wanted to bang and the nerds he wanted to feel superior too, with cruel captions shaming their bodies and their appearances. Jared had tried to file a complaint with the director’s office, but since Blake’s dad was a huge contributor to the school, it just went straight to the paper shredder.
One day, while doing a JJK marathon, Jared started getting video calls from Blake, who simply didn’t stop calling. Jared tried to ignore it at first, but instead of just simply blocking the caller, he decided he’d just pick up and give Blake what he wanted already, because if he didn’t Blake would probably beat his ass tomorrow.
When he picked it up, it was just Blake flexing on the bathroom, clearly on some weird kind of rush from this.
“You like what you see, fatty? Yeah, you’re never gonna be this fucking hot, you piggy. Girls fucking grab my arms and lick my abs while I fuck them, the best they could grab in you is your fucking fatass” He said
Jared felt like crying, both in shame and anger, angry that the jock was such a fucking dick, but also ashamed that he was right. He was a fat loser, but he wanted to be attractive, he wanted girls to find him hot, but he had dug himself in a hole and couldn’t get out of it. He wished his life wasn’t like this, and he wished that Blake had a bit more empathy.
His prayers didn’t go unheard. Suddenly, both Blake and Jared stopped, their eyes open wide. Jared felt his body burn, as all the fat in his body melted away into golden energy, which flied into the screen. He looked at the camera, and saw his face, not bloated anymore, but defined.
At the same time, he saw Blake’s muscles shrink into nothingness, leaving him a skinny runt. Then, Jared felt his muscles sore as he saw his biceps begin to expand and grow, then he felt his pecs growing nice and tight, and his abs popping up in his belly like bricks in a wall.
He moaned in pleasure, feeling the power enter his body. Blake on the other hand, was also growing, but now in muscle, but fat. His belly grew, and with it also his bodyhair, that he once had kept trimmed so pridefully, now leaving him with a patchy beard. Both of them felt their heads spin as their lives changed around. Now the one that let himself go was Blake, who once a promising young man, now was a fatty who ate fast food every single day of the week, all because one his ex told everyone about his small cock.
He had called Jared in hopes that he could help him get a girl.
“Yeah, sorry man, no one wants a fat fuck with a small dick” Jared answered
”This is what girls want, they don’t care if you’re a huge nerd like me if you’re hot about it. “ Explained the resident pussyhound of the school, a specimen with a footlong who had fucked every girl in the halls.
“Maybe if you put down the fries and actually exercised for once, you’d at least be able to attract some bitches. Meanwhile, not much I can do about it, fatass.”
He then hung up, smiling. He didn’t know why he was so happy, nor why he felt so satisfied in calling Blake a fat loser. He just felt like it was right.
The clip-ons had a nice silver gleam to them, despite clearly being cheaply made. They were a joke purchase from a street vendor, that Leo, a man whose personal style leaned towards quiet, well-fitted neutrals, now held in his palm. They were absurd, quite frankly. Two rings meant to look real but failing miserably. He’d bought them on a whim, a tiny act of rebellion against his own sensible nature. Alone in his pristine apartment, he chuckled, lifting them towards his ears.
The moment the cold, flimsy metal clamped onto his virgin lobes, he yelped in pain. They didn’t clip to his ears, more punctured through them, a sharp pain coursing through his ears as they pierced them immediately.
And suddenly, agony was coursing through his head, both from the sudden stabbing and an immediate migraine pulsing through him as the waves of energy drove through him, practically stabbing his brain as well as just his ears. He tried to scream, but the sound was lost, strangled by his own mouth refusing to open.
As if the pain was a key unlocking the door to his mind, a strange energy and change crashed in through him. A deep, resonant hum in his limbs, causing them to pulse and expand with each shudder and gasp, expanding into strong, clearly defined muscles. He could recall working out at the gym, purposefully designating days to work on his arms, his legs, his chest. Speaking of his chest, it too was expanding, pecs jutting out like shelves, abs solidifying like cobblestone, back muscles pushing out and forming tight ridges and curves on his sculpted torso. All while that initial, excruciating pain in his ears morphed, spreading through his skull, and becoming a warm, pleasurable buzz that melted his thoughts into static. His eyes, wide with shock, glazed over, the pupils dilating into black pools of dazed, hypnotic arousal as his cock twitched.
His whole body jerked as it did, snapping him straight, and he resettled into a lazy, cocky slouch. His shoulders were expanding outwards as his neck thickened, the adam's apple jutting out just like his pecs, his hand feeling the new growth on his neck as they too expanded, knuckles becoming more defined and the fingers growing thicker, stronger. He groaned as he groped that new adams apple, hearing a deep, guttural, pleasure-filled rumble vibrate through his chest, a sound that could only be described as pure, raw, dumb power. “Fuck… yeah…”
A fierce, prickling itch exploded across his scalp. His neat, brown hair seemed to thicken, erupting into a wild cascade of perfect yet chaotic curls. Simultaneously, ink began to bloom across his skin - less like tattoos being applied, and more like memories surfacing through flesh. Intricate patterns, with roses, latin script, all rising up from beneath the skin, bringing memories of a new life with them.
His face transformed, jaw squaring out into a block of granite, clean shaven and neat. His cheekbones sharpened. His lips, once thin, became fuller, settling into a permanent, smug smirk. His nose felt stronger as it realigned. His eyes changed, becoming a vacant, bright blue, and they held a constant, low-burning hunger. A need.
The hypnotic buzz in his mind shifted into a more banging sensation, it was a sledgehammer to his psyche. Leo’s intricate mind - his love of indie films, his nuanced understanding of art, his quiet identity - was being pulverized and erased. Replaced by a flood of sensations and impulses that were simpler, louder, and infinitely more compelling.
Vivid, visceral memories forced their way to the front of his mind, demanding to be recalled. The burn of a maxed-out bench press, the grunt of effort, the admiring glance from a girl in yoga pants. His domain. His home. The thumping of shitty rap music in a crowded locker room, as he rapped along, crude jokes with the lads. His lads. The sight of his own pumped biceps in the mirror, the feel of a tight shirt or tank stretching across his back. And a deep, needing ache. A constant, low-level, throbbing ache in his groin, the centre of his new universe. The need to look, to touch, to fuck. Women. Curvy, big-titted, adoring women. The thought of a man, any man, even the ghost of Leo, made him feel a confused, aggressive disgust. Gay? That was a weak, stupid thing to be. He was all man. All man.
A name echoed in his mind, Chad. Chad. That was him, wasn’t it? “Fuck… yeah…” He repeated, relishing in the deep grumble.
The transformation was almost complete. The hypnotic energy from the piercings, now permanently fused to his earlobes, synced with the throbbing, insistent heat in his groin. It was a demand. A command, even. This new body, Chad’s body, needed to christen itself, to expel the last remnants of a weaker, wrong identity.
His massive hand dropped to the insistent throbbing in his trousers. The fabric was impossibly tight, straining over a thick, heavy weight that hadn’t been there before. He didn't fumble. His movements were sure, confident. He ripped the remaining fabric away, and there it was. Thick, veined, and heavy, jutting proudly from a thatch of dark, coarse hair. It was his. The proof. His trophy. A low, animal growl rumbled in his chest, pure, uncomplicated need. His large, calloused hand, smelling of fresh sweat and iron, wrapped around his own cock. The touch was electric, a circuit of pure, dumb vanity and lust completing.
He began to stroke, not with shame, but with a narcissistic, possessive rhythm. His eyes were wide open, locked on his reflection, not on the face, but on the powerful arm working, the bicep bulging and swelling with each stroke, the thick veins snaking over his forearm, the tattoos rippling over the new, dense muscle. This was worship. Adoration of the magnificent, simple thing he had become.
"Yeah... fuckin' look at that…" he grunted, his voice a deep, stupid rasp. Each pump of his fist sent waves of pleasure crashing through him. With each stroke, another fragment of Leo’s past was annihilated, replaced by the solid, sensory reality of Chad.
The sounds of a gym echoed in his ears. The clang of weights. The shitty rap music. The memory of a hundred girls checking him out, their eyes wide with want. It was all his. It had always been his. He was the king. The alpha. The top fucking dog.
His rhythm became more urgent, his breath coming in ragged, powerful grunts. The muscles in his stomach clenched into a hard, rippled board. His powerful thighs trembled. The pleasure built, a terrifying, incredible peak of pure, mindless release. With a final, guttural roar that was pure, masculine rage, he came. Thick, hot, copious ropes shot across his own stomach and chest, splattering the new tattoos, the smell of it - musky and potent - mixing with the scent of his sweat to create the ultimate perfume of the dumb jock.
He slumped back, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat glistening on his incredible new physique. His own cum was warm on his skin. He looked down at the mess, then at his own hand, and let out a low, throaty, arrogant laugh. "Fuck yeah brah…”
He rose to his feet, the movement full of pure and arrogant grace. He stood to his full, imposing height. He didn't clean himself. The mess was a badge of honor. He was Chad. He was strong. He was horny. And he was so, so fucking dumb. The clip-ons were replaced by the real, steel in his ears, a permanent anchor to this new, perfect, simple reality. He needed to get to the gym. He needed to be seen. He needed to find some chick to fuck. The king was ready to hold court.
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The empty classroom echoed with wet, obscene splurts as Olivia’s hyper-muscled body shuddered hard on the desk, her torn pink-and-white cheerleader top hanging in rags off boulder-like pecs matted with thick dark hair and slick sweat. The shredded skirt rode high on tree-trunk thighs, her huge hand wrapped tight around the wrist-thick veiny cock that throbbed and erupted thick white ropes of cum straight onto the floorboards with loud splurt-squirt sounds.
“Jamie… oooohhhh godddd please… turn me back right now!” she begged, voice still cracking high and girly before dropping into a gravelly rumble that vibrated through her massive chest. “I’m not supposed to be this huge… I’m Olivia, the cheerleader… not a dude!”
Jamie stood frozen a few feet away, glasses slipping down his nose, his own pants tented painfully as he drank in every twitch and spurt of whatever this is. Did the spell gone wrong or right?
Another dizzy wave slammed into her, head lolling as fresh jock instincts clawed deeper. Olivia’s free hand groped up her ridged abs, fingers digging into the dense treasure trail of hair leading down to heavy swinging balls that slapped meatily against her thighs with every involuntary hip buck. “Nnghhh… my head… it’s getting so fuzzy… fuck, why does my cock feel so good pumping like this?” she groaned, the words tumbling out deeper, rougher, while hot cum kept jetting out in powerful arcs that splattered her own muscular calves. “Jamie you bitch… reverse it… I don’t wanna think about pinning you down and breeding that nerd ass!” Her voice cracked again, now fully baritone and edged with cocky hunger she couldn’t fight. Jamie’s breath hitched, a low moan escaping him as he watched the denial twist into something far hotter, his hand unconsciously pressing against the bulge in his jeans.
The dizziness crested harder, Olivia’s wavy hair matted to her sharpening jaw as stubble prickled across it and her eyes glazed with raw alpha need. She tried to stand but her powerful legs just spread wider, the ruined skirt riding up further so the fat purple cockhead flared visibly, still leaking heavy globs that dripped down the desk edge.
“Uuuunghhh… no… I’m a girl… I can’t… be this dominant horny jock for you…” she moaned, but the protest melted into a deep chesty growl while her hand stroked faster, milking out more thick cum with wet schlick-schlick noises. “Shit bro… wait, no… Jamie, help… my balls feel so full… I just wanna fuck something tight and nerdy…” The old girly thoughts frayed faster, replaced by flashes of locker rooms, bench presses, and claiming Jamie roughly. Jamie stepped closer, lips parted, savoring the slow erotic war happening right in front of him.
Fresh masculine fog rolled in thicker, Olivia’s posture shifting on the desk as broad shoulders rolled back dominantly and her massive arms flexed with a loud rip of remaining fabric. “Fuuuuck… this body… it’s so goddamn strong… no, stop it… I’m begging you Jamie, turn me back before I… before I grab you and make you my bitch!” she snarled, voice now pure deep jock thunder, but her hips kept thrusting forward, cock slapping wetly against her abs and spraying another messy rope across the floor. Her eyes locked on Jamie with new hungry fire, denial cracking wide open as the aggressive boyfriend persona flooded every corner of her mind.
“Come here nerd… let me show you how a real jock takes care of his boy…”
Jamie’s grin widened, heart hammering with pure lust at the perfect dominant mess he had created, the air thick with cum and musk as the change kept rolling on and on.
Olivia’s thick fingers squeezed harder around the pulsing shaft, another long groan tearing from her throat—“Haaarghhhhhh-aaahhh fuuuck yeahhhh…”—while her his heavy balls churned visibly, ready to unload even more as the last mental walls crumbled completely. He finalized his changes.
The jock grinned through her his face, eyes narrowing on Jamie with pure ownership.
“You wanted this, didn’t you? A big rough boyfriend to wreck you after school… well get ready, cause I’m just getting started, bro…” the new man stated proudly. Jamie stayed rooted, cock leaking in his pants, utterly lost in the endless vulgar glory of his spell’s hottest mistake.
Tyra stood tall in Garrett's ripped, muscular form, the alien's perfect imitation of Zach's ultimate jock crush flexing those massive pecs right in front of the nerdy twink.
"What's up, little buddy," Tyra growled in Garrett's deep, cocky voice, smirking with those full lips while running a hand down the chiseled abs. "You been eye-fucking me all semester, huh? Bet you dream about touching this huge bod every night." Zach's cock twitched hard in his pants, his glasses fogging up as he stared at the godlike body, heart pounding.
"Tyra... I mean G-Garrett... Holy shit, you look so fucking perfect like this," Zach whimpered, voice cracking with lust.
"Fuckkkk yeahhh, I am perfect!" Tyra purred. "You like what you see, nerd? Tell me what you really want, Zach,"
Tyra-as-Garrett stepping closer until those sweat-glistened pecs were inches from Zach's face. The alien's eyes sparkled with wicked hunger, knowing exactly how to push his best friend's buttons.
Zach moaned softly, "I wish... I wish I could see you, Garrett, soaking fucking wet with cum all over those massive pecs." The words spilled out raw and desperate, Zach's dick throbbing painfully. "Like drenched in thick loads dripping down your nipples. Can you make that happen for me? Please.”
Tyra chuckled low and throaty, the sound vibrating through Garrett's broad chest. "Mmmmm, you're kinky, nerd. I like that. Your wish is my fucking command," Tyra winked, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.
With a wet shlorp of shapeshifting flesh, the alien amplified the transformation, Garrett's body glistening as gallons of hot, pearly alien cum suddenly erupted from hidden pores and his stretching mouth.
"Ahhhhn~ Fuck yessss!" Tyra groaned loudly, head tilting back as his long, serpentine tongue—now exaggeratedly huge and veiny—slid out impossibly far like a living tentacle. It spat out hot thick cum and smeared it all over its own heaving pecs, coating them in glossy white layers.
Thick white globs perfectly covering the hard nipples, sticky and oozed down the deep cleavage. Zach gasped, eyes wide, as the viscous load dripped in heavy strands from Garrett's chin onto the rippling abs.
Splat. Drip. Squelch.
The sounds were obscene, wet and filthy, the cum swirling in creamy patterns over the sweaty muscles. "Holy shit, Garrett... your pecs look like cum dumpsters, Ohhh goddddd!" Zach panted, reaching out to smear a handful across one throbbing nipple.
Tyra moaned exaggeratedly, "Mmmph~ Touch me, nerd. Feel how warm and nasty it is. This body was made for your pervy fantasies." The long tongue coiled around Zach's fingers, sucking them deep with vulgar slurps while more cum gushed from the alien's pores, soaking the silver chain necklace and making those massive tits bounce slickly.
Deeper into the bliss, Tyra pushed Zach onto the bed, straddling him so the cum-drenched chest smothered the twink's face. "Lick it up, Zach. Taste it. This is what you wanted, right? Your dumb hot jock boy is all wet and sticky with his own pent-up semen." the jock voice commanded between heavy groans.
Zach dove in eagerly, tongue swirling through the thick layers, moaning "Mmmph, so fucking creamy~" as the alien's endless tongue wrapped around his own neck, pulling him tighter.
Gluck. Squelch. Ahhh~.
The room filled with erotic symphony, pecs grinding and sliding, cum everywhere, the shapeshifter's body pulsing with more transformations—pecs swelling even larger, nipples leaking extra spurts. Zach's hands kneaded the slippery flesh desperately, lost in the vulgar heaven.
Tyra laughed breathlessly, tongue flicking cum strings across Zach's lips. "More? You want me to flood this whole room with jizz-pecs, buddy? You can just say it." The alien's hips rolled, grinding a massive bulge against Zach's while the chest continued its messy, hypnotic drip. Zach could only whimper and lap harder into the endless erotic loop.
"I can be your Garrett forever, and do whatever you want just for you," Tyra smiled, body still shifting subtly, the transformation theme continuing as they lost themselves in the pleasure.
"Aaaahhh yesss, more, give me more cum!" Zach begged.
It was 11 o'clock, a school day, and all that the kids could hear was music drowning out the teacher. Why did B-Men decide to choose the lot beside a school for their yearly bodybuilding competition? Nobody knows. But they are, and slowly, huge hot men started coming in, and a distinct song started playing on repeat.
The school next door just toughed it up. Teachers and students, annoyed and pissed but powerless. It was just for a day or two, and any trouble was not worth it. All had a look of constant annoyance…. except one.
A female student, unremarkable. Not rich, not popular, not cute, not sociable. The type of girl who would just blend in the background, not to be seen or heard.
Today that will all change.
Like a worm the music buzzed in with hypnotic affirmations. She covered her ears in annoyance, but it stayed in her head, buried. Again, and again, and again, and again. Each repeat pushes it deeper inside her head, molding her psyche subliminally. She slowly let down her hands and started nodding to the beat. Her mind was prepped and now-
‘Strength'
She did a slight groan, unnoticed by others. Mass began piling up while her limbs stretched. Her softness and femininity subtly shedding away.
'Power’
The grunts got louder and deeper. The others began staring at her. Her back stood straighter, shoulders wider, face manlier. Subtle rips can be heard, as she grew too big for her desk. She stood up in the middle of the classroom as all looked in awe.
'Man’
Her grunts became significantly deeper. Her His new manhood suddenly sprung up through his shredded panties and poking out the fabric of the too-small skirt. Suddenly the buttons on his uniform fired all across the room. His body, which now looked like a high school athlete, kept growing bigger and bigger. The smell of an athlete, the scent of pure man wafting out of him. His new manly face and his crown, a perfectly coiffed hair, took form. Everyone’s attention were pointed at him, once a foreign feeling, now seemingly natural for him.
'Might’
The last of his changes took hold. Mentally fully reforming. His tongue out and drool spilling out in the process. It was a clash, the real her and the new him. Her memories fighting for survival as the creeping desires of his manly self engulfs it. Her old self mounted quite the fight. Yet, one glance to the front of the class it was all over.
The only teacher that ever cared for her. Yet it wasn’t her memories of her warmth that won. It was like what the perverted boys once said about her: perky tits, bountiful hips, flawless face. His cock won, as her old self couldn’t handle the pleasure of such an erection. He needed her.
“T-time for a break.....”
She was scared. She wanted nothing more than to run along quick, but she needed the kids to be safe. As it got to the last kid, she tried to follow behind them. But, just before she got out, suddenly she was firmly lifted back, and pushed back onto the scribbled white board.
The manliest man she has ever seen, now inches from her face looking down. His rough hands gently framing her gorgeous face and pushing her to look up at him. She rubs the wedding ring on her finger as she fights her unpure thoughts.
“S-sekar?”
“Call me, Gagah.”
He went into a deep kiss while both hands grabbed her ass.
From the other side of the wall, a man looked pleased.
He has tried everything. Diet, exercise, and more. He has only achieved being skinny with no muscle definition beyond some moderate bicep size.
People like him have heard of rumors of people fusing into stronger, better versions of themselves & have formed secret groups dedicated to finding out these methods for their own use. From videos of old men regaining their youth, to young twinks turning into living Ken dolls, they want it, and they want it badly.
Another video made the rounds.
It was a nerd absorbing some of the best athletes at his college at the same time.
"He must feel incredible taking in all of that talent."
"How is he going to pick a sport, lol."
"Man if only he would share a couple of jocks with me. Selfish."
Zeke rolled his eyes. The true value of these groups are not the videos or pictures, but the rumors.
He heard of a particular hotel that might be in the fusion circuit. After inquiring more details & some searching, he found the location. By day's end he had a reservation for a one night stay.
48 hours later, and he was at its golden entrance:
The Jasmine Amaryllis Hotel.
Zeke whistled in awe as he walked in.
He was soon at the receptionist desk.
The key apparently was to say the right phrase.
"Hello, sir. What brings you in for an stay? For business or pleasure?"
"To find my true self."
She chuckled.
"Yes, many of our patrons find themselves renewed after staying here. I hope you find what you are looking for."
"Maybe you could guide me to what I need."
No chuckle, but a big wide smile.
She got other information & verification and checked him in.
"Mr. Bitter here will guide you to some of our facilities as a thank you for your stay."
Zeke followed Mr. Bitter to the gym.
"As you can see, we have a great equipment selection. No matter the fitness goals, we can accommodate."
Zeke had tuned out Mr. Bitter to look at one of the gym goers:
Nolan.
Young, handsome, & strong. His stay was free. The hotel invited many fit & athletic individuals to try out their facilities for their "opinion."
Mr. Bitter followed the trail of Zeke's eyes, and made note of who caught his gaze.
"I would like to take you to our infinity pool & spa, but you look tired. Let me take you to your room to rest & freshen up."
Within 15 minutes, Zeke was in his room:
"Wow, no wonder it costs $10k a night. The cleaning & maintenance costs must be sky high."
His belongings were set next to an opulent bed. He sat down on a couch, and ordered room service. After eating an almost never ending stream of luxurious foods, a knock on his door rang throughout his room.
"Hello Sir, we have selected an total package spa treatment for you today, on the house."
Zeke did not argue, he took the gift. For the next three hours, he experienced things he never thought were possible as every inch of his body was pressed, stretched, & rubbed in a way that felt renewing.
And thus we come to the first photo.
He returned to his room to find his clothing missing. After a search he found a letter on a desk:
"Go to the receptionist for your items & a gift."
He huffed and then went down to the receptionist with just a towel wrapping around his lower half. After explaining the situation, the receptionist apologized and told him that his clothing would be returned along with a new wardrobe on the house.
He went to the elevators & found them not working. He was about to go up the stairs when one set of elevator doors clicked open. He quickly went in as he had no desire to be going up a drafty stairway with no proper coverage on.
He went in & found Nolan inside as well. He was wearing nothing but swim trunks.
"Broken elevator?"
"Yep."
"Stolen clothing?"
"Must be an thief epidemic in the hotel."
Nolan chuckled.
The doors closed, and the elevator box rumbled as if it was moving.
Zeke tried his best, but he could not ignore the handsome face & the rippling muscles that adorned Nolan's body. It was like he was standing next to an living art masterpiece.
Zeke then remembered why he was here: to confirm the rumors of this place facilitating mergers. If they were true, then let him be one with someone like Nolan.
There was a floor counter at the top inside the elevator box, but it did not change numbers despite 5 minutes passing by.
It just read 0.
"Don't tell me we are stuck?!"
"At least it's ground floor, so falling to our deaths is out of the question."
Zeke went to the floor button panel to hit the emergency button, but there was no emergency button. Instead, there were two buttons with bold lettering on them:
"Assimilate. Merge."
"What's the difference," he thought.
He hit assimilate.
A voice rang in Zeke's ear: "Seize this moment, he is yours. Everything he has belongs to you!"
Another rang in Nolan's ear: "You are his now. Your hard work, your talent is meant to serve him. Give in. Complete his being."
Nolan was confused, but Zeke was now determined. With courage he grabbed Nolan in an embrace.
"You are mine. Come to me my potential!"
Nolan began to sink into Zeke.
Both men were struggling as Nolan tried to get out & away, and Zeke tried hard to hold him in place:
The floor counter was not tracking the floors they were on, but the fusion completion process.
The number ticked up to 10.
Nolan felt his skin melt & merge into his captor. He could feel his blood flow change course, his muscle fibers break apart & go into Zeke.
25%.
As his strength left him, he began to flail less & less.
Next, his bones grew weak & brittle as their minerals joined Zeke's own. He began to lose consciousness as his brain broke down into a slurry & joined Zeke's own brain.
Soon, Nolan was just an hand sticking out of his chest. Like ice cream melting into a pool of milk, his hand sunk with a light plop.
40%.
Their DNA lined up & created a quad helix structure. It began to fire up.
50%.
Nolan's mind began melding with Zeke's own. Zeke could not help but snap his head back as he took in Nolan's confidence & other traits. And as his body began to morph, he could not help but moan.
With each new vertebrae growth, he yelped. He would be taller.
Waves of muscle grew around his neck making them thicker, and they would be as long as Nolan's own neck.
There was a series of pops as his shoulders & pecs exploded with muscle. He flexed his arms, and mountains of muscle appeared where they were not there previously. He flexed fingers and they too grew.
60%.
His waist grew outward, going from a V shape to an H shape. His abs started going through random configurations, settling on 80% Nolan, 20% Zeke.
70%.
His butt ballooned two times their size. No more flat butt for him. His rod grew three times long & two times girthier. His sack increased in size to accommodate his jewels being twice as heavy.
This made him climax, and he began to shoot occasional volleys of his seed.
At the same time, Nolan's shorts became his as the towel disappeared. They changed from black to red.
80%.
Massive cracking noises issued from his legs as they exploded with new muscle. Zeke was developing arthritis in his knees, but with Nolan's youthful body merging with his, that was no longer the case & would never be.
He flexed his toes and they also grew.
90%.
His face got lumpy as Nolan's facial features settled with his own.
He would have Nolan's skull shape, eyes brows, and eyes. He kept his nose & ears, and had a mixture of his & Nolan's mouths.
Testosterone would flood his body from his jewels, and he would have facial hair again, but to a less degree thanks to Nolan. His hair color, volume, and styling would come from Nolan. The texture was an combination of the two. He would gain a bronze version of his skin tone.
99%.
The elevator grew dim & electricity issued from the walls & covered Zeke. He started floating in the air.
The current surrounded him like a drunk spider designs a web. That 1% was the finishing process. It made the merger permanent, and insured that the target would not be the dominate mind. For Zeke, he felt his mind become clearer, sharper. He had Nolan firmly under his command. The stud's mind would serve him as his body is doing now.
100%.
The lights went back to their full brightness, and Zeke's feet was back on the ground.
He un-cocked his head & let out a deep breath.
"This is awesome. Now this is what you call a body."
Zeke began to flex his arms.
"Now these are biceps."
He kissed them, and then bounced his pecs.
"I've always wanted to do that."
He squeezed and flexed his stomach.
"Not just abs, but an blocky 8 pack. Thanks Nolan, you have given me what I have been missing out on. No wonder you jocks & gym rats are so arrogant. I would be too."
He pulled away his shorts.
He whistled.
"Impressive."
His shorts & surrounding area was clean & dry. The elevator was designed to keep the area clean at all times, so his unintentional spilling was dealt with quickly.
The phone was mysteriously next to him & had wifi.
"Time for the after photo:"
There was also a video of him assimilating Nolan into his being.
He posted it to the group, confirming the rumor of the hotel that facilitated mergers. He would be the main subject for months.
He also told them the phrases that they needed to say & went about his business.
How they were going to get the $10k was beyond him because a free stay meant that they were on the menu.
The doors opened to his floor.
A cute lady named Felecia had a wide smile after seeing him in his glory.
He smiled back with slightly slanted eyes. Nolan within him was pushing him to shoot his shot.
A/N: This can't quite qualify, as a 'short', so I won't even pretend it is.
A mysterious figure walks on the side of the road.
Hand extended out.
Waiting in a place where time seems to stand still.
—
Mr. Thompson was still speaking, eyes on the road, not staring at the video call on his dashboard: responsible. “And don’t forget—
“To water Susan,” a youthful voice answered back.“For a fern she needs water like a fish.”
“And?” Mr. Thompson raised his pitch at the end of the word.
“Get to bed on time. I know dad, I know. I’m not five.” Daniel Thompson playfully responded.
“OOOoooo he’s the big ONE SIX and suddenly he can do everything,” Mr. Thompson joked. “I hope that means I can expect to come home to a clean house, all the dishes done, floors swept, bedroom clean.”
“Wait, I never said all that.” Daniel tried to backtrack. Mr. Thompson could see his son shucking shirts off his floor and into a hamper.
The man laughed. “Just messing with you Danny–though I would appreciate your bedroom being clean–I’m not expecting full maid service.”
Danny dragged a hand down his face, “but my room probably needs a maid.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Last year Danny’s. This Danny has no recollection of—Oh, here comes the bus!”
“Alright, have a good start to your morning son, Love you.” He stole just a second to look down at his son’s face.
“Love you too, gottagobye!” Danny waved and with a bloop, the call ended.
Mr. Thompson was left alone on his morning drive. Day 2 of a work mandated trip he had to take. Go there, smile, shake hands, schmooze, even fondle their balls if he had to. Those were the exact words given to him from his higher ups. They needed relationships with the company to go well, and Mr. Thompson was their best guy. Not quite great for Mr. Thompson. In his younger years he may have jumped at the chance to prove himself, but nowadays he had a son. He also wasn’t sure if he agreed with their assessment he knew better than anyone, he could come off as uptight. And Mr. Thompson was a worrier, even if he didn't show it. He wanted Danny to be safe. Driving states away and leaving his son on his own wasn’t exactly a promising way to ensure that. But in fairness, he wanted to raise a capable young man, and Danny deserved a chance to prove himself.
So Mr. Thompson drove on through the forest road. He’d come upon it sometime ago while talking to Danny. It had been such a quiet and peaceful transition, the trees grew denser around him without notice. That mid fall coloring had settled nicely in the area and matched the nippy morning air. Made Mr. Thompson wished he’d grabbed a cup of coffee to go with it.
No other cars had passed him in miles.
He tried to lean forward and peer at the clouds, however the trees were offering only a glimpse of the sky. Splotches of dark gray. A look to his rearview mirror, His umbrella lay on the back seat. He was glad he brought it; one never knew what was going to happen. The universe seemed to agree with that sentiment as he saw a figure come into view on the other side of the road. He couldn’t make the stranger out but knew that universal hitchhiker sign. The person was faced away from him, walking forward, but the closer Mr. Thompson got, the smaller he realized the stranger was. A simple backpack thrown over a gray hoodie and jeans.
A small conflict took place in Mr. Thompson’s mind, whether to keep driving or stop for the hitchhiker. He could pretend that he never even saw him. But then his heart spoke up, if that was Danny out here, he’d want someone to stop for his son. Mr. Thompson’s car slowed to a crawl, driving up alongside the stranger. He rolled his window down, as the guy kept walking.
“Need a ride?”
The young man stopped as if he hadn't registered Mr. Thompson’s presence until the man spoke. He turned to the car. Mr. Thompson let out a quiet gasp but closed his mouth before uttering a sound. He should have caught it right away. The loose hoodie, the saunter of his walk. Exactly what it promised: A wandering boy. No older than Danny. He gripped his steering wheel trying not to jump to anger-inducing conclusions about the teen’s home life. But why else would a young man be out here?
“You mean it?” The boy asked expectantly. There was a brightness in his voice, though there was a tiredness there as if he hadn’t spoken much.
“There’s a storm coming.” Mr. Thompson shared.
“Are you going the way I’m going?” He leaned down, hands on the open car door window. Eyes hopeful. As he did, Mr. Thompson could have sworn he watched the boy’s body change. His face had a bit of an edge as his shoulders filled out. He was wider than Mr. Thompson thought. More than that. The young man before him was clearly in the range of older teens to early twenties. Youthfulness hadn’t left his face, but there was no denying he had solidity to him. He no longer looked like the slightest wind would send him over. It was more than a trick of the scarce sunlight, but Mr. Thompson let it go.
“Well, I can't promise that, but I hope a ride to the nearest gas station might suffice.” Mr. Thompson answered.
“I’ll take it, man!” The young man opened the car door, took off his backpack, tossed it on the floor and stepped in. When he came down, he didn’t sit. He planted. A soft thud from his ass hitting the seat and his back colliding in its rested position. There was definitely serious weight to the young man, Mr. Thompson hadn’t clocked it before in the slightest. As clear as day now. He could see how the hoodie bunched around the male's body, contorted to a fitted shape. Underneath, the hint of pecs, right before the start of a pulled down zipper.
Mr. Thompson put his foot on the gas and pulled off. He took a few more glances at his new passenger. Black hair, brown skin, cool dark brown eyes: Latino. His body was a bit too hardened to match his innocent face. Developed from years of athleticism no doubt, which didn’t explain his current predicament. Because if he was killing it for whatever sports field he was, on why was he out here? The young man happened to turn his head at the exact moment Mr. Thompson tried to take another glance.
“Oh, my bad man, where are my manners? I’m Ghilherme,” he said, offering a handshake.
Mr. Thompson accepted, with a quick shake, happy to put a face to the name. “Gill-Ur-Me,” He sounded the words out, his new passenger had quite the grip.
“Arthur Thompson.”
“Mister Thompson.” The young man said without missing a beat.
The corners of Mr. Thompson, curled upward at the sign of respect. A very well-mannered boy for someone wandering about. “Nice to meet you, Ghilherme, that's a pretty unique name.”
“It’s Portuguese…I’m Brazilian if you couldn't tell, not that I walked here from Brazil.” Ghilherme said, upon realizing how complicated his sentence sounded.
A gentle laugh escaped Mr. Thompson's mouth as he watched the young man get flustered. Tension in the car evaporated. Mr. Thompson felt confident now in his choice to pick the lad up. With a storm on the horizon, he would have been beside himself knowing the young man was caught up in the rain.
The forest continued on. Trees passed by. Road leading nowhere.
“Can I ask where you’re coming from?” Mr. Thompson tapped the steering wheel, “A young man out here in the county isn’t something I was expecting. I prefer my nice suburbs, get past the county line and it’s too rural out here for me.
Ghilherme shrugged his shoulders, “Here and there.”
“Man of few words, I can respect that. Can I at least ask where you’re headed?”
“Uh, I think…the city’s called Fullerton.” Ghilherme answered.
“And here I thought you’d be tight lipped the whole way,” Mr. Thompson said, surprised. “What’s in Fullerton: family, friends, fame?” Mr. Thompson asked.
“A guy who promised me a ride, then ditched me.”
Mr. Thompson nodded his head. “What does a young man need to do to get by?” A thought he didn’t let escape his mind. He took another look at the way Ghilherme, took up space in the car now, arm on the open window. A duality was at play. There was something so unapologetic and confident in his posture, yet his movement and tone of voice conveyed someone more guarded and awkward. Mr. Thompson wasn’t stupid; he knew there was a performance going on; he just couldn’t tell which one it was.
The road continued to wind and the woods were endless, but just as an unsettling thought began to creep in the man's head, the woods broke and the car was released back out into open pastures. Darker Gray skies above.
They pulled into the first gas station they came across. Mr. Thompson’s car fuel was full but was hoping Ghilherme could get back home from here. However, as they got out, the man noticed not a soul was around. Wind was blowing heavily. The pumps were old and rusted and the store's lights were out.
Ghilherme approached peeking inside, “I don’t think anyone’s been here in years.”
Thunder roared.
Then the drizzle started and quickly morphed into a downpour. They sprinted back into the car. Mr. Thompson pulled off as rain beat on the windows. The windshield wipers could hardly keep up. His car sloshed through water building up on the road, as he drove slowly and carefully. Ghilherme’s attention was fixed on his window, trailing droplet paths with his finger as it moved down his window.
“We can’t be out in this. News said it was going to be all day. I didn't know it was going to be this bad.” Mr. Thompson stated and got his phone's GPS to direct them to the nearest motel. A 20-minute drive, the man turned 40. He pulled into a packed parking lot, finding a parking spot in the back. The young man was going to use his bookbag for cover when, Mr. Thompson offered his umbrella. Ghilherme was going to refuse, but the older man took off, getting his small suitcase out the trunk, then running for cover. They both sprinted to the front desk office, car locked behind them.
Mr. Thompson was soaked by the time the entrance chime played as he and Ghilherme entered. Even with the umbrella Ghilherme hadn't fared much better with the wind making the rain come down at strange angles. The office smelled like old tobacco and peppermint. An old analog clock on the far wooden wall, ticked, and noted every passing second. A single ceiling fan spun in the center of the room, to beat the humidity but was too slow to generate any true cooling ability. The front of the brown carpet was squishy with countless wet footsteps leading to the check-in desk.
The young woman behind the front desk sat, feet posted up, black braids back in a ponytail.
blowing a bubble, while watching TV on a travel television. Mr. Thompson approached, dripping water onto the floor with every step.
“Hi, I’d like a room with two beds please.”
The employee didn’t look up, just pointed to the key rack hanging behind her. Only five were left. “We’re full, from the storm, you get what we got.”
Mr. Thompson looked back at his passenger, currently fiddling with an old gumball machine beside the entrance. He sighed, “Okay fine.” He handed his card over, and the young woman finally looked up. Her eyes went to Mr. Thompson then to Ghilherme by the door, her expression dropped as she stood up, fixing her tan polo top.
“Just a warning. We don’t do angry spouses here. We will kick you out.” She pointed over at Ghilherme, before swiping the card.
Mr. Thompson’s face flushed red, as he caught on to what she was implying. “That’s— We’re not— I’m—I’m not married, " he whispered, the only rebuttal he could think of.
The motel employee's face softened, “Oh! Well then do whatever!” She smiled, handing over the key.
Stuffing his card back into his wallet, Mr. Thompson dragged Ghilherme back out into the storm as they went in search of their room. Hey, found it at the far end, which of course it was. He opened the door, ushering Ghilherme inside as he closed the door, sealing the rain off. He leaned his back against it. Finally, out of the storm. His eyes landed on the one bed in the room. Of course that was all they had left. Ghilherme stood huddled off to the side staring at it.
Mr. Thompson sighed, both of them were drenched. “You can have the bed. Though you should take a shower first and get those clothes off. Don’t want you getting pneumonia.”
“You can have the bed. You paid for the room after all, but I will take you up on the shower.” Ghilherme started stripping right there, shucking off his hoodie, shirt and jeans until he was down to his underwear. Mr. Thompson was shocked at the brazenness, but Ghilherme showed no emotion about it. That’s when the man realized instead of being surprised, he should have been taking his own wet clothes off. Soon there were two guys rocking it in their underwear. Ghilherme had on a tight pair of white Calvin Klein briefs that hugged his ass in the back and sagged heavily in the front. Meanwhile Mr. Thompson’s Tommy Ford navy blue boxers were damp and clung to him all around.
Ghilherme did a short jog to the bathroom leaving his bookbag and clothes on the floor. Mr. Thompson rolled his eyes, such a Danny thing to do. He moved them into one of the two chairs at the small table by the window. The curtains were drawn but he did take a peek outside. It looked like night, as rain pelted the ground, water moved across the asphalt like small waves. The shower water started, competing with the outside world. Mr. Thompson turned his attention back inwards. The TV was a bust, bad connection from the storm. Thankfully Ghilherme came out, towel around his waist as Mr. Thompson popped in. He came out feeling refreshed crawling into bed as his mind drifted off, Ghilherme attempting to watch TV.
Hours later, Mr. Thompson woke up briefly. The rain was still going. The TC and lights in the room were off. However, he could see thanks to light coming in from outside. He turned his attention to the widow. Ghilherme was sitting in a chair, bookbag now on the floor, staring out at the rain. A strange dichotomy took place for Mr. Thompson, Ghilherme looked wise beyond his years as the motel’s night lights illuminated his face and yet childishly entranced like he’d been in the car. His body was huddled up in the chair, legs pulled up, hands around his arms in nothing but underwear. He was trembling. Mr. Thompson didn’t like that, had the young man not been planning to say anything?
“Hey,” He whispered to get Ghilherme’s attention. The young man turned towards him in shock. “Get in the bed.” He pointed. Ghilherme didn't even argue, just crawled in. Mr. Thompson could feel the chill rolling off his bed mate, the young man had been freezing. Mr. Thompson’s eyes grew heavy, tired, and he was soon asleep again.
The rain became the perfect white noise as it transitioned the man somewhere else. The heavy fall sounded more distant, fake almost, as it was projected in through a TV. Mr. Thompson found himself standing in an upscale version of the motel he was in. The furniture, the bedding, the wallpaper, even the flooring was improved. He could hear birds calling outside, nor ones he’d ever heard before though. He went to take a peek outside realizing the window was a terrace. Once he stepped out, he felt warmth on his skin, realizing he was only wearing his boxers. The motel had turned tropical, strange plants surrounded the glassed-in terrace. Mr. Thompson’s mouth was agape, stunned truly. He stretched his body out, eyes closed, basking in the sun's rays, his cock twitched, then tented the loose fabric out. When he opened his eyes again cock hard, he nearly jumped, noticing another person had been out there with him. For a split second he swore he saw Danny’s shadow on a chair grow, but it was just Ghilherme, lazily resting on a chair in his own underwear. The young man was also only in his underwear. He gave Mr. Thompson the peace sign.
Mr. Thompson’s cock responded back involuntarily with a very noticeable throb. Mr. Thompson took in Ghilherme’s form. How stunning it was when the fear of getting sick wasn’t attached to it. This was a retelling, a more provocative situation, than the actual reality the two had found themselves in. Mr. Thompson took a step forward, cock leading the way as he closed the distance between the two of them. He hunched over Ghilherme, hands resting on both sides of the wicker lounge chair. The soft smile stayed on Ghilherme’s face the whole time, even as Mr. Thompson drew his lips closer to Ghilherme. He could smell the jock’s warm skin and body wash and hear his breathing. Time was slowing the closer he got, making every moment turn into an eternity.
The dream dissolved.
When the man truly started to wake up, he was surprised to see the back of Ghilherme’s head. Closer than he remembered it being, their upper bodies were only inches apart. Mr. Thompson had an arm over Ghilherme’s mid-section, having pulled him closer during the night. The young man’s back looked wider, shoulders sturdier. Mr. Thompson thought that couldn’t be real. Sleepily, he took a finger and softly pressed it to Ghilherme’s back: warm, soft. Real flesh. He traced it along, imaging at some point it’d fall through as a continuation of the dream. His attention went lower and that’s when he noticed Ghilherme's ass was fully flush against his crotch. Ghilherme’s butt was fuller, firmer, and overall bigger than last night. Mr. Thompson considered he was simply mistaken yesterday about the young man’s size. Then the man felt it. The shift of warmth on either side of his dick. The man looked down again, waking up more. His cock was fully out of his boxers, wedged between Ghilherme’s hairy thighs—did they have hair yesterday? He decided to ignore that question. Just to make sure he wasn't actually asleep he pressed forward. A heated hefty weight rested on the front half of his dick, which he was sure was Ghilherme’s own cock and balls, sitting in the young man’s briefs. That woke him up.
Mr. Thompson tried to slide his cock out, but it throbbed madly at the friction from Ghilherme’s skin. There was no denying he was already at his limit, and his cock was in hair trigger mode. Once more he tried. He ended up cumming, unable to stop himself or his morning wood. His cum hit the bed sheets, mimicking last night’s rain as it pelted the bed. He was able to get his cock out, the sensitive head, leaving a slimy trail on Ghilherme’s thighs. Mr. Thompson could not believe himself he immediately got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. He needed a washcloth to clean the young man off before he woke up. On his way he paused, turning back to the bed. Ghilherme was larger, he had to be, he sunk into the bed more and his feet went down the bed longer. But that wasn't logical. He just had to be older than Mr. Thomspon had given him credit for. Yes, that certainly had to be it.
Just as he got into the bathroom and pulled out a washcloth he heard.
“Oh shit,”
He walked back out into the room, to find Ghilherme on his knees, covers thrown back. Cum puddles on the bed and ropes on his underwear. “Mr. Thompson, I nutted in my sleep and hosed the bed...” he looked up like a guilty dog.
There was a chance there for Mr. Thompson to play it off. Let Ghilherme take all the blame for the genetic concoction splattered on the cheap motel mattress but, Mr. Thompson wasn’t that kind of man. “No. you didn’t. It was me.” He sucked his teeth. “I woke up with my cock out of my boxers and between your legs. I tried to pull out but instead… I blew.”
“Oh,” Ghilherme looked around at the mess, “Okay word.” That was all he said.
“I’m so sorry, I'll clean it all off you.” The man offered.
Ghilherme didn’t say anything, just slid to the edge of the bed, legs open, Mr. Thompson's sticky evidence still there. Chastising himself, Mr. Thompson wet the cloth and went to wipe up his mess and squatted down between the young man’s legs. As an anxious father sometimes, he could get caught up in his own worries and forget situational awareness. He didn’t notice the missile rising between Ghilherme legs until it was poking him in the face. Before he commented he actually noticed, his cum had stained the young man’s black underwear. “Shoot,” He went into his suitcase and grabbed out his extra pair. “You like Calvin Klein, right? Here.” he tossed them and Ghilherme expertly grabbed them from the air. Then the young man slid his own off, his cock smacking between his legs as he put on Mr. Thomspon’s, a toothy smile on his face. Mr. Thompson couldn’t look away from the black bush of pubes that fed into the tube dangling below.
A video call on his phone broke his thoughts. Danny was awake. Typical Ghilherme, Mr. Thompson would have already started his day but between the rain and whatever was happening now; he’d gotten delayed. “Morning son,” he answered flustered. He hadn't even done his typically perfectly combed hair to start his day.
“Beat you, dad.” Danny’s chipper voice came through.
“That you did,” Mr. Thompson’s chuckle was off kilter. He spent a few minutes talking to his son, as the teen got ready to head off to school. Danny said the storm hadn't hit their town. The talk was nice as he sat at the small table, eyes ever so often drifting over to Ghilherme, laying on the bed watching TV. How did Mr. Thompson ever think Ghilherme reminded him of Danny? Danny was a boy and Ghilherme, he was undoubtedly a young man. It was obvious in his looks and the way muscles sat on his frame. A mustache coming in over his hips. His jaw line coming in sharp sat upon a thick neck that fed into strong traps. Rock solid shoulders fed into, bulging biceps and huge forearms that flanked his sides. Pecs protruded from his torso with dark hair spread out from the center, dancing out to his dark nipples. Abs came in next, its own golden brick road that led to a dark treasure trail, then the desired land of his pubes and bulge. Due to how Ghilherme, was sitting, Mr. Thompson could not experience the true view of how massive Ghilherme’s ass was. It all fed into long legs, crossed over each other, that stretched down the bed. Overgrown thighs, covered in curly dark hairs, and hardened calves, topped off with two massive feet, fiddling with the other as his toes flexed.
Mr. Thompson drifted seamlessly back into his conversation with Danny. They talked until the bus came and Danny was off again. The man set down his phone, already whipping his comb out to fix his hair.
“Does your son always call you, or do you make him call you?” Ghilherme asked from the bed.
The man shrugged, “Is there a difference? I just like knowing he’s okay.”
“I’d say there’s a huge difference.” Ghilherme flicked the TV off, “between a kid who wants to call and one who has to check in.”
“Well, it’s not supposed to be a punishment.” Mr. Thompson frowned.
Ghilherme held up his hands, “Didn’t say it was. Just wanted to share an opinion. I think…lightening up on him might not be so bad.” he rubbed the back of his head as if he was unsure, he could even say it.
“What are you talking about, I’m so light on him.” He joked back comb going through his hair.
“Eh, no offense Mr. Thompson you’re a really nice guy, but you seem pretty wound up in some ways. Like so wound up, you came between my legs.”
Embarrassment returned to smash into the man like a freight train. “I deeply apologize that was truly so unbecoming off me. I haven’t had anyone sleep next to me in a while and I think, my body found yours in the night—
“No, no” Ghilherme sat up shaking his hands, “I’m not blaming you. I’m actually kind of happy for you. I think you really needed to get that nut out. You probably don’t notice it, but it doesn't look like you're moving as stiffly today.”
Mr. Thompson knew sometimes young people talked nonsense, but his body did feel a lot looser after he came. But he knew his issues were more than just being sexually backed up. Tension in the body born from years of worry couldn’t be eradicated with one good nut. Maybe he could try taking advantage of how good he was feeling though. He stopped combing his hair. It was neat, but it wasn’t perfect. He put on his next polo shirt on, a soft teal as he left the buttons undone. His own pecs pressed firmly out, had it always been so tight in the chest? Then he slid on his pants, they were tight coming past the knees and once on and zipped made his bulge stick out a bit. He forewent his belt as his shorts didn't give any leeway today. Different, but good.
” Dad outfit, complete.” He joked and posed like a Power Ranger, as Ghilherme groaned, and that sounded like Danny’s annoyed son groan.
Ghilherme got dressed next, going for his clothes from yesterday, now dry. He started with his jeans putting one foot in, then the other. The next thing Mr. Thompson knew, the young man was hopping about like a rabbit attempting to pull them up.
“What are you doing?” He sat at the table, stifling a laugh, watching the event transpire.
“They won't come up,” He flopped on the bed like a fish, then floundered about kicking his legs. Mr. Thompson chuckled; from his vantage point the pants were stuck at Ghilherme’s thighs.
He stood up, “Alright let me help.” if he watched any longer, he was going to fully burst out laughing. Ghilherme got up as Mr. Thompson came from behind him and pulled on his pants. The two were trying and inches were being rewarded, slowly sliding him in. Mr. Thompson's eyes briefly watched that bubbled jock ass jiggle and bounce about. The pants stopped going up, right at the curve outward. There was no way the pants were going to fit that ass. The man leaned around Ghilherme, the young man’s bulge rested heavy in the front, the zipper was not going to conquer it.
“I think you should wear something else.” Mr. Thompson shared, Ghilherme, conceded with a huff of air. The two then had to work together to get the pants off, Mr. Thompson pulling with all his might, biceps straining as Ghilherme crawled back on the bed. The young man’s legs eventually popped free as Mr. Thompson held up the pants like a trophy. Ghilherme went to his book bag for something else. While he was doing that, Mr. Thompson examined the pants in his hands, how light they felt, how small they were. Curious, he peered at the size. The same size Danny wore. His eyes flew to the muscular frame squatted before him, even off sight alone no way could that body fit into these. But he had been in them yesterday, comfortably even. How did it make sense he couldn’t wear them today?
Ghilherme pulled out a pair of gym shorts and put them on. He made a gesture for Mr. Thompson to throw the jeans, which the young man caught, then stuffed away into the bag. Ghilherme didn't even attempt to put on the shirt, banishing it to the bag. He zipped up his hoodie, having to hunch his back to make it go up, only to have his pecs force the zipper back down, when he stood normal. Mr. Thompson thought Ghilherme was going to have trouble with his shoes, which also appeared to have shrunk in size overnight, but as the socked feet slid in, the shoes adapted and expanded larger. The man blinked. No, they had to have always been that size.
Mr. Thompson considered parting ways at the motel, perhaps offering to buy more nights for Ghilherme, but as the young man’s stomach growled. The man knew he had to at least buy breakfast for the young man, especially after the incident Mr. Thompson caused that morning. “Let’s go eat!” he said, flinging the door open.
The two were on the road again. Mr. Thompson didn't feel nervous at all, in fact felt nice having someone to talk to without Danny around. He avoided the family topic but did ask more about Ghilherme generally. Favorite color, food, city. Ghilherme answered like any other self-prescribed cool young man, “Depends on the day, depends on the mood.” Not ‘my’ mood the mood, Mr. Thompson had no idea what that even meant.
Q’s Diner was loud and busy; some form of gas station crashed into seated dining. The place had the aroma of salty bacon and warm toast, the endless chorus of eggs sizzling in the background. Mr. Thompson held the door open for Ghilherme, as they came into what looked like a trucker refugee. There were a couple of families, a few solo travelers, but it was obvious where the real money was made. Large 18 wheelers sat outside, in their own refuel stations visible from the windows. The two got a booth and a waiter came by and handed them menus.
“So, where’s next for you?” Mr. Thompson asked, eyes wandering up from his list of options.
“Already told you, got to get to Fullerton to see a guy who ditched me.” Ghilherme answered, not looking up.
“And you want to find him, why?”
“Oh that,” Ghilherme smirked, “He stole some money from me. I intended to get it back, all $783.23 of it.”
“You know where he lives?” The man asked.
“No, but I’m sure I’ll find him. Don’t worry about that.” Ghilherme said, determined.
They ended up ordering when their waiter came back and 20 minutes later, they had their food. Mr. Thompson watched as Ghilherme ate. The young man dug into his breakfast burrito and fried like it was going to get up and walk off his plate. He wondered when was the last time his passenger had a proper meal. Eating his own food, his omelet disappeared with a delicious bite.
A door to the diner slammed open, causing heads to turn. At the entrance stood a large burly bear of a man. He towered over most people in there at 6’3. His chest and stomach entered the establishment before the rest of him. One of his wide hands kept the door open, palm and fingers fully on the glass. Hair ran up his forearms leading to a flannel sleeve that had been pushed down to the elbow. The Flannel itself was wide open, revealing a white tank top, with wiry brown hairs spilling over it. His legs were hidden by dark blue jeans that fed into boots, but based on how close it pressed, wasn’t much for the imagination there. Then there was his head, his neck hidden behind his bushy brunette beard, the same as with his upper lip. Nothing but hair on his lower jaw that seamlessly fed into the hair on his head top off with a cap. A true trucker through and through. But his eyes rang with a fury of something else.
He stepped forward, his belly didn’t shake or wobble; it was a true muscle gut, a testament to his power. Marching forward he was a moving bullet headed forward. Mr. Thompson prayed this second oncoming storm wasn’t meant for them, but he found no such luck as the man stopped at their table and slammed his hands down, paying attention only on Ghilherme.
“You little shit!” The man was gruff and spat venom. “Where’s your older brother, or was he your dad?”
Ghilherme didn't react, only stuffed the end of his burrito into his mouth and swallowed.
The man pulled Ghilherme out of his seat. One arm clutching the hooding and forcing the young man to stand, “What the fuck did you freaks do to me?”
“That’s enough.” Mr. Thompson shot up and gripped the space between the man’s shoulder and his neck. The trucker let go of Ghilherme, spinning around as if finally taking in Mr. Thompson’s presence. Despite the enormity of the stranger, Mr. Thompson didn’t think the trucker was huge once he stood up too. Mr. Thompson had always been a respectable 5’10” but now a few more inches had appeared on him.
The hirsute man turned his head finally registering Mr. Thompson. The man then looked about the diner and could see multiple faces staring at him. His let go of the young man’s hoodie and Ghilherme was free.
“Go to the car.” Mr. Thompson threw Ghilherme his keys.
“But” Ghilherme’s eyes darted between the two men.
“Go,” Mr. Thompson’s voice was firm. He didn't even think of how dumb of an idea that was: handing his keys to a stranger. Ghilherme slid past the man and left. All the father saw though was someone with too much size and power lording it over someone younger. If it had been his son, it’d be over, but even if it wasn’t he was still going to have words.
“You’re disturbing everyone’s meal. You should go. I don’t think anyone here wants to hear from you.”
The trucker looked like he wanted to punch a hole through, Mr. Thompson. But Mr. Thompson had never felt more indestructible like his body was solid. He could feel from his feet planted on the ground, up to his abs flowing to his chest and arms. The space in his shorts was completely vacuumed up by his thighs, as his ass turned the seat of his pants into a curve. His biceps choked up his short sleeves, making his shoulders appear larger. All His muscles were breathing new life into him as his veins rose over challenging the trucker. One the trucker seemed eager to accept, a cocky smirk denoting he was still assured he’d win, but a look across the diner. There were other people who seemed ready to hop in if a fight did kick off.
A derisive snort left the trucker’s mouth. He stood up straight, eyeing Mr. Thompson up and down “Wait until your balls drop, before challenging me.” He left the dinner. Mr. Thompson immediately asked for the check and paid, rushing outside to make sure the trucker didn’t chase down Ghilherme.
Rushing out to his car Mr. Thompson came upon a sight.
A sight that made him laugh.
Ghilherme sat in the driver’s seat, door open, hoodie off, keys not in the ignition, playing behind the wheel as if he were driving. Mr. Thompson let out a soft chuckle and Ghilherme looked out to him, caught red headed. The young man suddenly changed his position and posture as if he were doing something way cooler.
Wiping the smirk off his face, Mr. Thompson said, “You’re adorable, you know that.” Then his face went red. It was a quick thought, but he hadn't meant to say it. The words came tumbling out of his mouth. After all, what young man wanted to be called adorable?
Ghilherme gave a chuckle in return as he stood, “Thanks.” His body moved and his voice conveyed it with a cool swagger that took the compliment in stride. “What now?” He was ready to move the conversation along.
“I was thinking, we could part here, but with that trucker around I think it’s best if I take you to the next gas station.” Mr. Thompson motioned for his passenger to get on the other side. They pulled off leaving the diner behind. Ghilherme had his window down, arm resting on the doorsill, as the wind blew in. Mr. Thompson kept peeking at his guest’s hair, it was shorter, right? More uniform than it had been before. Weren’t there soft curls tossed by the wind yesterday? He peeled his eyes away before Ghilherme noticed. Looking in the rearview. He saw a truck far in the distance. With nothing else but grass around for miles there was nothing else to see; it suck out like a sore thumb. Regardless, Mr. Thompson calmed himself there was no way it was who he thought. His worries were getting the best of him.
A few hours past noon, they pulled into another diner-gas station. Way further than he promised. Mr. Thompson got out as Ghilherme grabbed his book bag from the back, as well as his hoodie. Mr. Thompson had a sinking suspicion Ghilherme could no longer fit into his hoodie and that’s what he didn’t put it on. The young man dropped his stuff by the front license plate as the two travelers stood in front of each other. It was Ghilherme who went in for a handshake and the older male pulled him into a hug. Mr. Thompson hadn't even planned it. He just did. Very unlike him. But in a span of 24 hours he had come to care for his passenger. Ghilherme's bare chest collided with Mr. Thompson's pecs on pec. Arms around a warm back, as even the too cool Ghilherme, folded and hugged the man back. Time passed and they didn't seek to pull away, in fact they held each other harder.
“I really enjoyed riding with you, sucks that it’s over.” Ghilherme's voice sounded so melancholy.
“Same here.” Mr Thompson ran a hand up and down Ghilherme’s back, comforting him. He pulled his head slightly away from Ghilherme’s. The two looked each other in the eyes, then kissed. Mr. Thompson had to be careful, the more spirited young male was grinding into him, and he was grinding back. Slight rolls of the hips, most people would miss on a quick glance, but the dalliance was begging them to go further. The tip of an uncut cock poked at him, sneaking over Ghilherme's waistband. Mr. Thompson stepped away, using a finger to tuck Ghilherme's cock away, by setting the waist band back over it.
“It’s been fun, hasn’t it.” Ghilherme asked.
“Yeah, it was.” Mr. Thompson wanted a few moments longer, so he whipped out his phone. “Maybe you should give someone a call.” he extended it towards Ghilherme, “I’m not saying it has to be your parents, or family but maybe…someone?”
Ghilherme looked like he was about to say something, but instead took the phone, dialing and stepping away. Mr. Thompson watched him talk on the phone, not intruding, then patiently waited as the young man walked back, handing over the phone.
“Thanks, I should be good from here.” Ghilherme smiled, a toothy grin that promised his own personal mischief was on the way.
Mr. Thompson laughed, “I hope so, you take care of yourself hear?”
“I will,” Ghilherme nodded.
The man took off waving goodbye to Ghilherme.After he got up the road the truck from earlier pulled into the gas station. An unsettling feeling was in his gut. He kept driving for a little more until he could no longer ignore it. He stopped at the side of the road, looking at the recent calls. No number was listed. Tutting his teeth and shaking his head Mr. Thompson whipped his car around and sped back to the gas station.
Pulling in, he parked his car in a fluid motion and hopped out. Ghilherme wasn’t by any of the normal pumps or inside the store. Mr. Thomspon rushed to the specialized pumps. The 18 wheeler he spotted earlier was there, but no one was inside. He ran between the trucks. Nothing. Nothing. Until he found that bear of a man cornering Ghilherme. The man looked imposing an angry. Ghilherme was backed up against a truck but didn’t look too fazed.
“Hey!” Mr. Thompson shouted charging in, both heads turning to look at him. He got in between the stranger and Ghilherme, making a space for himself by shoving the man back, one hand was all it took.A hand larger than Mt. Thompson was used to, with the arm and shoulder to match, same for the other. “You need to think carefully about what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?” The Trucker echoed. “What about the fuck him and hsi family’s doing!” He pointed to Ghilherme aggressively. “I used to be somebody, ya know. I get one fucking blowjob from his brother and next thing, I know I’m a burly bear.”
“I don’t have a brother.” said as simple as a fact, stepping to the guy, but Mr. Thompson placed his other hand on Ghilherme’s left pec to keep him back. His thumb ran over Ghilherme’s nipple as if in a soothing motion.
“Okay, you’re fucking Father then! I don’t give a fuck who it is, but I know ya’ll are related” The bear grumbled back. His attention turned to Mr. Thompson. “You can feel it can’t you? That something ain’t right with that boy.”
Mr. Thompson turned back to Ghilherme, who had a slight frown on his face. The way Ghilherme couldn't fit into his clothes any more, how tight Mr. Thompson’s clothes were. THere was something preventing it from being at the forefront of his mind, but yeah he knew Ghilherme was different.However the inconsistencies didn't make him unworthy of being someone Mr. Thompson wanted to protect. This was about Mr. Thompson’s decision, not Ghilherme’s existence. What kind of man would he be if he let this brutish trucker unleash what was clearly pent up rage on Ghilherme.
Ghilherme spoke with a calm voice. “You keep blaming me or someone else for what happened to you. But what really happened?”
“You’re dad sucked my cock and changed me.”
Ghilherme tilted his head, a smirk on his face , cocky, knowing. “No he didn’t.”
“You little shit!” The trucker spat, reaching for the young jock.
“Try being honest Eddie. What really happened?” Ghilherme shrugged.
The man's arms stopped flailing around,”People call me Ed,now” He paused as his eyes widened, staring at Ghilherme. Then his entire demeanor shifted to one more relaxed. “But that’s right it used to be Eddie. I didn't even know I forgot that” He fixed his shirt standing up a bit straighter. “I was a big deal ya know.” He turned to Mr. Thompson,”Came to the gas station and wanted to get a load off. The man asked for a ride, but I already knew I was going to pump and dump. Once we were in the bathroom. I thought about how good the head was, that i should just delicate my life to road head and breaking dude’s hearts. Then it’s like I was draining away into my own cock, my body was climbing higher.” Ed nodded toward Ghilherme. “Then his dad gulped everything I was down his throat.” Next Ed. fixed his cap and left the two alone.
Mr. Thompson got Ghilherme into his car and drove off, making sure a truck wasn’t following them. It was a town over, from his own stop, but Mr, Thompson was going to get Ghilherme to his destination.
“That wasn’t true, was it?” he asked, watching Ghilherme adjust the car seat so his legs could fit.The man licked his lips before continuing, “ What he said about your dad, was actually about you, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Ghilherme admitted casually. “But he got some details wrong.I didn’t suck shit out of him. He shot it into my throat. He was so eager to get rid of the responsibility and pressure, almost choked me.”
“Does that normally happen around you?”
Ghilherme had a wry smile, “Why you wondering if you’ve always had such milkable jugs?”’
Mr. Thompson glanced down at his chest as his pecs flexed very visible through the thin fabric. Questions arose, but not ones he was interested in. “No,” he answered honestly. “I’m wondering if that’s why you're on the road, because you're different. Because of what you can do.”
Ghilherme let out a laugh, not a mocking or insulting one, a genuinely damn near boyish one that conveyed every bit of youthfulness in him. He wiped a tear from his eye with a beautiful smile, “No, That’s not why Mr. Thompson. I’m just a hitchhiker. There are so many tales about them, happy, sad, good,bad. I don’t determine my story, I just play my role as dictated by who I’m with. Though to be fair to me, I didn’t even get a ride with Eddie, but he got the blowjob he wanted.”
“What do I get?” Mr. Thompson nervously gripped the steering wheel. He wasn’t scared or angry about learning the answer. He just hoped the reason wasn’t terrible to Ghilherme either.
Ghilherme scratched his head, prideful smiling at Mr. Thompson, “You get a ‘boy’ to fret over who’s not your son and to loosen up.”
“Wha–
“Now before you get to protesting, like I said I didn't determine your actions, you did. From the very moment you picked me up you were worried. I’m just relaying what I’ve been watching. Hell, I didn’t even think you would come back.”
Mr. Thompson turned to him mouth open “Of course I’d come back you were in danger had to make sure you were okay.”
Ghilherme, gave Mr. Thompson once over, and nodded his head, “Yeah, I definitely like this role.” The man felt his face go red. Do you mind if we pull over? I want to put my stuff in the trunk.”
Driving halfway on to the dirt, Mr Thompson calendar down Ghilherme got out the car. He got out himself prepped to say more words only to find the young man peeling off his shorts. They looked tiny on him now, Ghilherme’s face had hardened even more. He had grown again. His underwear ended up sliding down around the curve of his ass,orange sunlight on the brown buns and thicker back.
Mr. Thompson’s cock leapt as if trying to detach, he wanted Ghilherme badly. Absolutely no denying that now.
Reaching into his bag, Ghilherme pulled his jeans back out. Mr. Thompson watched dumbfounded as the jeans slid smoothly up the longer legs in a way they hadn’t that every morning. Ghilherme fastened them, perfectly contained.
“Could you have done that at any time?” He asked voice portraying his arousal,
“No, not anytime, only when you wanted to see it.”. Ghilherme walked back to the car, ass jiggling.
Mr. Thompson had no record of getting to the next motel after that. He just remembered his lips on Ghilherme‘s the moment the door closed. He pushed the younger man back on the bed and climbed on top of him. He kissed Ghilherme pes before softly biting them. A strange desire had built up inside of him to protect and yet absolutely wreck the man with him. He couldn't get his clothes off fast enough and he didn’t allow Ghilherme to take his own ants off either. Mr. Thompson pulled the damn things off, flinging them to the floor for deceiving him earlier. Next were the briefs and they could not contain the absolute MAN MEAT Ghilherme was slinging. Off went the small briefs, not befitting some Ghilherme’s size.
Pressing his face forward, Mr. Thompson let the heat of the member take him. His nose nuzzled into the dark pubes, before he stuck one of Ghilherme’s testicles in his mouth. He could have sworn he felt the balls make themselves bigger, churning and sloshing more seed and she sucked. Ghilherme smelled like the words best campfire and smore, the man wanted—needed more. The fat cock, every single last inch of the uncircumcised beast, disappeared into Mr. Thompson’s throat. He milked his companion with the seriousness of his professional self, but the eagerness of a virgin. Giraffes couldn’t give better neck than Mr. Thompson in that moment. He pulled off for a second, just to stare and admire the wet throbbing pillar. His saliva was all over Ghilherme’s cock. He gulped it back down. Ghilherme didn’t last long on the second round. By the time Mr. Thompson went balls deep, Ghilherme lost his load, shot after shot into the single father’s mouth.
Hunched over the bed’s side, Mr. Thompson’s cock had been drooling, a trail of precum glinting in the light, connecting his cock to the floor. He hadn’t allowed Ghilherme to touch him back. Mr. Thomspon had only wanted to start by absolutely serving the jock showing just how much he wanted him. Ghilherme’s wet cock slammed back on his abs, drained of his seed stolen by Mr. Thompson’s lips. The jock looked like he had run a marathon absolutely haggard. He didn't get time to rest; Mr. Thompson wasn’t done. The man lifted the jock's legs, folding him over, and dove into those spectacular glutes, eating ass and grunting all the while. Ghilherme’s cock got hard again, and Mr. Thompson stroked it fiercely, pushing into Ghilherme's ass. It jerked fiercely, unable to escape the man’s grasp, as Ghilherme came again. His cock splattered against his face and upper body. It smelt heady, potent, like something every jock produced to impregnate. Got Mr. Thompson hard as FUCK. He leaned in and got all the abandoned nuts for himself, cleaning Ghilherme completely.
Ghilherme may have looked haggard but the toothy grin he displayed as they locked eyes relayed it as perhaps just another performance. Good Mr. Thompson wasn’t done. He worshiped, now it was time to wreck. He flipped the male around lining him up with the headboard. Mr. Thompson’s cock looked heftier and meaner than mere seconds ago, regardless it all sank into Ghilherme depth the same. The man always had a good size, but this was now a lot of COCK to give. But before he knew it his brown pubes met the toasted buns. It was like he could still feel the afternoon sun backing them. Their hips met and skin slaps echoed through the room. Mr. Thompson couldn’t; give a fuck if other people heard him. This was his boy and he needed everyone to know. The trucker Ed had really tried to fuck with him. Mr. Thompson leaned in kissing Ghilherme as their fucking continued switching off and on between love making and pure sexual gratification. The room was laced with the heavy scents of their bodies co-mingling. Ghilherme ass took a pounding, its owner breaking out in a full sweat.
And surprisingly it was Mr. Thompson who noticed. He didn’t just have Ghilherme like others. He had Ghilherme beyond the boundaries of flesh. Something deeper, the essence, that had been forced into the visage of a lost young person when they met, perhaps far ancient and wiser than even it understood. His boy. Only his. He had made an older brother for Danny. He took one more look at Ghilherme's back side.
Mr. Thompson’s cock detonated, an explosion that backed up Ghilherme’s poor colon. He pressed forward, laying his legs on Ghilherme’s. The man’s crotch laid on top of ass cheeks. buried as if he were trying to impregnate Ghilherme. Fuck maybe he was. Mr. Thompson collapsed onto Ghilherme’s back, chest collided and fell perfectly. Ghilherme held the man’s weight, no spill over anywhere. He had gained more years through their fucking, and it only made Mr. Thomspon go harder.
He fell asleep quickly.
In the morning, he woke up arms around Ghilherme, cock pressed on that fine ass. Leaning over, he kissed Ghilherme’s face, then slowly and painstakingly crawled out of bed to take a shower. He got dressed putting on another polo, and dress pants, he didn’t comb his hair or put on a belt. Tennis shoes, not dress shoes. More of a natural look, less polished. His upper body was completely visible under the shirt chest, bigger than most women’s boobs. The ass he was packing felt ready to pop out the back of his pants, while his bulge made a very obvious indent on his fly area. Ready for the day, he went over to bed to lightly stir Ghilherme awake.
“Hmmm?” Ghilherme rubbed his head in the pillow.
“Want anything for breakfast?” He asked.
Ghilherme shook his head, then went back to sleep. Mr. Thompson chuckled, absolutely sure Ghilherme didn’t even hear him. He headed out the door, to pick up some food. His phone rang as Danny called on video and he answered. Danny was still in his night clothes, rubbing his eyes
“Looks like I beat you today. I’m already on the road.” He taped the stirring wheel
“I overslept a bit.” Danny sighed.
“Well don’t worry about it, I’ll let you go so you can finish getting ready.”
That made Danny’s eyes open, “Really? Wait,” He leaned into the camera closer. “Dad, your hair’s not styled.”
“Just trying something new today, Danny!” He smiled to his son and to himself. “Love you son, have a nice day.”
“You too dad,” and then Danny was gone.
When Mr. Thompson got back to the motel room with breakfast sandwiches, Ghilherme was already up and dressed. The man tossed one over and Ghilherme snatched it from the air with ease. “Someone’s on point today.” he smiled.
“Have to be, today I get my money back.” He bit into his food.
“Do you even need money?” Mr. Thompson asked amused.
Ghilherme looked at his driver like he was stupid, “Whether I need it or not, how about it’s my money and it was stolen. Guess his story was about being an ass to strangers.”
“Fair enough,” Mr. Thompson shrugged as they ate together. His eyes roamed over the completely filled in body, everywhere just full of more mass and muscle for Ghilherme to adorn, there was nothing ‘young adult’ about him. This was another man who had come completely into himself and would only grow more into himself.
After they finished eating, and cleaned up the room, Mr. Thompson grabbed Ghilherme and made out, ravenously. They had been heading to the door, and he just went for it. Dropping to his knees he yanked down Ghilherme’s pants cock springing out. Firm hands on Ghilherme’s ass, Mr. Thompson went to town, washing down breakfast with Ghilherme’s massive cumshot. He wasn’t allowed to just walk away though, Ghilherme cock was raring to go again, and he got them in a 69 position. They both got a taste of each other that morning.
Then Mr. Thompson brushed his teeth, because he was more carefree, not dumb.
He drove to Ghilherme’s city first. He stopped at a random park.
“I could wait you know, or come back to get you?” He offered.
“Thanks man, that means a lot, really,” He smiled and Mr. Thompson wanted to melt. “But I think we both know our time’s up. It’s up to someone else to help this hitchhiker. Mr. Thompson nodded sadly, popping open the trunk as Ghilherme hopped out, getting his things, then walking on Mr. Thompson’s side Ghilherme leaned in for a kiss, their lips met. Not a goodbye. Their mouths parted. Mr. Thompson spotted it first in his peripheral vision, a guy eating a donut, then body freezing like he’d seen a ghost. Ghilherme turned his head, then slapped the car.
“Hey, you fuck where’s my money?!” The guy took off running.”
“I’ll be seeing you Mr. Thompson!” Ghilherme was right behind the guy. They ran down the block and turned the corner and then he was gone.
He waited for a bit before pulling off.
The work event went by smoothly; he didn't even think too much about putting his best foot forward, they all felt naturally drawn to him. The investors were secured, the higherups would be pleased. Time to head home. The drive back was lonely without another presence. He thought back to his final kiss with Ghilherme. Something had flashed in the man’s mind, shared by his companion. He hadn’t said it, but he wanted to know where Ghilherme would be after their time together. The kiss was the answer. He’d be everywhere.
There were various meetings with hitchhikers waiting to take place, taking place, even then.
Mr. Thompson continued driving with wind on his face, another beautiful day. His mind drifted only a second and when it came too, the scenery around him was different, less plains more tropical. Up ahead of him a figure walked alone on the road.
Great body? Fat ass? He definitely knew who that was. Mr. Thompson pulled up beside the man on the road.
“You going my way?” The man asked.
“Where are your clothes?” Mr. Thompson chuckled.
“The last guy I was with took them…” Then the hitchhiker looked at Mr. Thompson and leaned in, “or maybe, you didn’t want me wearing anything?”
“Get in the car,” He planted a kiss on the man's lips. They made it back on the road, laughing it up, not noticing the tropical scene fading back into familiar plains.
—
A mysterious figure walked on the side of the road, a smile on his lips.
Nude body open to the elements.
Hand extended out.
Standing in a place where time slowed to a crawl, and the next story waited to take shape.
Jace was shocked and in disbelief when his Coach informed him that he had been drafted by the Mindfucked Jock league. He had heard things about guys who get drafted by them and transformed into nothing more than mindless holes and poles for their fans.
He tried to run away but was swiftly captured by 2 men that placed him into the reeducation room. They quickly strapped him to a chair, placed headphones over his ears, and activated the brainwashing process.
Jace was completely unprepared to fight against the hypnotic stimuli playing throughout the room. The mesmerizing spiral playing in front of him easily captured his focus as his Coach’s voice echoed throughout his ear about what a good obedient dumb jock that he was.
As ten days passed, Jace learned more and more about being a good jock. His priorities shifted to focus on only his Coach’s desires and wants. He was after all, just a dumb jock and dumb jocks obey their Coach.
On the 11 day, Jace emerged from the reeducation room as a new man. With a look of determination on his face, the newest member of mindfucked jock league took the field for the first time to show off what a good mindless jock slut he had become.
AE-1184 is a recently identified drug first reported by local authorities in Medellín, Colombia. Since its initial appearance, distribution has spread across multiple criminal networks throughout South America, with confirmed cases in Bogotá, Lima, and São Paulo.
The substance is primarily used by organized groups targeting foreign tourists. All recorded victims have been Caucasian males from upper-middle-class or affluent backgrounds. Confirmed cases include individuals from the United States (87), the United Kingdom (43), Australia (4), and Ireland (1). Victims are typically identified in high-end hotels, bars, and nightlife venues.
Perpetrators approach in small groups, engage targets in casual conversation, and build trust before guiding them away from populated areas—most commonly into quiet streets or private vehicles.
Administration is direct and controlled. In most cases, the substance is injected into the side of the subject’s neck using a fine-gauge needle. A secondary syringe is then used to extract [REDACTED] from the subject.
The effects begin within seconds. Subjects enter a dazed, compliant state, showing no resistance or awareness of their surroundings.
Following exposure, subjects are abandoned. Extracted [REDACTED] is trafficked through underground networks and sold to [REDACTED] individuals for the purpose of [REDACTED].
No subject has been successfully reverted.
———————-———————-——————————-
Case File – Subject B-3 (FKA: Daniel Gallagher)
Daniel Gallagher squinted at his phone as he walked, the bright screen lighting his face in the otherwise dim street. The music from the club still rang faintly in his ears, bass echoing in his chest as he tried to follow the map back to his hotel.
The Irish tourist had been in the city three days, thinking he knew the area by now. But São Paulo looked different at night. It didn’t help that there weren’t as many people out now. Not as many lights either.
Daniel slowed, turning slightly as the map recalculated. “So, left… here?” he muttered to himself.
“E aí, mano.”
Daniel looked up. A man stood a few feet away, hands relaxed at his sides. Early-20s, casual clothes, nothing threatening about him.
“You… not from here, yes?” the guy said, his English broken but clear enough.
Daniel gave a small laugh. “Uh-”
The guy was young - Daniel’s age. There felt like there was an unspoken bond. The guy smiled, nodding. “This area… not so good. Especially with phone.” He gestured toward Daniel’s hand. “People see. They take.”
Daniel instinctively lowered the phone. “Right. Yeah, fair.”
“I help you,” the man continued, friendly, easy. “Where you go?”
“Uh—hotel,” Daniel said, turning the screen toward him. “This one.”
The man leaned in, glancing at it. “Ah, yes. I know. Is not far. I go same way.” He straightened up, already turning slightly down the street. “Come. I walk you for safety.”
Daniel smiled graciously.
“Thank you. I appreciate it. What is your name?”
“João.” The boy shook the Irish tourists hand firmly and the two begin walking.
The man kept an easy pace, hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing back to make sure Daniel was following. The street grew quieter the further they went. The lights were dimmer here. Fewer windows. No people.
Daniel noticed it, faintly. Something about it felt… off.
“Hotel is this way?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” the man said quickly. “Shortcut.”
They turned down a narrower street.
That was when Daniel felt it.
Two men grabbing him from behind, forcing his hands behind him holding him in position. They knock the tourist to his knees.
“Jaysus!”
As his knees hit the ground, João pressed something sharp into Daniel’s neck. He felt whatever liquid enter his vein spreading throughout his body. The world didn’t spin. It didn’t go black.
It just… slowed.
The tension in his body drained almost instantly. His thoughts, sharp and alert a second ago, dulled like someone had turned the volume down.
“Hey—what—”
The words came out wrong. Too slow. Little did Daniel know, his DNA was becoming like puddy. Completely mailable.
“Segurem-no firme. Prontos para a extração.” João readied a second device. This one was empty.
Before Daniel could react, João jabbed the device into Daniel’s neck, slowly draining a white liquid substance out of him. It just kept coming and coming, filling up the vial in the device.
As the gang member extracted the white liquid from Daniel, Daniel’s awareness dimmed. He didn’t notice as his skin slowly darkened, taking on the warm, sun-kissed tone of someone raised under the blistering sun, not the pale green pastures of his family’s farm back in Ireland.
His features shifted subtly but unmistakably. His nose broadened, eyebrows thickened, and his lips grew fuller. Each change felt impossible, yet inevitable, as if his body was being extracted of everything that made Daniel the Irish man he was.
Heaviness plumped into Daniel’s glutes, as two fat brown globes bounced outwards, splitting his pants. His two jiggling Brazilian cheeks begging to be free from his tight constricting Irish jeans. The same for his front. His average 5 inch white cock fattened and pushed forwards into a fat 7 inch uncut brown cock.
One of the men leaned closer, watching Daniel’s face rapidly grow facial hair. It was ginger, just like the hair on his head. One of the men holding Daniel scanned Daniel’s ginger beard. Against his darkening skin, it looked almost comical. A comical reminder of his diminishing Irish heritage.
“Olha a barba ruiva dele.” One of the men said, voice low and amused. “Eles vão pagar muito por um ruivo.”
Daniel felt it before he saw it—his beard losing its fiery hue. Slowly, the ginger strands darkened, blending into a uniform black, indistinguishable from the men holding him down.
João continued the extraction, the vial already three-quarters full.
Daniel’s mind began to fog. Words jumbled in his head, English slipping away like sand through his fingers. He tried to speak, to protest, but the sounds coming out were broken, confused. Two vocabularies warring inside him, one destined to win, the other to vanish entirely. Portuguese words eliminating his English vocab, like cells killing a virus.
“Por fa… me ajuda,” Danogo croaked, his voice weak and lethargic. His limbs felt like lead, as they thickened up with big beefy muscle. But even with his new Brazilian muscles, he couldn’t push the men off him, though he desperately tried.
Memories surged through his mind like a virus, rewriting him from the inside out. He saw himself as he used to be—skinny, pale, ginger, standing in front of a mirror.
That image flickered, unstable, before being overtaken by something else. A darker, fuller body. Broader. Warmer. Bigger. Round oversized pecs. Big large thick hands. His fat brown Brazilian cheeks wobbling behind him.
His memories of growing up... the cold, open fields of his family’s Irish farm. The green grass, grey skies, early mornings. They didn’t exist anymore, replaced by hot sunlight and salt air, long days by the sea, heat pressing into his skin. His massive body bouncing on the sand as passerbys ogled him up and down.
His years of GAA training, discipline, dedication. All of it began to be overwritten. In its place came football in the streets, laughing with friends. It came so naturally. Like his body was meant for it. Fuck, he was obsessed with it. Football took up so much of his mind. A new obsession that felt like it had been there forever. It was at that point where he questioned what GAA even was.
His memories of himself were overwritten too. His self perception of being a quiet dedicated bookworm with a love for Irish sports VANISHED. As if it was never there. In its place came something louder. Music thumping through crowded rooms. Late nights. Easy laughter. A need to be around people, to be seen.
He tried to push the memories away. To hold onto his Irishness, but it was no use. His thick Brazilian accent prevented anything he said from even sounding vaguely English.
“Sou irlandês… sou… eu… por favor.” Diogo cried to the men, in his dazed stupor. But he looked anything but Irish. “Estou tão confuso.”
He slumped onto the concrete as the men withdrew the device from his neck. The vial was full of the thick, white liquid.
Diogo moaned softly, every movement painful, his body heavy and unresponsive.
“Boa sorte, cara.” João said with a casual wink, leaving the newly Brazilian man sprawled on the ground.
The gang melted into the night. Diogo inspected his unmistakably Latino hand before passing out.
———————-———————-——————————-
Post-Exposure Analysis – AE-1184
AE-1184 does more than just sedate or confuse its targets. The drug extracts the subject’s whiteness (their background, heritage, English fluency, cultural knowledge and memories) - storing it in the white liquid from the subject.
Evidence shows that local gangs are selling this material on the black market. Buyers are often non-white individuals who aim to attain the advantages, social status and privilege associated with white populations, by injecting the stolen whiteness, making themselves privileged white men.
The network appears highly organized and the drug is highly sought after. Victims are carefully chosen for appearance and socioeconomic background, targeted in wealthy areas, and then harvested efficiently.
FCA continues to investigate the buyers and distribution channels. The scale suggests a deliberate, profit-driven trade in human cultural and social capital, with international implications.
Victim Overview – AE-1184
Recovered individuals have been effectively stripped of their original racial and national identities. White, Caucasian tourists lose their English fluency entirely, and in cases in South America, their genetic markers are altered to align with local Latin American populations. Skin tone, facial features, and other inherited traits shift accordingly, leaving the subject biologically and socially indistinguishable from local populations.
Despite some awareness that they no longer belong to their former nationality, subjects are unable to recall meaningful details about their previous lives—names, family, education, or social history are largely inaccessible. Memories of cultural practices and social structures are erased, replaced by the cognitive void left after extraction of privilege and heritage.
All victims are taken in for monitoring and initial assessment. Following containment, they are relocated to supervised housing across Colombia, Peru & Spain (for now Spanish speaking subjects) and Brazil & Portugal (for now Portuguese speaking subjects). Subjects are effectively unable to return to their countries of origin, as the loss of English fluency and cultural familiarity renders them incapable of independent functioning in those societies.
Image of Diogo Galvão (formerly Daniel Gallagher) in São Paulo.
Ongoing Notes
New cases of AE-1184 exposure are reported daily. The drug appears to be spreading beyond South America, with victims now appearing in parts of Africa and India. In these cases, subjects are observed to adopt local racial and cultural traits, effectively becoming African or Indian men following the extraction of their original identities.
At present, it is unknown whether affected individuals can ever be returned to their original identities. By this stage, their original cultural, linguistic, and genetic essence is likely too extensively extracted, used, and dispersed to recover.
Cristian didn’t know his father at all growing up and his mom was always tight-lipped. He didn’t get why; in the old pictures she had around the house the two actually looked happy. His dad looked like a normal dude. Goofy smile of a 20 something recently married, finding out he was going to be a dad. A former art collector in his pastime. Something changed. In him. To him. Whatever. The smile Cristian only knew through magazines or scrolling on Instagram wasn’t the one in his house. The one online was one belonging to a much older self-assured male in a position of power.
Then the call came. Cristian had turned 18. His father wanted to meet him. Told him that he’d explain everything the boy wanted to know and pay his mother what she was owed for raising him with interest.
“Don’t go.” Cristian mom would warn him, for reasons even she didn't quite understand.
“You think he’s lying about the money?” He didn't give a shit about his dad’s truth; it wouldn’t change the fact he had impregnated his mom then dumped her.
The woman would suck her teeth before sighing, “I’ve known that man since we were in diapers. He changed one day, but no. Out of all the things I could call him, a liar isn’t one of him. But it’s not his lies I’m worried about.”
“I’m getting your money mom.” Cristian would say hugging her close. The next day he’d be on a plane to meet his elusive father.
The man’s walk, or rather saunter, reeked of money. Tight swim trunks for the pool, bare chest, douchey sunglasses. A body that saw as many workouts as it did boardrooms. He hugged Cristian tight. Cristian wanted to push him off but was attempting to play nice. He stomached the affection even though it reeked of performativeness. Not like he could fight the guy anyway. Cristian was fortunate with his genetics, but his father was in a whole other weight class. Cristian was a jock and his father looked like what ate jocks for breakfast.
“A DILF.” His father said.
“Huh?” Cristian asked.
“I said you probably didn't know your father was a DILF.” The man grinned, all pearly white teeth showing. Cristian groaned as his father walked them inside his massive estate. The living room was larger than most hotel lobbies, stark white walls, gray rugs, black furniture. On the wall above the mantle sat a huge painting of a lion’s head, eyes staring out into the room. Cristina felt like its eyes were on him
“Like it?” His father whispered in his ear. Cristian didn't move. “It’s called ‘The Leo’. I'm Leo. I just knew I needed it when I saw it. I bet your mother remembers, she got it for my birthday. You can say it inspired me, put me on this path today.” The man rested his head on his son’s shoulder smiling, “I think it’s having the same effect on you, as it did me.” He patted his son on his chest, knocking Cristian out of his frozen state. “Let me show you to your room” he waved for his son to follow. Cristian didn't move; he looked back.
“Don’t worry there’s copies all over the house…even in your room.” His dad winked.
Cristian forgot to ask questions. He didn’t want to ask questions. All he wanted to know was more about the painting. How did a picture inspire his dad? He laid awake eyes on the copy above his bed. Nothing special about it, and yet he got out of bed walking through the dark house to stare at the original.
“I was there you know.”
Cristian jumped as his father stepped out of the shadows, “I was there you know. When you were born. Held you in my arms.”
“I–I didn’t know that.”
“Told your mom not to tell, but I had long since promised her, I’d be there. But she probably knew just by the sight of me, I was falling apart. A sweaty mess, unkempt,” The man chuckled, reflecting on his past state. Cristian didn’t see what was funny. Then his eyes switched from reminiscing to predatory hunger in his eyes as he circled his boy.
“The picture needed me, and I knew it would need you too.” The man rolled his shoulders, “I told your mother to stay away. I knew the responsibility of the weight wouldn’t ruin you if you weren’t ready.” Then he paused, approaching from behind his son to rub the teen’s shoulders. “But there was another reason. I knew watching you fall would hit so much better with delayed gratification.”
A roar came from the painting, as a ghostly lion figure stepped out, floating in the air then lunged at Cristian. The boy screamed as the animal turned into smoke, flying down his throat as he collapsed back into his father. Cristian's stomach gurgled and churned as his body recognized what it was digesting was the boy’s own desires. His pride. His arrogance. Great fodder for a growing young man. Cristian’s body got yanked higher, forced to stand as tall as his dad. Shoulders more akin to cannon balls heralded the appearance of skull crushing arms. His face whisked away any last vestiges of baby fat, true looks coming to prominence. He looked like his father's son. Daddy’s little enforcer.
The world would be all aglow about Cristian. The arrogant, self-righteous, little prince who appeared out of nowhere to work alongside his father. His getaway and trips would be stuff of legends ranging from expensive to stupid. No one would ever be able to locate where the child came from.
---
Cristian’s mother was home alone, when she got the text from her ex-husband. She’d been waiting to hear from her son and know he made it okay.
“I really have to thank you Betty. You raised a good son. He couldn’t even make it one day. I mean, Christ even I took months to fall! But our boy was something special. I always knew it. But I needed to wait. Innocence wasn’t enough, the kinder and sweeter he was. The greater the new him could be."
“What the hell are you talking about, where’s Cristian!” Betty typed back. “I don’t care if you pay me, but if you’re saying you wasted his time.”
“On the contrary, I’m saying I have to pay you extra for the work you put in. I knew it was something only you could do ;)! Say ‘hello’ to our son.”
A picture came through of a young man, the mother didn't recognize.
For those who were fans of the original Mirror, Mirror short…
How about another?
"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the hungest one of all..."
Josiah walked into the locker room for probably the tenth time that day. He had no idea why one of the managers thought this stupid mirror inscription would be a good addition to the atmosphere at the gym. He could swear the extra cocky and dumb fuckboys walking around today were somehow summoned by the new inscription. Well, Josiah didn’t necessarily believe there was a direct correlation, but he did subscribe to the idea that you invite into your space the energy that you want.
That easygoing and positive demeanor made him one of the more popular trainers at the gym. Sure, he had a good physique, but it was because he cared for his body and health, and he thrived at the gym, teaching those guiding principles to others. On the other hand, staring at the latest patron’s use of the new mirror provoked his principles, reviving the reconsideration of his role in the toxifying workplace again.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the hungest one of all? It’s the epitome of envy and pride. Whoever wrote this has an ailing mind.”
Josiah turned to go, except…
He could swear the peripheral glance he’d caught in the mirror displayed a more noticeable bulge…
He turned back to alleviate the paranoia permeating his psyche… but it really did seem bigger. Josiah stepped closer, grabbing the protrusion in his shorts. He smiled as his hand groped the shaft beneath the fabric. He may not be the hungest—as the sign said—but he was definitely big. It’s the reason why he was popular at the gym—people thought he was all positive and zen, but he just looked good, and his dick was big enough that he never worried about jealousy. When you pack the member and muscle he had, it’s easy to keep envy at bay. Josiah’s training conduct centered on modeling the confidence a good body can get you. When you work hard and earn your ideal image, it’s not conceited to show off—it’s just the love you deserve to claim from yourself and your peers.
But Josiah knew as he looked in the mirror that as hard as his clients tried, they could never be him. He wasn’t just a model; he was a paragon. The clients who took him seriously—those bros could build muscle, grow broader, tone, and define and sculpt until they earn the bravado they’ve always had but never justified. But those same jocks could never pull the client base he had because they’d never had his gargantuan cock. Josiah was not at the gym to help improve lives; he was the main attraction. People paid money to be in his presence while he worked up a sweat to get a close-up look at his mythic bulge. Sometimes, in public, he’d catch a judging glance, or a “good Christian woman” would comment on his brashness, but even if he wanted to hide it, his shaft couldn’t be contained. No, instead, he was used to seeing the looks of envy, desire, lust, and hunger fall across the face of anyone he brushed past.
Josiah loved to pose and flex and flaunt in front of a mirror, but he had a gym floor to dominate. He turned around to go and lift.
Oh, he almost forgot—he was the hungest one of all; he can’t let that stay up. He erases the last word, leaving the fairytale phrase blank. Except all that flexing had left him aroused—a horse cock like his was insatiable. Maybe he can use the inscription for some solicitation. He fills in the blank and departs the locker room.
"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the sluttiest one of all..."
God, what the fuck happened to me? It was that guy… what was his name… the quarterback… Chad, was it? I can’t even remember, dude. I mean, not ‘dude’. Fuck. I don’t say that. I never say that, bro. God dammit. This is so frustrating!
I made a comment. One comment: “The football team are all kinda dumb meatheads, aren’t they?”. Chad overheard and clearly he didn’t take too kindly to it. He came over, smacked my ass and called me his “bro”. After he placed his big meaty paw on my ass, I blacked out and woke up LIKE THIS. Like some DUMB FUCKING JOCK!
I’m so big now. My fingers look like fat sausages… they’re not as fat as my cock though huhuhu. God, just thinking about my cock… i’m hard. It’s so much bigger than before. Like twice as big. At least 10 inches. And it’s fat… so fucking fat. God, i just wanna bury it inside some fat jiggling ass. Breed deep between some fertile cheeks. Mark them as my property.
Wait! Fuck what’s happening? My brain… it’s like changing bro. Getting all slow and shit. Fuckkkkk…. where are my thoughts man. It’s like… so empty in there huhuhu. It feels like my brain is getting emptier, but my balls are filling up. My sack is so big and round. Its still filling up with potent cum, forcing my legs apart. Gotta cum bro. Gotta unleash my load into some fuckable hole.
Wouldn’t it be funny if I impregnated one of the bros huhuhu. Dont be surprised if I do man. Chad has fuckable bouncy cheeks. I always smack them during training and call him my “big booty bro” huhuhu. Everything is so damn funny man.
I feel so fuckin smart for some reason today dude. The team tells me i’m just an empty headed fuck animal, but they’re wrong man… I just have… strong urges… My body just needs to spread its alpha seed. Ugh… i do love it when they call me an animal though. A fucking animal. Always gets my cock straining against my football uniform.
I’m so fucking horny bro. My alpha cock needs to cum now. It won’t go down. No matter how much i want it to. It needs to cum. I need to bury it deep inside some jiggling cheeks NOW.
Fuck. IM GONNA… IN GONNA CUM. IM GONNA CUM THINKING ABOUT CHAD’S BOUNCY ROUND FUCKABLE CUMDUMP ASS. I’M GONNA BE STUCK LIKE THIS FOREVER.
The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here
Nick Bosa and his brother Joey stood side by side in the bright California sun, the camera on Joey’s phone capturing every inch of their transformed bodies. The red MFSA shirts clung to them like a second skin, stretched so tight over their newly enhanced physiques that the stitched white letters looked ready to burst at the seams.
Nick’s pecs had ballooned into thick, heavy slabs that jutted forward aggressively, his shoulders now capped with even thicker deltoids and traps that rose like mountains on either side of his thick neck. Joey’s arms had grown another layer of dense muscle, biceps peaking higher than ever and forearms veined and corded from the supernatural surge the shirts had poured into them. Both brothers looked less like NFL defensive ends and more like comic-book alphas, every movement making their quads and calves flex with raw power.
Nick flexed one arm toward the camera, the bicep exploding into a sharp, vascular peak. “Josh Allen is the man who started this,” he said, his voice a deep, commanding growl. “He led the NFL back into the realm of alpha men where it belongs. No more woke agenda poisoning our game. No more rainbow distractions and soft rules turning real football into some inclusive joke. We are wearing the red, we are growing stronger, and we are taking it back. If you are a real man in this league, order your shirt and join the movement. Make Football Straight Again.”
Joey stepped forward, his own massive chest swelling as he crossed his arms, making the red fabric strain even harder. “Exactly. Josh showed us the way,” he agreed. “Time to purge the betas and the liberals out of our sport. Football is for straight alphas. Period.”
They both grinned at the camera, the video ending with a double flex that made their shirts creak. Nick hit post, and within minutes the clip exploded across every social media platform in the league.
Hundreds of miles away in Houston, Harper sat glued to his laptop in his small apartment, stomach twisting as he watched the Bosa brothers’ video for the third time. The lifelong Texans fan had followed JJ Watt for years, idolizing the retired defensive star’s work ethic and charity. Harper was athletic himself, lean and defined from years of distance running, with a runner’s build that turned heads at the local track. He was openly gay and proudly liberal, the kind of guy who had cheered every time the NFL added pride nights or inclusion initiatives.
But now the league was rotting from the inside. Josh Allen, Kirk Cousins, Harrison Butker, Matt Araiza, and now the Bosa brothers were openly pushing blatant homophobia under the MFSA banner. And the worst part? Not a single superstar, not even the retired legends Harper respected, had spoken out against it. JJ Watt had stayed completely silent.
Harper’s hands shook as he closed the laptop. He could not just sit here. Someone had to do something. He had studied enough occult texts in college to know a possession spell when he saw one described. The ritual he had found online was supposed to be temporary, a quick swap where he could slip into JJ’s body, post a strong condemnation of the MFSA movement from inside the legend’s own account, and then vacate before anyone noticed. JJ was too deep in the football world, too busy with family and business, to risk his reputation by speaking out. Harper would give him the outsider courage he needed. It was perfect. Temporary. Harmless.
He lit the candles, drew the circle with careful precision, and spoke the ancient words exactly as the spell required. It was the same dark incantation Alex Thompson had once uttered in a quiet Buffalo bedroom months earlier.
The world blurred violently around Harper. A sickening lurch tore through his core as his consciousness was ripped free from his lean runner’s body. For a split second everything went black. Then he slammed hard into a much larger, heavier frame. His new eyes snapped open and he gasped, the sound already deeper than anything he had ever produced before.
He was sitting on the edge of a large bed in an unfamiliar master bedroom. Harper looked down and his breath caught in his throat. Massive hands rested on thick, powerful thighs that were definitely not his own. Thick forearms corded with muscle led up to biceps that were already impressive even at rest. A chest that was already broad and developed had begun to swell noticeably, rising and falling with heavy breaths. He was inside JJ Watt’s body!
Before he could put the next stage of his plan into action though, a deep, pleasurable heat bloomed across his chest like liquid fire. Harper watched in stunned awe as JJ’s already impressive pectorals surged forward, expanding outward into dense, armor-like plates of muscle. The slabs of meat thickened and pushed aggressively against the thin tank top he was wearing, nipples hardening into sensitive points as the fibers multiplied and swelled. The pecs ballooned heavier and rounder by the second until they formed a massive, striated shelf that forced his new arms to rest at wider angles.
The heat raced upward. His shoulders broadened with a series of deep, rolling cracks, deltoids exploding into thick, rounded caps of power while his traps rose higher and higher up a rapidly thickening neck. His arms were next. The biceps ballooned dramatically, peaking higher than JJ had ever achieved in his playing days, splitting into sharp, vascular heads. Triceps swelled into powerful horseshoes beneath them as forearms thickened and veins snaked across the surface like rivers on a map. His hands grew larger, fingers becoming thick and strong.
JJ’s back widened into a dramatic V-taper, lats flaring out so wide they stretched the tank top to its absolute limit. His abs carved themselves deeper and deeper, transforming into a brutal, shredded eight-pack separated by deep, shadowed cuts. The waist stayed narrow and tight, giving him an exaggerated, almost cartoonish alpha silhouette.
The transformation stormed downward. His quads detonated outward in thick, sweeping waves of striated muscle, the vastus lateralis and medialis pushing aggressively against the fabric of his shorts until the seams began to tear. Hamstrings tightened into dense, powerful cords while his calves diamonded into rock-hard sculpted shapes. His glutes firmed and rounded into two powerful, striated slabs that lifted him slightly on the bed. Even his feet grew larger to support the massive new frame.
A final heavy throb hit him between the legs. Harper groaned deeply as his cock thickened and lengthened rapidly inside the loose shorts, growing heavier, longer, and far more sensitive. The surge of raw alpha energy made it pulse with power, filling out into a thick, heavy tool worthy of the godlike body it now belonged to.
For several long moments he simply sat there, flexing and feeling the new power coursing through him. This was only supposed to be temporary. He forced himself to stand up on shaky, tree-trunk legs and made his way to JJ’s computer, fingers trembling as he sat down at the desk. He had a job to do. He had to post the statement condemning the MFSA movement before the spell ended…
But the dark magic was already digging its hooks much deeper.
The body felt too good. Too strong. Too overwhelmingly right. Every flex sent waves of pleasure through him that made his old, lean runner’s frame feel like a pathetic joke in comparison. Why on earth would he ever want to leave this? The liberal ideals that had driven him here began to crack and warp under the relentless assault of pure masculine power. Tolerance felt weak. Inclusivity felt soft. The very causes he had passionately believed in suddenly seemed disgusting and naive.
Harper raised one arm and flexed hard, watching the bicep peak into a mountain of muscle, veins pulsing across the surface. A low, involuntary groan of pure pleasure escaped his new throat. The thought of returning to his slim, unremarkable body filled him with sudden revulsion. No. He belonged here now. Inside this godlike, dominant frame. This was his body. Forever.
A knock at the door pulled him from his trance. Harper stood on thick, powerful legs that still felt almost too good to be real, the new mass making every step feel commanding and dominant as he crossed the room. He signed for the small parcel with a hand that dwarfed the delivery man’s, then closed the door and carried the box back to the mirror. The return address was Buffalo. Josh Allen.
He tore open the packaging with eager fingers and pulled out a bright red shirt. The white stitching across the chest read MAKE FOOTBALL STRAIGHT AGAIN. His stomach turned in disgust, an instinct left over from his former self, but he couldn’t help himself from picking up the garment. The moment his skin made contact with the fabric, a supernatural warmth bloomed across his palms and traveled up his thick forearms like liquid electricity.
It was not just cloth. It felt alive, pulsing faintly, as though the shirt itself carried dark magic. A soft whisper brushed the edges of his mind, low and insistent: Wear it. Become it. Harper blinked hard, trying to shake the intrusive thought away. This was not part of the plan. He had only meant to borrow the body long enough to post one statement. Nothing more.
He felt the compulsion settle in like a gentle but unbreakable tide, guiding his fingers as they stripped off the old tank top JJ had been wearing and let it drop to the floor. The red shirt unfolded in his grip, the fabric almost humming against his calloused palms. Harper’s liberal mind screamed at him to stop, to drop it, to fight. But the warmth was spreading up his arms now, sinking into the heavy slabs of his new pectorals, and it felt so incredibly right. Just one wear, he told himself. Just to see. Then he would take it off and finish what he came here to do.
He slid the shirt over his head. The red cotton settled against his swollen torso like a second skin, stretching tight over the massive curves of his enhanced chest and shoulders. The moment the hem dropped into place, the final wave began, slow and insidious, nothing like the explosive physical growth he had already endured.
At first it was only a gentle heat radiating outward from the center of his chest, where the stitched letters pressed directly over his heart. Harper sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, trying to focus. He still had work to do. He still believed in inclusion, in pride nights, in letting gay players live openly without fear. Those values were his. They had always been his. Yet as the shirt’s supernatural energy seeped deeper, tiny cracks began to form in those convictions.
Why did the league need all those rainbow logos anyway? The thought floated up uninvited, soft and reasonable at first. It was distracting. It took focus away from the game. Harper shook his head, but the shirt pulsed again, warmer now, and the doubt lingered. He pictured the locker room filled with men who just wanted to hit hard and win, and the image of pride stickers on helmets suddenly felt… silly. Weak, even. The warmth traveled lower, wrapping around his abs, and another whisper slipped into his thoughts: Real men do not need special nights. Real men just play.
He flexed one arm experimentally, watching the bicep peak sharply under the red sleeve. A low groan escaped him. The body felt even better with the shirt on, as if the fabric was feeding power straight into his veins. His old runner’s life flashed in his mind, the protests he had attended, the causes he had championed. They seemed smaller now. Distant. Almost pathetic.
Why had he wasted so much energy on things that made the sport softer? Women belonged in the stands cheering, not in the front office making decisions. The thought arrived fully formed and felt strangely natural. He pictured them on their knees or bent over for men like him, existing only for pleasure, and a dark thrill shot through his cock. He tried to push the image away, but the shirt pulsed again, hotter, and the thrill returned stronger.
The gays… He caught himself mid-thought, horrified. No. He was gay. Or at least Harper had been. He wasn’t Harper anymore though, no. That word - gay - now tasted wrong in his new mouth; an abomination trying to ruin a man’s sport. The corruption was moving faster, sliding into the deeper parts of his mind like oil over water.
He fought it for one final moment, clinging to the memory of his old self, but the shirt’s supernatural grip tightened. Every liberal ideal burned away slowly, deliciously, replaced by hard, unapologetic conservatism that felt like truth finally settling into place. Tolerance was nothing but weakness. Inclusivity was a betrayal of good old American values. Football needed to be straight again, raw and brutal and unapologetic.
Harper stood up and turned to the full-length mirror. The red MFSA shirt strained gloriously over his enhanced pecs and shoulders, the letters bold and proud across the massive shelf of his chest. He flexed both arms, watching the muscle explode under the fabric, and a wide, toxic grin spread across his face. The last traces of the old Harper vanished completely. He was JJ Watt now, the real JJ Watt: bigger, stronger, and finally free of any weakness.
He grabbed his phone, thick fingers flying across the screen, and fired off a text to Josh Allen: “Shirts received and worn. Feeling like a new man. Send two more to my brothers TJ and Derek. They are ready to join the movement. Let’s make football straight again.”
Josh’s reply came back almost instantly, a grinning emoji followed by a single word: Welcome brother.
