Untitled

[salmonskinrolltf]

Short: Flipped

[Thank you to @mindyourbod for contributing the first image, @occamstfs for contributing the second, and @rowdy317 for contributing the third.]

Greg Andews had the Midas touch. Every property he flipped turned to gold. He had the perfect body, the perfect job, and the perfect home. And why wouldn’t his home be perfect? He flipped it himself.

His day off started out great. After a nice, relaxing six-mile run and a long shower, he went to wipe the fog off the mirror so he could admire himself. But with every swipe, the glass grew grubbier and harder to see into. Weird.

Without looking, he grabbed a washcloth to clean the mirror, but as he raised it to the glass, he noticed the fabric was grimy and threadbare. Had an old cleaning rag made its way into his washcloth basket by mistake? Whatever.

He decided to just let the weird moment pass and start his post-shower routine. He grabbed his facial scrub and turned on the sink, but the second his hand touched the tap, the metal became battered and worn. The basin of the sink faded from a greenish marble pattern to a yellowish off-white hue, flecked with hairs and calcified globs of toothpaste.

And his facial scrub was nowhere to be found. In his hand was an empty bottle of generic-brand 3-in-1 shampoo with goo crusted on the lid. He threw it into the wastebasket with a look of disgust.

What the fuck was going on? He decided to forego his normal post-shower routine and get as far away as possible from whatever the hell was going on in the bathroom.

Whatever the hell it was, it followed him. When he opened the door, the pristine paint cracked and peeled as it swung. When he grabbed a pair of Calvin Klein underwear, it transformed into black briefs that were riddled with holes. Same with the next pair. When even his laundry day Hanes transformed into baggy, wrinkled, red-orange briefs, he gave up and put them on. At least they were clean. 
The same wasn’t true of his socks. No matter what pair he grabbed, the second he touched them, they became grubby, smelly abominations in an unappealing spectrum of colors ranging from dark grey to full-on black (they had all clearly started off as white). He put on the least disgusting pair and decided not to touch any of his other clothes. This… situation would probably stop just as quickly as it started. Right?

It didn’t. He spent the rest of the afternoon confined to the living room, trying not to panic as everything he touched turned into something foul and slovenly. Like his framed Ansel Adams photograph, which became a battered image of the MTV logo that was clearly printed out from the Internet. Or his leather sectional sofa, which was now a dirty, folded-out futon. Even his light switch was not immune. When he touched it, his lovely chandelier became a set of string lights that had been haphazardly hung up on the wall.

He became so overwhelmed by all the changes, by all the exhausting effort that it took in order to not touch things, that he decided to just sit as still as possible while he waited for the situation to subside. He wanted to make sure not to accidentally touch his suit, which was still hanging up. He needed that for a meeting tomorrow, and this curse would definitely be fixed by tomorrow. Definitely.

He put on the news, so he could occupy his mind while he waited. It didn’t work. He threw on some old episodes of Family Guy instead. That enthralled him for several hours. It enthralled him so much that he didn’t notice his abs slowly but noticeably getting less rigid as he absent-mindedly drummed his fingers on them. Or his thighs inflating ever so slightly whenever he scratched an itch. Or the fact that he had forgotten to put on deodorant was causing him to gently reek.

Eventually, hours passed. Evening fell. He didn’t notice. He was first alerted to the time when his perfect boyfriend, Fredo, showed up at the front door, having stopped by on his way home from the gym after his shift at the fire station.

He was so excited to see Fredo that he hugged him. That was the wrong move. But as he clutched his head, staring in horror at the man his lover had become, new thoughts began to blossom in his head. Maybe a new, lower-effort life wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Greg Andrews had the Midas touch. And his life would never be golden again.

[mucleinmovement]

[transform4u]

My friend knows I hate dumb jocks. I hate how they only care about their bodies, how it seems they're unable to connect two thoughts together. How beastly, how smelly and needlessly primeval they can be. Especially when they're straight. Ugh, they're even bigger douchbags when they're straight. They always think the world belongs to them.

Well, my friend seems to admire them for some reason. So he made a wager. He said he could prove to me that being a dumb jock is not as terrible as I make it seem. And that he'd make me one, one change at a time. If I don't enjoy the changes at all he'll turn me back and give me 5000 dollars. If I like them, however, and I say so explicitly, he'll take one inch of my cock per change until I have just one.

My friend was always jealous of my big cock, especially because I barely sleep with anyone.

Of course, I accepted the deal. Confident I'd win easy money. It's not like I would enjoy being a stupid straight gym rat, would I?

You're standing there, in this godforsaken temple of sweat and stupidity, your nose wrinkled in disgust. The air is a thick cocktail of cheap body spray, stale BO, and the faint, metallic tang of rust from the poorly maintained equipment. You, with your sharp mind and your meticulously curated life, are a pristine lily in this swamp of human livestock. Your friend, Peter is grinning at you, his eyes glinting with that irritating, knowing look he gets when he's about to suggest something monumentally dumb.

"I just don't get it," you sneer, your voice dripping with the condescension you've perfected over years of intellectual superiority. You gesture with a slender hand toward a group of grunting Neanderthals crowding the squat rack. "Look at them. They're like a pack of animals. All muscle, no mind. Puffing their chests out, roaring over every lift. It's so... beastly. So needlessly primeval. And the smell, Peter! It's like they're actively cultivating a stink to ward off anyone who might try to engage them in a conversation requiring more than two syllables."

Peter just chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that makes the dumbbells on the rack vibrate slightly. "You say that every time we come here, man. Maybe you're just jealous."

"Jealous?" You let out a short, sharp laugh. "Please. Of what? Their inability to locate their own country on a map? Their sole conversational topic being protein powder and the 'bitches' they'd like to 'smash'? They're straight, Peter. That makes it even worse. They're not just dumb apes; they're dumb, straight apes who think the entire fucking world, including me, is just a piece of ass they're entitled to. It's pathetic."

He leans against the dumbbell rack, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "I don't know, man. Seems pretty simple. You work hard, you look good, you feel good. What's so terrible about that?"

"It's the vapidness," you hiss, your voice low and intense. "The sheer, unadulterated crudeness. They reduce everything to flesh. They have no depth, no art, no soul. They're just... meat. Walking, talking, grunting meat."

Peter's grin widens, turning predatory. "Alright, Mr. Big-Brain. You're so sure. You think you're better than them. I say you're just scared. Scared you couldn't handle it. So, let's make a wager. A real one. I bet you I can prove to you that being a 'dumb jock' isn't the nightmare you think it is. I'll make you one, one change at a time. If you don't enjoy any of it, not even a little bit, I'll turn you right back, no harm done, and I'll give you five thousand dollars. Easy money for a genius like you, right?"

You eye him suspiciously. "And if I do like it?"

His eyes gleam. "If you like the changes, and you have to admit it explicitly, then for every change you enjoy, I take an inch off your dick. Until you're left with a sad, pathetic, one-inch nub that's hungry for pussy. And we both know," he adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you've always been a little too proud of that monster between your legs. Especially since you barely ever use it."

The insult is crude, but it's the challenge that hooks you. The sheer, unmitigated arrogance of it. You, enjoy being a knuckle-dragging straight meathead? It's absurd. It's insulting. It's the easiest five grand you'll ever make.

"You're on," you say, a smirk playing on your lips. "Get ready to lose your money, Peter"

"Excellent," he beams, reaching into his gym bag and pulling out a beat-up, faded baseball cap. It's a grimy, sweat-stained thing, with some idiotic sports logo on the front. "Here. A little gift to help you see the world from a jock's point of view."

You take it with two fingers, holding it away from your body like it's contaminated. "You want me to wear this? It probably has a higher IQ than its last owner."

"Just put it on," he insists. "The bet starts now."

With a theatrical sigh of disgust, you plonk the hat on your head. It's a little tight, and smells faintly of old sweat and cheap beer. "There. Happy? Now can we get out of here? I feel my IQ dropping just from breathing the same air as these... these people."

As you say it, you feel a strange, tingling warmth spread from the hat down through your skull. It's not unpleasant, just... weird. You open your mouth to complain again about the sheer mindlessness of it all, about how these meatheads only care about their bodies.

"And their bodies!" you start, your voice full of vitriol. "They're so fucking vapid. All they do is stare at themselves in the mirror, flexing their useless muscles as if that's a substitute for a personality. It's all just practiced, pointless..."

Thump.

You stop mid-sentence, a strange pressure building in your shoulders. They feel... tight. You roll them, trying to ease the sensation, but it only grows stronger. You look down at yourself and your eyes widen. Your shoulders aren't just tight; they're thickening. The sharp, bony angles are softening, rounding out, swelling with new mass. The fabric of your t-shirt stretches taut across your delts, pulling snugly against your suddenly broader frame.

"What the...?" you stammer, but Peter just smiles.

"Go on. You were complaining about their arms. How they're 'stiff slabs of muscle'."

You want to, but the words catch in your throat as a bizarre, tingling ache spreads down your arms. You hold them up and watch in horrified fascination as your forearms thicken, the veins beneath your skin becoming more prominent, snaking their way toward your wrists. Your biceps begin to swell, pressing against your sleeves, which are now feeling uncomfortably tight. The muscles feel hard, dense, like they're being carved from stone. You can feel the power in them, a strange, unfamiliar strength that makes your fingers twitch.

"This isn't funny, Pete," you manage, your voice a little shaky. But there's a part of you, a tiny, traitorous part, that's... intrigued. You flex your new bicep, and the sheer size of it, the rock-hard feel of the muscle under your skin, sends a little jolt of pride through you.

"See?" Peter grins. "Not so bad, is it?"

"No! It's... it's grotesque!" you snap, but the protest feels weak, even to you. You hate this. You have to hate this. You try to focus on your disgust, but your mind keeps wandering back to the feeling of your new arm. "They're so... crude. So gross. All they do is grunt and fart and scratch their balls like fucking animals. It's so... primeval."

The word hangs in the air, and your stomach lurches. A deep, gurgling rumble echoes from your gut, followed by an uncontrollable, thunderous fart that rips out of you, loud and long and shockingly smelly. The odor is potent, a mix of stale protein farts and something else, something more... animal. It's the exact smell you were just complaining about.

"Oh my god," you gasp, your face burning with a humiliation that's swiftly replaced by a gut-busting, bellowing laugh. "Huhuhuh. Whoa. That was a good one. Excuse me, ladies!" you yell, even though there are no women nearby. The joke doesn't even make sense, but you slap your knee and guffaw anyway, the sound booming in your own ears. Peter is practically doubled over, tears of laughter streaming down his face.

"Okay, okay, that was... something," you wheeze, trying to get yourself under control. But your head feels... fuzzy. The sharp edges of your thoughts are blurring. "They're just so... dumb. I mean, really, genuinely stupid. It's like their brains are on airplane mode while their abs do all the talking."

As you say the words, you feel a strange... emptiness. It's like a fog rolling into your mind, thick and gray and comforting. Complex thoughts and multi-syllable words feel like too much effort. The formula for the chemical reaction you were pondering this morning dissolves into a meaningless jumble of letters. The intricate plot of that art-house film you watched last night becomes a blurry mess of... people doing stuff. You try to grasp onto a complex thought, but it's like trying to catch smoke. It just... slips away.

"Duuuh," you say, the sound popping out of your mouth unbidden. Your eyes feel a little unfocused. You blink, trying to clear them, but the world just seems... simpler now. More direct. Weights. Food. Fucking. That's about it.

"Feeling it?" Peter asks, his voice cutting through your mental haze.

You try to formulate a witty retort, but all that comes out is, "Uh... yeah. My head feels... light. Huh."

"And their faces," Peter prompts, his voice a

low, hypnotic purr. "All blunt angles and empty confidence. That haircut that screams 'gym first, thoughts never'."

You reach up to touch your hair, expecting the soft, styled strands you're used to. Instead, your fingers meet a rough, bristly buzz cut on the sides and back, with just a little bit of longer, greasy product-stiffened hair on top. It's a classic, idiotic jock cut. As your hand lingers, you feel your own face shifting beneath your fingers. Your sharp, intelligent jawline seems to be blunting, squaring off into a thick, heavy slab. Your lips, once expressive and quick to sneer, feel fuller, but somehow... dumber. They settle into a permanent, slack-jawed pout. You catch your reflection in a nearby mirror and barely recognize the person staring back. It's your face, but it's all wrong. The eyes look a little vacant, the brow a little heavier. It's the face of a man who solves problems with his fists, not his intellect.

"Dude, I look... retarded," you grunt, the word feeling clumsy and thick in your mouth. You meant to say 'unintelligent' or 'boorish', but 'retarded' just fell out. And it felt... right.

Peter just nods, his grin unwavering. "Almost there, man. One last piece. The part you hate most. The straight, homophobic, sexist douchebag part. The part that thinks the world is his oyster, and all the 'bimbos' are his pearls."

You want to argue. You want to deliver a scathing takedown of patriarchal toxicity and performative masculinity. But the words won't come. The fog in your head is a full-blown blizzard now. Instead of righteous anger, a different feeling bubbles up. A hot, possessive anger. You look across the gym and see a group of women, one of them a stunning blonde with a perfect, bubble butt and huge tits spilling out of her sports bra. The old you would have appreciated her fashion sense or maybe wondered about her life story. The new you? The new you just feels a primal, throbbing urge.

"Damn," you growl, your voice a low rumble. "Look at the tits on that one. I'd fuckin' wreck that." The thought is so crude, so alien, and yet it sends a jolt straight to your groin. Your dick, which you were always so proud of, feels... different. It's not just arousal; it's a hungry, aggressive need. A need for pussy. The thought of being with a man, which used to be the cornerstone of your identity, now seems... gross. Wrong. Fucking faggots. Who do they think they are, prancing around? It's unnatural.

You look down at your own body. Your chest is a solid wall of muscle, your abs a chiseled grid. Your legs are thick tree trunks. You're a fucking specimen. A god. And this body was made for one thing: breeding hot, tight little sluts. You absentmindedly scratch your balls, then sniff your fingers. The smell is rank, a potent mix of sweat and musk, but it doesn't disgust you. It smells like... you. Like power. Like a man.

Peter steps closer, his voice cutting through your simple, lust-filled thoughts. "So, I have to ask. The bet's almost over. Do you like being a jock?"

The question hangs in the air. The old you, the ghost of you, screams 'NO!' in the back of your mind. But it's a distant whisper, easily ignored. The new you, the real you, knows the answer. It's the only answer there is.

You puff out your massive chest, a vacant, meathead stare settling over your features. "Duuuh," you drawl, a thick string of drool escaping the corner of your mouth and dripping onto your pec. "Bein' jock good. Me need pussy."

Peter's smile is triumphant, almost predatory. He snaps his fingers.

The effect is instantaneous and horrifying. A sharp, sickening pulling sensation starts in your groin. It feels like your dick is being sucked back into your body, like a deflating balloon. You grab your crotch, your eyes wide with panic, and feel it shrinking in your hand. Inch by inch, the impressive length and girth you were so secretly proud of vanishes, retracting until all that's left is a pathetic, nub-like little thing. A one-inch button of flesh, throbbing with a desperate, useless hunger. It's the most ridiculous, impotent cock you've ever seen.

At the same time, you feel a searing, blinding rage. It's not just the loss of your manhood. It's an injustice. A deep, guttural fury directed at the man standing in front of you. This faggot. This scrawny little queer. How dare he have a bigger dick than you? It's not right. It's an offense against nature. Against you.

"YOU FUCKIN' FAGGOT!" you roar, your voice a mindless blast of pure aggression. You lunge forward and shove Peter with all your might. He stumbles back, caught off guard by your raw, explosive strength, but he's still laughing. "GIMME MY DICK BACK, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

But he just keeps laughing, and your rage has nowhere to go but forward. You forget about him. You forget about the bet. You forget about your old life, which is now just a meaningless dream. There's only one thing on your mind. One goal.

You turn away from Peter and scan the gym, your predatory gaze landing on the hot blonde bimbo. She's doing squats, her perfect ass on display. That's it. That's the answer. You need to fuck. You need to prove you're still a man. You need to sink your pathetic, angry little cock into something warm and wet and reclaim a shred of your dominance.

You stomp across the gym floor, your massive frame parting the lesser beings in your path. Your mind is a blank slate of crude, single-minded purpose. Gains. Pussy. Being the alpha. That's all that matters. You are the dumbest, straightest, smelliest, most homophobic meat in the room. And you are going to get what's yours.

[masterwolftfs]

POST ARCHIVE:

An archive of all my posts, across tumblr, discord, and ko-fi!

The Attic Clear Out Series:

The Motorcycle Leathers | Biker tf, dumbing down, hypnosis The Trackie Pants | Chav tf, tf by clothing, dumbing down The Camo Jacket | Redneck tf, straight to gay, tf by clothing The Hair Growth Cream | Bear tf, muscle growth, hair growth The Superhero Suit | Superhero tf, cosplay tf, hypnosis, sub tf The Video Camera | Streamer tf, jock tf, muscle growth, himbofication The Bear Pelt | Barbarian tf, viking tf, hypnosis, dumbing down The Pup Mask | Pup tf, dumbing down, dog tf, gay tf

Octransfur 2025:

01: Showtime | [UPCOMING] 02: Clean | [UPCOMING] 03: Watch | [UPCOMING] 04: Four | [UPCOMING] 05: Storm | [UPCOMING] 06: Potion | [UPCOMING] 07: Stuffed | [UPCOMING] 08: Pair | [UPCOMING] 09: Star | [UPCOMING] 10: Melody | [UPCOMING] 11: Again | [UPCOMING] 12: Haunted | [UPCOMING] 13: Accident | [UPCOMING] 14: Stuck | [UPCOMING] 15: Round | [UPCOMING] 16: Digital | [UPCOMING] 17: Voice | [UPCOMING] 18: Sunset | [UPCOMING] 19: Treasure | [UPCOMING] 20: Neon | [UPCOMING] 21: School | [UPCOMING] 22: Swift | [UPCOMING] 23: Tired | [UPCOMING] 24: Mischief | [UPCOMING] 25: Winter | [UPCOMING] 26: Novice | [UPCOMING] 27: Classic | [UPCOMING] 28: Powder | [UPCOMING] 29: Anxiety | [UPCOMING] 30: Button | [UPCOMING] 31: Candy | [UPCOMING]

Standalone Stories:

Ethan Wacker's Airpods | Celeb tf, dumbing down, muscle growth Vinted Tracksuit | Chav tf, tf by clothing, musk, findom tf Punk'd | Punk tf, dumbing down, musk, dom tf Guitar Ghost (Pt1?) | Rockstar tf, possession, dumbing down Bouncer Twinning | Cloning tf, twinning, dumbing down, muscle growth Becoming Vaughn | Bodyswap, nerd to jock, revenge tf Proteus Laboratories: Preview - Actor | Muscle tf, musk tf, actor tf Thor's Bathwater | Thor tf, muscle tf, celeb tf Clipping on the Jock | Jock tf, dumbing down, gay to straight Proteus Laboratories: Preview - Soccer | Soccer tf, jock tf, hypnosis Wilde Threads | Nick Wilde tf, tf by clothing Gamers to Guardians | Rocket Raccoon tf, Starlord tf, hypnosis [UPCOMING] Trained and Tamed | Pup tf, hypnosis, sub tf [UPCOMING] Law of the Land | Cowboy tf, muscle growth

Trades:

A Wish to be Josh (Trade with @axeeglitter) | Celeb tf, genie, straight to gay

Discord Captions (Join to view):

The Phoenix Project: Colonel Daniel Haskins | Army tf, age regression, hypnosis Alpha Absorption | Jock tf, dumbing down, muscle growth Hi-Vis Hard Dad | Construction worker tf, dad tf, musk Lube Lad | Chav tf, lad tf, tf by hair gel Face Forge | Tattoo tf, jock tf, body modification, mental change The Phoenix Project: Liam Parker | Army tf, nerd to soldier, hypnosis The Jonas Towel | Celeb tf, muscle growth, musk

Ko-Fi Stories (Become a member to view):

BASIC SUPPORTER TIER: The Saltwater Shift | DILF tf, age progression, musk The Chav Conversion | Chav tf, tf by clothing, musk The King's Call | Knight tf, musk, multiple tfs Streaming Can Make Bank | Celeb tf, streamer tf, dumbing down Red-Blue Recruit | Cop tf, muscle growth, identity death Fursuit Theft | Furry tf, fursuit tf, sub tf, muscle growth Blazing Symbiosis | Furry tf, Incineroar tf, muscle growth Pointing the Way Home | Arab tf, race change, breeder tf Dad Beer | Daddy tf, bear tf, age progression A Worker's Brew | Chav tf, lad tf, age regression Like Father, Like Son | DILF tf, Jock tf, daddification, incest

BONUS STORIES TIER: Nordic Resurgence | Celeb tf, muscle growth, hypnosis, musk [ASMR] Big Dumb BF Tucks You in & Helps You Sleep | Jock tf, muscle growth, hypnosis, dumbing down Get A Kilt on Ye | Scotsman tf, tf by clothing, muscle growth Piss Perfect | Piss tf, jock tf, dumbing down The Fastball Trance | Jock tf, dumbing down, musk tf The Soccer Star | Merging, jock tf, personality change A Cop's Best Friend | Cop tf, tf by dog, hypnosis Short Story Collection (x3 Stories) | Jock tf, multiple stories Thuggish Beats | Thug tf, lad tf, chav tf

COMM - Beach Jock | Sandals, feet, jock tf [UPCOMING] - COMM - Ethan Wacker | Celeb tf, jock tf, musk

Caption Collection: Issue #001 | 25 Captions [UPCOMING] Caption Collection: Issue #002 | 25 Captions

Others:

[UPCOMING] CYOA Interactive Story: Proteus Laboratories

[transform4u]

I’m a new comedian who really tries to keep my material friendly and politically correct. Obviously my agent didn’t know this when he booked me to do a show at this infamously conservative club. Obviously I wanted to cancel immediately, but then I saw how much they were paying there’s no way I’m backing out. How bad can one night be, just gotta make them laugh…

You’re standing in the hallway outside The Patriot’s Laugh House, the neon letters buzzing like a swarm of flies. You tell yourself it’s just one night, one paycheck, but your stomach knots tight anyway. The air smells like piss and fried chicken grease, and you already feel out of place in your thrift-store blazer, sneakers damp from the rain.

Inside, the club is worse. Dark wood walls stained from decades of cigarette smoke, American flags stapled up like trophies, flat screens replaying some Fox News pundit’s red face ranting about immigrants. The audience is loud—big men with shaved heads, women with fried hair, kids too young to be drinking already throwing back pitchers. Red caps bob like buoys in the dim light.

Your agent didn’t tell you this place was infamous. You’re known for soft stuff—safe, friendly, politically correct. Observational bits about oat milk. Jokes about your mom misusing pronouns but trying her best. They land fine in the alt-comedy basements back home. Here? Here you’re meat tossed to dogs.

The emcee butchers your name, slurs half of it, then: “Give it up for this guy—straight from some libtard college town!” The room hoots like it’s already a roast.

You climb on stage. Your hand slips on the mic stand, slick with someone else’s sweat. You clear your throat and dive in.

“Hey, so, uh… you ever notice oat milk isn’t milk at all, it’s just—”

Silence. A cough. A chair scraping. A woman mutters, “What the fuck is this.”

You push on. A bit about gender-neutral bathrooms. A bit about your roommate’s crystals. Normally they get chuckles. Here, not even a groan. Just dead air.

Then it hits. From the back. A voice like gravel.

“Jesus Christ, I seen funnier shit on TikTok, you fag!”

The whole room erupts. Not with you. At you. The laugh is cruel. It rumbles through the floorboards, through your soles, right into your gut. Your chest tightens.

You smile, brittle, your mouth glued into the shape of a performer, but sweat beads on your forehead, your neck, your shirt collar. You can feel the fabric sticking already.

“Uh, okay, tough crowd,” you say. Your voice sounds thinner than usual.

You pivot. Throw in something safer, but sharper.

“So, uh, soy boys, right? They probably can’t even lift a chair—”

A laugh. Small, but real.

And when it hits you, it hurts. It crawls under your skin like hot oil. The sound vibrates through your teeth, down your spine. You can feel your stomach clench, your chest swell, like the laugh itself is inflating you.

You blink, wipe your forehead, but your hand comes away soaked. Your shirt clings tighter, not just from sweat—it feels like your body is filling out underneath. Your sleeves stretch faintly against your biceps. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, but your pulse pounds, veins pressing higher against the skin of your forearm.

You stammer another line, this one meaner: “Yeah, I mean, fat feminists need two seats just to get through a movie!”

The room detonates. Roars. Beer sloshing. Someone slams a fist on a table.

Your throat burns. The laugh drills inside your chest and something cracks. Your voice drops half an octave, just enough that you notice it. You swallow hard, but your Adam’s apple feels heavier.

You feel your jaw twitch under the lights, like muscles tightening where they never were before. Your tongue brushes your teeth and they feel… bigger. Straighter. Too perfect, like someone swapped them while you weren’t looking.

Inside your skull, a faint hiss: Keep going. They love it. They love you.

You take a shaky step, chain on the mic stand rattling. Your reflection glints from the back bar mirror—jawline sharper than you remember, hair sticking just so in a way that looks planned. For a second you don’t recognize the guy up there.

Your stomach flips. Something inside screams Stop. Get off stage. Get out. But the silence between laughs is unbearable, and the only way to break it is another joke. A crueler one.

Your lips peel into a grin you don’t mean.

And you tell it.

You freeze onstage, the laugh from your last cruel joke still reverberating through the floorboards. It’s not just sound anymore—it’s pressure, crawling into your ears, burrowing down your throat, spreading through your chest like black tar.

You grip the mic tighter, knuckles white. Your palms are slick, but not just with sweat. The skin feels wrong, rubbery, stretched too tight across your bones.

Another voice from the crowd heckles: “Say it louder, pussy! We can’t hear you over your boyfriend sucking cock!”

The eruption of laughter that follows nearly drops you to your knees. It’s deafening, pounding in your skull. And with it, something tears.

Your ribs shift, audible like branches snapping in a storm. You clamp your arm across your chest, trying to hold yourself together, but your pecs swell beneath your shirt, fibers of fabric straining. Your nipples burn as though someone’s pinching them from the inside.

You gasp into the mic, the sound warped—deeper, scratchier, almost cocky, like the voice of a guy who’s never doubted himself in his life. The audience mistakes it for delivery and howls harder.

Your stomach caves, then bulges, then rips itself into hard planes. Every laugh pulls another line across your abdomen, as though invisible claws are carving muscle into you. Sweat pours, thick and salty, rolling down the new ridges of your body, dripping into your waistband. The smell hits your nose—rank, sour, like a gym locker that’s never been cleaned. You gag.

You stagger, but your legs don’t buckle—they grow. Calves knot like ropes, thighs thickening under your jeans until the seams bite into your skin. Denim creaks. A stitch pops.

The crowd doesn’t notice. They’re drunk on you now. They want more.

You croak out the first thing that comes, automatic, cruel: “Yo, if women wanna get paid the same as men, maybe they should… I dunno… work as hard instead of crying on TikTok!”

The room detonates.

Your jaw dislocates for a moment, sliding with a crack before snapping sharper into place. You feel your face stretch—cheekbones cutting higher, your chin grinding longer, square. Lips curl into a smirk that doesn’t belong to you, but you can’t unclench it. Your teeth grind against each other, perfect and blunt, like they’ve been filed down to fit this new grin.

You choke on your own laugh, deeper now, crueler. The sound makes your ears ring.

You want to scream for help, but your tongue rebels. Words pour out instead, ugly, rehearsed: “What, too soon? Fuckin’ snowflakes.”

The mirror behind the bar catches you again. Your eyes widen.

Your blonde hair—short, messy, the kind you used to tame with eco-friendly spray—shrink upward into a glossy, styled mess, falling perfect across your forehead. A gold chain swings across your chest, glinting with each bead of sweat.

Your own reflection smirks at you. A stranger wearing your skin.

Inside, what’s left of you beats against the walls of your skull, panicked, pleading: This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me.

But the laughter is louder. And it’s still hungry.

The laughter eats at you. Each howl from the crowd isn’t just noise—it’s pressure, crushing against your skull, prying into the cracks of your brain. You clutch your temples, but the sound burrows deeper, vibrating inside your marrow.

Your forehead pulses, veins crawling like worms beneath your skin. Sweat streams down, but it smells wrong—rank, musky, sour. The clean soap-and-cologne scent you always carried is gone. Your pits churn out a swamp stink that makes even you gag.

Your face aches, bone shifting under flesh. Jaw thickening, teeth grinding together until sparks of pain burst down your gums. Your cheekbones sharpen, jutting like blades, and your nose flares wider, nostrils gaping as if they’re starving for air. You try to open your mouth to speak, to beg the audience to stop, but what comes out is a guttural bark of a laugh.

The crowd howls back.

Your throat tightens. Adam’s apple bulges forward, locking into a jutting lump. Your voice cracks, low and harsh, a bassy growl that doesn’t sound like you at all. Each word that slips free drips with arrogance you don’t want to feel.

Bro, I sound alpha as fuck.

The thought drops into your head like a stone into a pond. The ripples spread outward, smothering other thoughts. You try to remember your old set, your activist friends, your boyfriend’s smile. The laughter scrapes across them like sandpaper. They blur, they fade, they rot.

Instead, new images flash. You see yourself shirtless, flexing in a gym mirror, jawline sharp, teeth gleaming under fluorescent lights. You see yourself talking into a phone camera, sneering into a livestream: “Beta males need to man up. Women don’t owe you shit, bro—earn it.” The words don’t horrify you anymore. They feel good. They feel right.

Your body jerks, cracking at the joints. Shoulders wrench wider, tendons stretching with audible pops. The fabric of your shirt strains, buttons digging into swelling pecs that weren’t there minutes ago. Your stomach knots, then erupts outward into a wall of muscle bricks, sweat running between each groove.

You try to scream, but it’s not a scream—it’s a cocky snicker, nasal, cruel. The kind you used to roll your eyes at in bars.

Holy shit. I’m fuckin’ hot. Like, influencer-tier hot.

The thought sparks a flood of hunger in your veins. Your cock stiffens, pressing thick against denim, pre-cum soaking the fabric. The crowd doesn’t notice—but you do, throbbing with need, twitching with arrogance.

You clutch at your head, but your fingers only trace a new fade line shaved sharp into your scalp. Your hair is shorter now, styled high and tight, stiff with product.

Your brain pulses harder, memories rupturing like rotten fruit. Audre Lorde quotes, rainbow flags, theater rehearsals—splintering, collapsing, smearing black. In their place grow new roots: protein powder, TikTok analytics, DMs from girls begging for attention.

Gay? Nah, bro. That was some cringe phase. Pussy’s life. Pussy’s the grind.

The audience chants again. Louder. Clearer. They’re not screaming your real name anymore—they’re chanting Tyler. Over and over.

Your old name shrivels, dissolves in your mouth. You couldn’t form it even if you tried. All you can do is grin wide, teeth flashing under the lights, cocky and perfect.

You raise the mic, voice rasping deep, arrogant, dripping with swagger:

“Cancel me, bitches. I’ll still be richer, still be hotter, still be fuckin’ your girlfriends.”

The roar that follows doesn’t just crown you—it erases you. The person you were is gone, thoughts hollowed out, replaced by the swaggering hunger of the TikTok predator you’ve become.

You shove the mic back into the stand and stride offstage, every step heavy, arrogant, deliberate. Your sneakers squeak against the boards, damp with the sweat dripping from your calves. The roar of the crowd trails you down the narrow hallway like a crown pressed onto your skull.

The stage lights burn out behind you, and the world feels different—darker, grittier, yet somehow more alive. Your phone buzzes in your pocket like a living thing. You yank it out with a slick hand, still wet with sweat. Notifications cascade in, blinding, endless.

DMs. Mentions. Hate. Praise. Death threats. Pussy pics.

All of it scrolling so fast your eyes blur, but you grin wide, jaw aching from the sharpness of your new teeth. The hate tastes the sweetest. Screenshots of your rant already going viral—feminist blogs calling you toxic, queer pages calling for cancellation, brands swearing they’ll never work with you.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” you mutter, voice a gravelly growl, deep and cocky. “Hate’s just fuel, bro.”

The stink rolling off you is thick—musk, testosterone, sour cologne you don’t remember buying. It clings to you like a second skin, filling the backstage hallway until the groupies waiting by the green room door start giggling nervously, shifting thighs, biting lips. They can smell what you are now: predator.

You slam into the green room. The couch sags under your weight as you throw yourself down, spreading legs wide, denim soaked dark where your cock throbs against the fabric. You don’t even bother hiding it—why would you?

One of the girls follows you in, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. She smells like perfume and vodka. You don’t even remember her name. Doesn’t matter. You grab her wrist, yank her into your lap. She squeals but doesn’t resist.

Your phone vibrates again. You glance at the screen over her shoulder. A thousand more notifications, all screaming your new name.

“Tyler.” Over and over. Tyler trending. Tyler canceled. Tyler worshipped.

The girl on your lap squirms, grinding against your cock, and you laugh—that sharp, nasal, cruel laugh the crowd fell in love with.

You whisper against her ear, voice dripping arrogance, “Cancel me harder, bitches. I’m still gonna fuck, still gonna grind, still gonna win.”

Your old self doesn’t even stir. No guilt, no hesitation. Just raw, cocky hunger, stinking sweat, and the high of being untouchable.

You bury your face in her neck, biting down as your phone keeps buzzing, the world hating and worshipping you in equal measure. The last shred of who you were is already ash. All that’s left is Tyler—viral, vile, and loving every second of it.

[onelinerbust]

3CY: Point of View

The entity has various ways to get what it wanted and sometimes it can be a bit creatively malicious. Rick, Owen and Billy have always been the classic fit varsity athlete. They never have problems smashing records, they faced no obstacle securing their scholarship and they have zero obstacle when it comes to pulling chicks. They basically lead a rather typical life of a bunch of collegiate jock enjoying what they're doing. But the entity has another plan so it used me to then infect their mind with these ideas that they were not the original owner of their bodies and they were in fact a bunch of nerdy, involuntary celibate high school kids back then before stealing the body of the jocks in their respective school and ended up all the way here, still in disguise, still in control and still milking the benefit of becoming what the society desired.

That change of point of view caused the boys to slipped further in their obsession of themselves and pushed them to be much more toxic, insecure and yet at the same time drowned in vanity because they managed to lead these jocks life all these years and faced not a single problem or suspicion whatsoever, all thanks to the entity that guided them on how to takeover these jocks body, or so they thought

So when they met me, not only they were very obedient to whatever I said since the entity used me as its vessel, they also started to spew on some random nerdy facts which they said they've been trying to tell to anyone yet they couldn't risk themselves looking like a wimp, not like there's any chance they would be called as one judging on their muscular figure anyway

[breedertfs-deactivated20240831]

Respect Women

Kris was simply in a bad mood when he told the woman at the club to fuck off. Well, to be honest, he said more than that: he called her a fucking bitch, and then told her to fuck off. Her eyes seemed to flash red with rage, jabbing him in his bony twink chest with a manicured finger, speaking with passion and disdain. "Boy, if you're gonna talk to women like that with that mouth, the least you can do is make her cum with it." The obviously gay guy blushed and then turned beet red in confusion and embarrassment. Something about the adrenaline of the moment even made his dick chub up a bit, or so he told himself.

He shook his head, stumbling back a few steps, ignoring the tingling feeling running across the flesh of his lips. He excused himself, leaving the woman to her anger and rushing outside where he quickly called a cab to come pick him up and save him from the awkwardness. Not only had his boyfriend stood him up, but he went and made an asshole of himself in front of some chick who totally thought he was a douche now. He knew better than to call her a bitch! He loved women, all his friends were girls, he was gay for crying out loud. He just wanted to take his frustration out on someone.

To do that on a black woman in a gay club… Wow. Awful judgment call, Kris. Good going.

He makes it to his home, rushes inside and slams the door behind him. Rubbing his face, he lets out a sigh and wastes no time making his way to his bedroom, where he flings himself on the bed and starts to fall asleep. Tomorrow will be better, he thinks, sleepily, still chubbed up and grinding lightly against the sheets below him. They feel so warm… so soft… so inviting. His eyelids are fluttering closed before realizing his lips are parting, tongue swirling out of his mouth, ready to have a french kiss makeout session with his pillow.

When he finally wakes up hours later, he's face first in a pile of drool, and as he tries to sit up, it feels as if someone has tied two massive bricks to his chest.

Kris groaned as he managed to roll over, panting for breath as it seemed to take all his energy to heave his chest up and down. His bulge felt so swollen and uncomfortably tight in his sleep shorts, like every movement was causing skin to rub against skin, chafing. He glanced down with a bleary blink, and then he gasped in shock and a little in fear. "FUCK!" booming out of his still wet and slobbery mouth was a low, husky bovine drawl, a bro's voice, and attached to his once pale, flat chest were now two thick slabs of bouncing, dark brown pec meat. Popping in place. Seeing how huge his chest was made him also notice how massive his shoulders were, how wide he was, how even though he couldn't see over his rock hard set of tits, he could feel his much fatter toes wriggling so much further down than he remembered them being. He forced himself to get off the bed, rising to his feet.

He could feel the vibration of his newly plumped up ass jiggling just behind him, and it took all his effort again to glance over his thick as fuck shoulder. With a wide look of panic, he could still see the massive jock globes shaking inside the tight prison of his mesh shorts. And the smell wafting up from the sweaty damp crack… whew! He glanced at his huge black hands, reached them upwards to feel the contours of his face, realizing very quickly that everything about him had been replaced. Not just his body. He could feel a much wider, sharper jaw. His brow felt furrowed, thicker, his nose large and his lips still slick and kissable and jutting out from his face. He pressed a finger into his fat, muscled up pec, noticing the stretch marks to the sides of his torso, from the sheer hulking size of him. He began to sweat, feeling that same sticky heat flare up beneath his armpits where black curls spiraled out, wafting the scent further across his bedroom.

He was so much taller, so much bigger, and as he stared at the black hunk he had become, he thought of the girl from the bar.

He remembered her eyes flashing red, the words she said to him, and his heart began to race and make him pump out even more sweat.

And then, so strangely, his dick began to get hard. He was just thinking about the girl he was an asshole to, and then suddenly he was remembering more about her than he noticed the first time, how she was wearing that cute peach top. How it hugged her curves, gave her tits an extra oomph, how those bouncing juicy breasts had been swaying up and down and jiggling ever so slightly the whole time they had been speaking. His newly massive cock lurched, radiating lust, and he moaned a low and desperate sound. The shaft throbbed against his tight boxers, his sleep shorts reforming into douchey sweaty workout pants loosely tied around his narrow waist, abs rippling on display.

Why was he feeling this way? He was as gay as any other twink in the state, he was frightened and confused to suddenly be a massive black dude with a hard on for some female stranger he demeaned last night, but he couldn't stop his brain from wanting to literally demean her further. He pressed his calloused hands on either side of his head, blinking back tears as he felt the distinct wiry curls of his new hair, his entire race had been changed against his will.

The whole time he stood there and stressed, he couldn't control his pecs and make them stop bouncing. Up, down, up and then down, POP POP POP.

And his ass kept swaying and jiggling and moving like a big chunk of jello behind him. He reached a hand back to rest against it, feeling the squish of the soft meat beneath his fingers. Against his will and giving in to his curiosity, his still hard cock directing him to tighten his body, to flex his biceps and get a look at just how truly sculpted he had become. As he flexed and then clenched his ass cheeks, his body moved on its own accord, giving his booty an extra playful shake to really make it bounce up and down. Like it had done this before.

But as he did so, he could feel his newly tight, puckered hole inch open just enough for a hot puff of protein reeking air to hiss out of his ass. PRFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!

A whiny voice echoed in his mind, wailing, begging to be forgiven, for the curse to be lifted, but Christian felt like he was in heaven. Nothing mattered more to the man than getting women off. Being covered in the juices of the female sex. Hearing them moan, feeling them vibrate, bounce, shake. Nah… he was a fucking breeder. An alpha. A real gentleman.

And after he finished swallowing down all her pussy juice, he'd be having her bounce up and down on his ready to burst python in no time. He'd be sure to leave a mini me baking in her womb as a thank you for her service.

Fuckkkk! He sure loved WOMEN.

[transform4u]

My boyfriend Pranav recently got a gift from his family back in India and ever since then things have been weird. He’s started really talking about embracing his heritage and stuff like that. I swear he’s been less touchy with me lately and I know he’s gay, but I swear I saw him checking out girls at the park.

This morning I saw he threw out my deodorant and replaced it with something they sent called ‘Mughal Man’ so I guess that’s what I’m wearing today. If I get a rash from this crap though I swear I’m breaking up with him.

You weren’t even awake ten minutes before something felt off. The first thing you’d noticed was the deodorant swap — your stick of Dove Men+Care gone from the bathroom shelf, replaced by that weird red-and-gold can Pranav had gotten in the mail from his family: Mughal Man.

The label looked like it belonged in a discount bazaar, with a cartoon bearded warrior flexing his pecs. You’d laughed at it yesterday, but this morning it was all you had. “Fine,” you muttered as you smeared it into your pits. “If this crap gives me a rash, I swear to god…”

But you did it anyway, trying not to think about the fact that Pranav had thrown yours away.

By the time you finished your coffee, you were already scratching. First just a tickle under your arm. Then heat blooming across your chest. By noon, it was spreading in blotches — dark, ruddy patches of skin, like you were getting a tan from the inside out.

You kept rubbing your collar, your t-shirt sticking to the dampness beneath. “Jesus, I smell…” You did. Not your normal clean-laundry-and-cologne smell — heavier, muskier, almost sour, like meat left in the sun.

When Pranav got home, he didn’t even comment on the smell. Just gave you a nod and said, “Looking good, yaar,” before heading to his room. You froze. He hadn’t kissed you hello. He hadn’t touched you in three days, actually.

That night, lying in bed, you caught him scrolling Instagram reels of busty Indian girls in lehengas. His eyes lingered on them the same way they used to linger on you.

You rolled over, the rash itching like fire. The brown had deepened, spreading across your chest and shoulders. Under the streetlight through the blinds, you swore your skin looked thicker, heavier.

And for the first time, you caught yourself grunting low in your throat as you scratched — a sound that didn’t sound like you at all.

By the next morning, your shirt wouldn’t sit right. You tugged at the collar, feeling the fabric cling to you like it was shrinking in the wash. Except it wasn’t the shirt — it was you.

The rash had thickened overnight, a deep brown stretching from your chest down across your gut, wrapping up the sides of your neck. Not just color — texture. The skin looked coarser, heavier, like it belonged to a man who spent his days outside sweating under the sun.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. There was new hair sprouting — thick, wiry tufts across your pecs and belly. “Fuck…” you whispered, scratching at it, but your own nails just dug into flesh that refused to be smooth again.

And under that hair, bulk. Not the sculpted kind you used to admire on Instagram, but dense, blocky meat. Your arms hung heavier at your sides, shoulders crowding the doorway when you moved. A belly pressed forward, not flabby, but hard and rounded, like it had been fed on endless curries and beer.

You sprayed on more Mughal Man, trying to cover the stench, but the musk doubled down — pungent, spicy, almost sour. You caught yourself sniffing your pit, grinning stupidly. “Heh. Not bad… like strong man, bro…”

The voice wasn’t yours. Thicker. Words slurred with something that sounded suspiciously like your boyfriend’s accent.

That day, you found yourself distracted. At the park, where you used to eye passing joggers with their tight shorts, you weren’t looking at guys at all. Your eyes dragged instead to the women — hips swaying, hair bouncing, their sweaty cleavage. You smirked without realizing it. “Mmm, look at dat maal, full package, yaar…” The words slipped out under your breath, crude, clumsy, and shockingly loud. A dad walking his kid gave you a glare. You barked a laugh back at him, guttural, mean.

By evening, the air around you felt thicker. Sitting at the kitchen table in just your sweatpants, you couldn’t stop farting — long, wet growls that made you laugh harder each time. “Ayy, proper desi gas, man! Haha!” you crowed, slapping your thigh. Pranav frowned but didn’t say anything. He almost looked… approving.

And when he finally spoke, you barely processed the words. “You’re becoming who you were meant to be,” he said calmly, eyes lingering on your widening chest hair, your roughened brown skin.

Your guts rumbled again and you ripped another fart, loud, shameless, making yourself laugh so hard your accent thickened. “Hahaa! Oye! Better out than in, na?”

Pranav smiled this time.

You were too busy scratching your belly and eyeing a girl jogging past the window to notice your reflection in the glass — a heavy, loud, crude man, shoulders squared like he was built for brawling, already speaking in a voice that didn’t sound like yours anymore.

The next afternoon the sun was brutal, but you didn’t care. You were outside, sprawled on the porch shirtless, sweat pouring down your chest, making the dark curls of new hair glisten. The heat only made you feel harder, heavier, more alive.

Your chest had become a slab of meat, covered in thick brown fur that crept up your neck and down across your belly. Every breath pulled your pecs tight and made them bounce without you trying. Veins wormed under your forearms as you scratched lazily at your gut, grinning dumbly at the sound of another fart ripping free beneath you.

“Fuuuuck, bro, I’m beast,” you muttered, except the words came out mangled, thick with your new tongue. “No—not bro. Proper man, Indian man.” The accent clung to every syllable, heavy and unavoidable now.

You grabbed a bottle of cheap Kingfisher beer and guzzled it, foam dribbling into your beard — a beard that was thick, jet black, framing a face you didn’t recognize. Your jaw jutted out brutish and square, nose wide, eyes glaring under heavy brows. You caught your reflection in the glass and smirked at yourself. You looked like you belonged in a roadside gym or leaning on a car stereo blasting Bollywood remixes.

And that thought didn’t disturb you. It felt right.

Pranav walked out, but he wasn’t Pranav anymore. The sight of him didn’t stir the old softness in you. He was family. Blood. A cousin who had brought you back to your roots with this gift from India.

“Raj,” he said — the name rolling over his tongue like it had always been yours. “You finally look like yourself.”

The name stuck in your chest like a brand. Raj. Not the pale little white boy you dimly remembered. Not some “gay boyfriend” — those thoughts didn’t even fit in your skull anymore. You snorted, scratching your balls through your track pants.

“Haan, yaar,” you rumbled. “Raj, full desi mard. Strong. Family man.”

You grinned wide, flashing teeth stained faintly by spice and beer, your whole body radiating crude, blunt masculinity. Already you were thinking about which cousin’s friend’s sister you’d be marrying, what sons you’d raise to carry your name, how many plates you’d be pressing at the gym this week.

Your mind no longer reached back to a past life. No boyfriends. No pride flags. No soft white skin.

Just Raj — hairy, loud, smelly, horny, shirtless in the sun, a man who belched and farted and laughed too loud, who knew in his bones that women were made for breeding, that men like him carried tradition and family on their broad, sweaty backs.

And as the day burned hotter, you leaned back in your chair, one hand scratching your thick chest hair, the other clutching a beer, letting the world see the brute you had always been destined to be.

Raj was sealed. The gay boy was gone.

[goon-mate]

Building Gooners

You can read the previous part here

The first few hours in a new body always bring in some type of undescribable rush that cannot be matched by any other experience. Leslie, or Robin now, decided to regulate the brimming energy (and libido) by working out yet another hour in the gym, pushing his newly-inhabited body to the limit.

Even after the grueling additional workout, his body still feels restless. And the musk that his young, tight body emanated clearly doesn't help his case because not only he's aroused by his own reflection, now his musk started assaulting his nose with promises of a good stinky time. Noticing the throbbing cock in his sweatpants, he smirked. The beast is confined underneath all these fabrics and it needed to be free. 6.5 inches soft but thick as a beer can. A grower at that, because it dang reached 8 inches and fuck it's getting even fatter it probably can't fit into any random pussy! Not only that, it's starting to leak too and he can sense that it's gonna be an epic outburst if he just suddenly soiled his pants right then and there with his sticky, smelly cum.

Looking around, the locker room is too crowded. The shower does not interest him, but he needs to pump freely. He needs to breed. But he cannot do it in such a public place. No, too early to do this shit in public, he thought to himself. But that's the old Robin speaking. The decent one. The respectful one. The one still thinking about the future and how he can be a contributive member to the society. Well, he still wants to contribute to the society, through positive pregnancy tests among ladies he breeds and positive reinforcement to goon among youth his age and beyond. That's positive contribution from his fresh perspective now there's a gooning entity that latched itself to his brain and drive most of his decision-making. So, with a smirk and a rolled eyes to the back of his head, he started fantasizing about pounding his thick cock in any hole that appeared on his mind. As his hands busy wandering down all across his tight workout shirts and palming his crotch, he stared at the macho Latino stud taking selfie of his physique several meters away. The thought of diving his nose to smell that Nike running shorts, licking the wet mark in the back of that short till it dries, worshipping him from the back and starting to infect his mind with all sort of gentle touches and whispers that ensnared him, causing him to let out a little seductive whimper as his cock reached its full, juicy mast. The sensation that hit his system feels otherworldly and to make things even better, not like the dude's aware of a blonde gooning freak sitting on a bench several meters away, toes-curled, tongue-lolled, nipple-hardened and face-flushed red while dry-humping himself in the air fantasizing to tame the stud down and turned him into a messy Latino gooner!

As Robin's wet spot starting to get bigger and bigger due to the leaky pre and his lips parted even wider and leaking saliva, another gymgoer that seems to unable to mind his own business called Robin out

"Yo bro, really? Out here in the locker room? Get yourself inside a stall or something, freak,"

Snapped out from his trance and much to the surprise of the Latino stud that was the star of his gooning fantasy, Robin stared angrily at the dude in red short that ruined his moment. Fuck, the Latino stud already ran away as he probably realized that he's been objectified by a horny blonde gooner while snapping his progress selfie! In a burst of anger, Robin hurtled a nasty, thick, saliva right to the interrupting stud that's been building up inside of his mouth that even dripped in thin string forms while gooning to the previous Latino stud. The red-shorts stud has zero chance to avoid the incoming spit that landed squarely in his face and the spit quickly split and injected itself into his brain through his nose and mouth. Similar to losing consciousness, the stud simply stands there, frozen in time and processed the alteration that hit his brain.

But as soon as he regained his consciousness, there's something different on the way his eyes glint under the light. Then, the smirk, indicating that he's now on the same side as Robin as he narrowed his eyes

"You gave me this body, dude?" The red-shorts stud inquired while flexing his muscle

"Well yeah, your old self pissed me off. So, I guess it's just right to let that body of yours under the supervision of a new management,"

"Dude, you don't know how much I appreciated this. Fuck, we really can do some damage together in here, plenty of bodies to infect, like mine, what do you think???"

Listening to such quick and decisive plan, Robin couldn't hold himself any longer and shoot his load right then and there with none of his hands touching his shaft. Robin shamelessly moaned out loud to gain everyone's attention, as that's been the plan, and the new convert added to the dramatic by hollering

"Yo dude, what the fuck happened to ya?" the red shorts dude acted out concerned, luring in some easy, concerned meats to closer proximity for takeover.

As expected, several people chimed in and tried to lend their hand for help, examining the situation and ensuring that there's nothing major to worry about. When they circled around both men, suddenly the red-shorts stud grabbed the dude with the hair bun and started ravenously kissing him right on the lips while Robin used his soaked, wet pants and wrestling ability to lock and tackle down the stud with the messy hair. The carnage could not be contained and within minutes, the entire 9 random gymgoers that just wanted to check on a fellow-gymgoer well-being already affected by the virus. Their glazed eyes, crooked, goony smile, the occasional tongue out, the nip slips, the virus already turned them flirtier, cockier and much more excited to show their body off and bait more people to fall victim to their scheme.

Their mind already simplified by the ever-growing hive-mind with Robin in the centre of it all, making it solely focused on getting bigger, partying harder and getting more pussy to breed for their hybrid offspring that they never experimented beforehand. Looking like mostly young adult jocks, it's pretty safe to assume that the hive's focus on chasing such hedonistic lifestyle filled to the brim with parties won't be really out of character for the jocks.

Smiling dumbly looking at his creation and a job well done, Robin grabs his gym bag, and despite still feeling jittery and extra horny to the level this body never experienced before, he walked out from the locker room in all of his stink and unwashed glory and head out to his car. A little celebratory dance for a job well done is certainly something he can do before heading out for his next stop, dorm sweet dorm.

[dreammusclerevo]

I had a lean, toned body, enough to look decent shirtless, but there was something missing. My posture was timid, my presence forgettable. I had no fire, no charisma… just a shy smile and a body that didn’t know its full potential. Inside, I was restless. Empty.

Then one night, everything changed. I attended a performance by a Brazilian native tribe, raw, vibrant, powerful. One of the performers stood beside me, shirtless, massive, painted, alive. I asked for a photo, nervously. He smiled, his energy magnetic. “Try it,” he said, handing me feathers and beads. “Take off your shirt. You’ll feel it.”

I hesitated… then nodded.

I wore their tribal gear. My chest was bare, my skin painted, arms exposed. I was trembling, not from fear, but from something awakening inside me. They welcomed me like a brother. No judgment. Just sweat, drums, movement… and belief. They believed in me before I ever did.

Wearing less became normal. Dancing, sweating under the moonlight, muscles flexing instinctively. The beats taught my body how to speak without words. My physique responded, my shoulders grew, pecs rounded out, abs deepened. I started noticing people’s stares. I was becoming.

My arms bulked up, forearms vascular, back wide like a shield. My hips moved with power now, not hesitation. Every time I danced, the crowd watched like they were under a spell. My own scent musky, intense filled the air when I moved. I felt it too. Testosterone flowing wild.

Now I stood proud, covered in feathers and pride, cocky smile curling on my lips. My thighs were thick, my chest heaved with every step. No more hiding. I was sweat-soaked, glowing under the lights, feral and alive. People looked at me not just as a man—but as something more.

With every performance, I unleashed a stronger version of myself. I flexed because it felt right. I seduced the crowd not with words, but with my pumped, glistening body. My brothers cheered. My body trembled from the beat and the burn. I was their bull—raw, proud, dominant.

Dancing beside her power meeting grace we were electric. Her touch on my bicep, her fingers brushing over my chest as we danced told me everything: I had become desire. We moved together, both primal, both hot-blooded. The tribe didn’t just give me muscle… they gave me soul.

Now, I stand among my hunk brothers, all of us shirtless, sweating, exploding with testosterone. We are the rhythm, the heat, the scent in the night air. Our bodies glisten, our hearts pound, our pride roars. From the shy guy with a timid grin... I became this.

A sensual force. A living sculpture. A walking, flexing storm of pheromones and power.

[warhawk212]

A week turns into forever in Mexico

I couldn't believe it when I won free tickets from work for an all expenses paid trip to Cancun, Mexico. I got the prize because I was top in customer care. The resort was all inclusive and I could enjoy a relaxing time down there. I must have called tons of times to verify it was real and not a scam.

I took off two weeks from work and was packed. I figured I would try and get a little tan while down there but being lighter skin I tend to get sun burns plus I dont have the best beach body with this flab but I feel its fine. Being in my early thirties I looked pretty good and not too old so it was a good break.

Once aboard the plane it became real, I was going to this well known resort in Mexico and going to have fun. The one thing I worried about is I don't speak Spanish but the resort assured me the staff speaks english and the signs are both in Spanish and English since its a resort designed for tourists.

Landing at the airport they had a car waiting and I was taken right to the resort, it was more beautiful than I could have even dreamed with its own private beach. The driver warned me to not leave the resort grounds since there is always people looking to kidnap or worse to tourists so I decided I would take his warning and listen to him.

My room was insane, a huge suite that can fit a whole family but it was all mine. My normal life I am just a customer care agent for a big company where I work from home and listen to people and try and find solutions. Nothing fancy but I got this job a long time ago and moved up in the company and made decent money but not this kind of money for this.

After a few days of having morning breakfast on my patio and heading to the beach I was just so happy. I then saw him, a beautiful man just sun bathing by the pool. He has the body of a god and his white speedo left nothing to the imagination, he was huge.

I was just so mesmerized by him I didn't realize I was staring and he saw me and smiled with a wink at me. I was so embarrassed I collected my things and headed back to my room.

That night I jerked off imaging what it would be like to have a body like his and had the biggest orgasm I have ever had.

The next day I went down to the pool around lunchtime to have some drinks and lunch. After my food arrived I looked down at the beach and saw him again, he was down on the private beach jogging and doing exercises. When his Pink thong came apart leaving him naked in my line of sight. I instantly had a hard on looking at him and I am pretty sure drool was coming out of my mouth.

He looked over and Smiling, then picked up his thong and put it back on. He walked over towards me and then asked if I liked the show.

I was so nervous and embarrassed I just apologized for looking and it won't happen again. He then said that I can look all I want, he loves when people watch him and check him out plus he thinks I am cute.

He introduced himself, his name is Luis and he is an aspiring model with hopes to be in magazines and everything. He works at the resort as a bartender to make enough money for headshots and the resort allows him to use the beach, pool, and gym when he isnt working and it helps him stay fit and looking good.

I told him my name was Lucas and told him what I do for work and we talked for hours on the beach. He loved hearing about my life and told me he always dreamed of living in the US and will one day be able to move there. He said he wished he could go with me home and see the US and what I do but he was afraid being Mexican people would look at him differently especially with his accent.

I told him I loved his accent and looks and would have loved to look and sound like him. He smiled and said yeah it would be easier if he looked like me then he could go back to the US and see it. We both laughed and drank more in the hot sun.

After many drinks and watching the sunset he said he better be going and head home since its an hour drive to his home and he has tomorrow off so he can come back and visit again. He told me he usually comes every day to use the gym at the hotel and then enjoy the beach so he would see me then.

That's when I got up and offered him to join me in my room, I told him its a huge room and he is welcomed to relax and enjoy it plus I enjoy his company. He said he wouldnt want to impose but it would be nice to wake up here and enjoy it. He had to run to his car to get his bag so he had more clothes and then met me in the lobby.

We got up to my room and he was so impressed and couldn't believe it. I called down and had room service bring a lot more tequila and some dinner.

He asked if he could use the shower and then get comfortable, I went and had a few drinks and then relaxed waiting.

He came out and was fully nude, he asked do I like how he looks. I just was in shock and said yes.

He asked me if I had his body for a day what would I do. I told him that I would probably explore every inch of it and see how everything feels. He took my hand and started tracing his body with it and then had my hand start rubbing his cock.

He told me he would do the same if he could be me and just relax in my body at the resort. Maybe workout and get it in shape but that would be more than a day.

We started kissing even more and he said if I was in his body I could see everything outside the resort and not be bothered or robbed plus would know the language.

He moved my hand to his huge perfectly shaped ass and said this ass is calling for you and maybe we should try it out. He started undressing me and then dropped down to suck my cock. I was in pure bliss and couldnt believe it. I wish this happened at the beginning at my trip not the last 3 days.

He then got up and poured us each 4 huge shots of tequila and said we will now drink and then know the other. He said he wished he could be me and go back to the US away from Mexico. We both cheered it and shot them all, I was getting light headed and it hit different than the other shots but my body was so horny I knew I had to fuck that ass.

He laid face down and ass in the air and said go for it papi. I slid in and it was not super tight but it was nice, I started fucking him and going hard and fast. I never knew I had this energy before and was just in a trance when it came to it. He was moaning in pleasure saying he loved my white cock and keep going.

I couldnt go any longer and shot deep in him and I felt drained like my whole soul flew out, he then had me suck his cock till he shot in my mouth.

Luis was smiling and said this is perfect, we will know eachother a lot better when we wake up. I fell over on the bed and passed out, that night I had a lot of dreams of Luis and it was me in his body in the mirror modeling and then the gym then going to an actual model shoot.

I awoke to hearing the shower going and I felt really light headed plus my ass was hurting a lot but figured maybe I was just sore. I heard the shower turn off and I rolled over to see myself walk out of the bathroom.

He told me good morning sleepy head, sorry if I woke you but I had to explore this body and get my full experience of it. I looked at the mirror next to the bed and saw I was Luis.

How is this possible, I asked him.

He said down and it was weird seeing my body like that, I was chubby but this body was attracted to my former self.

He said he had found a potion that he didnt think was real and wanted to see if it worked but didnt want to try on just anyone. He met me and knew he wanted to see how it was like to be a chubby white guy and enjoy it all.

He told me we would swap back before I was supposed to leave to the US and this is a way I can get the full mexico experience and see it from his point of view. He would relax and enjoy the resort as me and we can meet up each night if I wanted. I would just have to do his bartending job at the resort tomorrow since its a big party but he would make sure he would be there and tip me very well.

I asked him how would i know what to make I have never made drinks before, he told me that our memories and knowledge is now merged so we know everything the other does. He knows my life and everything about me plus speaks English fluently and I know his and speak decent English but knows Spanish fluently.

He said our old memories and skills wont go away and the longer we stay as the other the more knowledge we know, plus when we swap back his knowledge of the gym will stay along with other skills and I will have that. He told me that Luis needs to go to the gym and workout, I should be there every day sometimes twice a day and focus on my body. He gave me the extra key for my room and then he said he was going to go get breakfast and live as me but I cant have anything till I workout hard and then I can have food. And dont jerk off before the gym, it will make me lazy.

I got up as he left the room and was greeted by a massive boner and i felt it, it started leaking pre-cum. I was shocked it was huge and I know its 9.5 inches. I grabbed his, i mean my workout pants and remembered he hated wearing shirts to the gym and even most days.

I worked out and it was like nothing, all was natural and amazing. This body is a god and is perfect. I snapped a picture of how I looked and saw on his phone instagram, he had a huge following and loved showing off. I posted the picture to instagram and said I was soaked in sweat and musky in the caption.

Once I did that my new cock started to get hard again and it was leaking. I grabbed a towel and headed back to my room.

I saw a note from myself saying at the beach and I should join him, he put out what he wants me to wear. I looked over and saw the grey swimsuit. I slid it on still musky from the gym but I loved that.

I headed down and found him having a lot of drinks and having mine ready, he told me that I did well listening in his body and should be rewarded with some food and drinks.

He said stay with his diet and routine so his body is perfect for the days I have it. Then he said now model for me LUIS, show me that sexy body and that brown skin.

I got up and struck a lot of poses for him, I was showing a huge bulge and he knew I was enjoying it. Something about this body loved to be watched and told what to do.

Plus my new ass was perfect and plump and when he smacked it I got turned on a lot.

We hung out for a few hours and then he said I better head back to his place and then get back tomorrow evening for my shift at the bar here. But if I wanted to experience everything I should go out and enjoy the nightlife tonight.

I headed to his car still wearing only the swimsuit with his backpack. His car was a beat up Honda Civic, I drove back to his place but I couldnt remember from his memories what it looked like. The whole hour drive my cock was rock hard, I slid down my suit and started jerking while I drove and it felt amazing.

After an hour I made it to his apartment, it wasnt in the best part of the city and going inside it was pretty small.

I laid in his bed and smelt all my scent and started jerking off heavily. I was in pure bliss and this cock is amazing and my ass tingles like it needs to have something in it.

I grabbed his dildo and it was big, and i lubed it up and slid in. After a few minutes of riding that I shot a huge load everywhere. That probably is why its always musky in here.

I got up and showered, then I decided I needed to take a few thirst traps for instagram and twitter now.

I got dressed and headed to the local gay bar but before I posted that this is my fit for tonight

Every photo I made sure to send to my former body so he can enjoy and maybe jerk off too. Plus I liked when he looked at them, maybe he will miss his body.

The night was a blur, lots of drinks and guys and dancing. I saw that everyone loved his body so I was in bliss being worshipped and turning down guys, this was new since I never have to fight off guys.

The next day I woke up and instantly had to have my dildo while jerking off, this time it took longer but I was remembering he lasts for a long time and sometimes his body can go for hours and cum multiple times.

I snapped a picture and sent it to my former self, still haven't received any messages back since before I went out but I feel he is having too much fun as me.

I got to the resort and parked in employee parking. I was early so I headed up to my old room and went in with my key. We talked about tomorrow we would meet up before I had to go to the airport and swap back, he said tonight maybe we live as the other and he would tip me a lot each drink and sexy flash he gets. I started to get hard again and he smiled, he then said by now you realize that body is always horny and loves showing off and getting compliments. Learn to control it or you will have to change clothes a lot.

We parted ways and I went down to work in the bar by the pool for the huge celebration. I made so many drinks and my former self loved ordering from me and then coping a feel on my cock to excite me. He then would tip me $100 USD each time I brought him a drink, figured he is having fun with my money to give himself something after we swap back.

At the end of the evening I made a few thousand in tips from all the people and was really popular, my boss said I was like a whole new Luis.

I met up with Luis and he said to go home and enjoy one last night in his body and then text him when I get up. We figured 10am since I needed to workout at the resort gym then go up and meet in the room to swap back.

The final night i posted so many pictures and jerked off literally thirty times.

I decided on sweats for the gym and worked out hard, I was drenched in sweat and posted one last pic. Then texted I was on my way up.

I didn't get an answer by the text but maybe he was showering or jerking.

I opened the door and he wasn't there, my bags were gone and just a note on the bed.

"I am sorry but you will not be going back to the US today, you will stay in Mexico as Luis and live your new life. As you can tell that body is very horny and its hard to control but with gym time and self control you will be fine. I scheduled a photoshoot for you tomorrow and it will kick off your modeling career which I saw you were working instagram and twitter better than I was. Maybe in the future we can meet up and talk but please don't contact me or try, I am Lucas and I am going back to be a white US Citizen while you are now to remain in Mexico. I knew all the memories wouldn't be transferred until day 4 so you would never know the whole plan and find a way to reverse it. Plus there is plenty of white gringos that come down for Spring Break, with that body you will make a fortune with them however you want. Sometimes I slept with them for money other times just for fun, with you it was because I felt a connection and you loved that body so much so now you are stuck in it forever. Goodbye Luis, I left you an envelope with a bunch of money to help you. I know its hard down there and this will help you more than it will help me in your former life."

I was furious and couldnt believe it, I started crying and getting frustrated. I saw one of my small carry on bags left, I opened it and it was a ton of my money I worked for like around ten thousand dollars and a jockstap which my cock twitched.

I quickly pulled on the jock and then slid my jeans on but first taking a photo.

Maybe being Luis wont be so bad, but I do want to go back to the US. I feel this body is going to go places. Can't wait to see what my followers say and maybe they will donate money for it?

[mucleinmovement]

provocatively perverse look

[athleticbrutality3]

Bro gave in to narcissism

[tfkinksterz]

Dumb Jock

Put this helmet on bro…. you’ll never have to worry about grades again….just football bro….huh huh….

[thefunkfactory]

Judah the Jock

Judah had always loved the nightlife , the pulse of music vibrating through the floor, the neon lights that flickered like a secret code, the way the crowd moved as one living thing. Being out at the club was like stepping into a world where he could be entirely himself, with no filters, no judgment. His sharp eye for fashion, his effortless charm, and his genuine confidence made him stand out in the best possible way.

Tonight, Judah wore a fitted black shirt , paired with dark jeans and polished boots. His face carefully made up with a "no-makeup" makeup look that emphasized his bright eyes. When he laughed, the whole club seemed to light up. His friends had drifted off to dance somewhere else, so Judah decided to take a quick break and head to the bathroom to freshen up.

As he pushed open the heavy door, the sudden change in atmosphere hit him immediately. The bathroom was stark and fluorescent, a far cry from the colorful, throbbing energy outside. Judah wrinkled his nose as a strange smell hit him , pungent, sour, something almost sickening. He frowned and moved toward the sinks, but then caught sight of something he absolutely wasn’t expecting.

Near the far corner, a very straight-looking guy was standing over a passed-out young man sprawled on the floor. The “straight guy” looked like he had stepped right out of a fraternity recruitment poster, baseball cap worn backward, a plain white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, a cocky grin plastered on his face. Judah blinked, confused.

Then, without warning, the straight guy lifted his leg and let out an enormous, loud fart, a rancid greenish cloud that rolled directly into the unconscious guy’s face. The passed-out young man didn’t stir, but the smell was so foul that Judah felt himself gag.

“What on earth?” Judah whispered, staring in disbelief.

The straight guy noticed him. His grin twisted into something darker. “Well, well,” he said, locking the bathroom door with a sharp click. “Looks like you saw something you weren’t supposed to.”

Judah stepped back, hands raised defensively. “I don’t want any trouble. I just… I don’t understand what’s going on.”

The straight guy, Brock, narrowed his eyes. “You’re gonna forget you ever saw that. Got it?”

“No,” Judah said firmly. “I’m not forgetting anything. What you’re doing is ridiculous.”

Brock smirked, reached out, and grabbed Judah’s arm. It was surprisingly strong. “You don’t have a choice.”

Before Judah could react, Brock shoved him to his knees and, without hesitation, unleashed another loud blast right in Judah’s face. The rancid green cloud rolled over him, making Judah gag and cough.

“Huh,” Brock said with a cruel grin. “Usually, your kind passes out after the first one.”

Judah wiped his eyes, gasping. “Your kind? What does that mean?”

Brock didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the passed-out guy on the floor. Slowly, Judah noticed the guy’s body beginning to shift. His limbs grew bulkier, his posture straightened, and the soft features he’d seen moments before melted into the stereotypical image of a meathead jock , square jaw, thick neck, muscular arms.

Judah’s head spun. This was insane. “What’s happening?” he asked, voice trembling.

Brock chuckled. “It’s a little transformation. Some people just need a reboot.”

Judah’s mind raced. He tried to stand, but dizziness made him sway. “No. I’m not part of this. I’m not going to… change.”

Brock crouched down in front of him, the smirk never leaving his face. “Oh, you’re already changing. You just don’t know it yet.”

Judah swallowed hard, fighting the sudden urge to lose control. The smell thickened, curling around his senses like a dense fog. His body felt strange , his muscles twitched involuntarily, his hair seemed less styled, his face felt different, less sharp, less him.

“No,” Judah whispered fiercely. “I won’t let this happen.”

Brock’s eyes gleamed. “You can fight it all you want, but it’s gonna happen whether you like it or not.”

Judah’s heart pounded as the reality sunk in. He was trapped in this bathroom with a guy who seemed to be some bizarre agent of change, a guy who believed Judah needed to become something he wasn’t. The smell, the shifting sensations, the dizzying fog , all working together to erase who he was.

But Judah refused to give up. He gritted his teeth, pulling at the parts of his mind that held onto dance routines, fashion magazines, and everything he loved. He focused on the faces of his friends, the pride he felt in his identity.

“No,” he repeated, voice shaking but resolute. “I’m not giving up on myself.”

Brock only laughed. “We’ll see about that.”

Judah’s stomach rumbled, and despite his efforts, a sudden burst of foul gas escaped him, filling the bathroom with the same rancid green cloud. He closed his eyes in humiliation but refused to let the transformation win.

His muscles twitched again, feet feeling heavier in his boots, his armpits prickling with the first signs of coarse hair. His brain fogged as simpler thoughts pushed forward , football games, barbecues, hanging out with “the guys.” Yet somewhere deep inside, the vibrant Judah clung on.

He was determined to fight. To resist. To be himself , no matter what.

Judah blinked rapidly, trying to clear the thick haze clouding his mind. The rancid smell still lingered, wrapping itself around the cramped bathroom like an unwelcome fog. His throat burned from the earlier blasts, and every breath felt like inhaling something heavy and toxic. But more disconcerting than the smell was the strange feeling creeping over his body , like his muscles were tightening on their own, his hair losing its carefully styled shape, and a dull fuzziness settling into his normally sharp thoughts.

He shook his head, gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself. “This… this isn’t me,” he muttered fiercely. “I’m not… changing.”

But his reflection in the grimy mirror told a different story. His features looked subtly different,less defined, more rugged. His usually stylish hair was tousled in a way that made him look unkempt. His eyes, though still bright, seemed clouded with confusion and exhaustion.

Judah swallowed hard. “I’m not giving in. Not to this.”

But the fog inside his brain was relentless. Memories of the latest runway shows, intricate dance choreography, and the friendly faces of his closest friends began to slip away, replaced by flashes of football games, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and conversations about beer brands and barbecues. These new thoughts crowded his mind, simple and repetitive, like a playlist stuck on loop.

He tried to push them out, but each time he fought back, the new thoughts grew stronger, as if his brain was rewiring itself without permission.

Judah groaned and sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Why is this happening to me? I’m not like them. I’m me.”

The green haze in the room thickened, almost pulsating, as if alive. Then, without warning, his stomach gurgled fiercely. Before he could stop it, a sudden, loud burst escaped him , another wave of that unmistakably foul gas. Judah’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and frustration.

Brock, standing nearby with arms crossed and a smug grin, chuckled. “See? Your body’s already working with it. The mind’s just gotta catch up.”

Judah shot him a glare. “You think this is some joke? This is humiliating.”

Brock shrugged. “Life’s messy. You can fight it, or you can learn to roll with it.”

Judah clenched his fists, unwilling to accept this strange new reality. His body was betraying him , muscles growing heavier, feet feeling awkwardly larger inside his shoes, his skin prickling where rougher, darker hairs were beginning to sprout under his arms. Yet his heart still beat defiantly.

“I’m not done fighting,” Judah whispered.

The transformation was more than physical. He could feel his thoughts rearranging themselves , the complex tapestry of his interests unraveling thread by thread, replaced by a simpler, more primal mindset.

But Judah refused to surrender. He forced himself to recall his favorite memories , the joy of a perfectly executed dance routine, the thrill of putting together a flawless outfit, the warmth of friendship and acceptance. Those memories anchored him.

Suddenly, Brock stepped forward, looming over him. “You know, it’s easier if you just give in. The world’s simpler when you stop overthinking.”

Judah looked up, eyes blazing with determination. “I don’t want your world.”

The tension in the air thickened, but Judah’s resolve burned brighter than the fog suffocating him.

For now, the fight was far from over.

Judah sat on the cold tile floor, his back pressed against the wall, trying desperately to hold onto who he was. But the thick haze swirling in the cramped bathroom seemed to seep into his very bones. His limbs felt heavier, his once nimble fingers clumsier. Every breath was laced with the rancid scent Brock had unleashed, and it clung to him like a second skin.

The transformation wasn’t just physical,it was a slow erosion of everything Judah cherished about himself. The sharp fashion sense, the quick wit, the joy in dance and creativity,all now muffled beneath a growing fog of simpler, more primal thoughts.

He clenched his jaw. “I’m not giving up. Not like this.”

But the moments of resistance grew shorter, weaker. As the greenish cloud thickened, Judah’s mind began to betray him. Memories of football games, grilling in the backyard, and easy camaraderie flashed unbidden in his thoughts. He shook his head violently, trying to push them away.

“No. This isn’t me,” he whispered fiercely.

But even as he denied it, a strange part of him found comfort in the simplicity of these new images,the ease of belonging, the camaraderie, the straightforwardness. It was like a dull ache that begged to be soothed.

His body betrayed him next. His arms, once lean and graceful, felt fuller, muscles twitching with unfamiliar strength. His hands looked larger, coarser. His hair, once carefully styled, now lay in a rougher, messier tangle. He caught a glimpse in the mirror , the reflection looked like a different man, someone less familiar, someone stripped down.

His armpits prickled, and he realized new hair had begun to grow, thick and wild. A faint, earthy scent rose from his skin , raw and unpolished. He grimaced but couldn’t deny the strange sense of grounding it gave him.

Judah’s stomach rumbled fiercely, and before he could stop it, a sudden blast of foul air escaped him, thickening the green fog even more.

He lowered his head in shame. “This isn’t me.”

Brock approached, his grin wide and triumphant. “You’re starting to get it. You feel it, don’t you? The clarity beneath the fog.”

Judah shook his head. “No. I’m losing myself.”

Brock’s voice softened, almost coaxing. “Sometimes losing a part of who you are lets you find someone stronger.”

Judah wanted to scream. Instead, he just sat, the fight draining out of him like water slipping through clenched fingers.

Inside, a part of him was terrified. But another part,the part Brock was nurturing,was beginning to accept. Reluctantly.

He looked up, eyes glazed but still defiant. “I don’t want this.”

“Not yet,” Brock said. “But soon, you’ll see it’s not so bad.”

The transformation was no longer a distant threat,it was happening. And Judah was caught in the middle, torn between who he was and who he was becoming.

Judah’s world grew smaller , shrinking down to the hazy, stinking bathroom where the green fog clung like a living thing. His body felt heavier, slower, but it was the creeping shift in his mind that terrified him most.

The thoughts he’d once treasured , intricate fashion details, dance steps memorized after hours of practice, witty banter with friends , all began to fray at the edges, as if a slow eraser was wiping away the delicate layers of who he was.

Instead, his brain was filling with simpler, cruder images: the rhythmic pounding of a football on a grassy field, the crackle of a grill fired up for a barbecue, laughter echoing around a bonfire with “the guys.” The complex patterns of his past interests dissolved, replaced by straightforward, often repetitive thoughts.

Judah caught himself staring blankly at the mirror, watching as his face lost its familiar contours, settling into a more rugged, square-jawed shape. His eyes , once sparkling with vivacity , now held a duller, more focused gleam.

“No,” he whispered fiercely, fists clenched tight. “This isn’t me. This can’t be me.”

But the fog pressed harder, like a tide washing over him. Images flooded his mind: conversations about yard work and beer, memories of long afternoons spent shooting hoops, a deep sense of brotherhood and belonging he had never known but suddenly felt he needed.

He fought to push the memories back, to hold on to his old self, but the new thoughts came with a strange warmth, a pull he could not deny.

Judah’s stomach churned violently, and before he could stop it, a sharp release of the foul-smelling gas erupted again, thickening the fog. He gagged, his face burning with shame.

Brock leaned close, voice low but insistent. “Let it go. You’re not losing yourself , you’re shedding what you don’t need. The mind is a garden. Sometimes you’ve got to pull the weeds to let the strong roots grow.”

Judah’s eyes stung with tears of frustration and fear. “I don’t want to lose who I am.”

“You won’t,” Brock said. “You’ll become something new. Something real.”

The battle inside Judah raged fiercely, but the fog was winning. His memories scattered like leaves on the wind, replaced by simpler, more primal scripts. The mental tapes that once played his life’s passions were being overwritten with a new soundtrack , one of simplicity, strength, and belonging.

Judah’s voice cracked as he whispered, “I’m still me… I have to be…”

But the green fog swallowed his words, filling the space with the heavy scent of change.

The green fog hung thick in the bathroom air, a tangible presence now , a heavy, suffocating cloud that wrapped itself around Judah like a shroud. His breath came shallow, each inhale filling his lungs with the sour, pungent stench that seemed to seep deep into his skin. His body felt both heavier and strangely numb, as if some vital part of him was slipping away with every passing moment.

Judah stared into the mirror, eyes wide with fear and disbelief. The reflection no longer looked like him. His face was broader, rougher; the sharpness and finesse that once defined him had softened into something altogether different. His posture was sturdier now, less poised and more grounded, his muscles bulkier under the fabric of his shirt.

Inside, his mind teetered on the edge of something irreversible.

All the beautiful complexities of his identity , his passions, memories, hopes, and the very essence of who he believed himself to be , began to dissolve. Like shards of glass falling away, his old self fractured, scattering into the dense fog.

He felt a deep, agonizing emptiness , an identity death. The bright, creative spirit that had danced through life was fading, replaced by something primal, simple, and raw.

A voice echoed in his head, indistinct but insistent, whispering of football games, weekend barbecues, hanging out with the guys, and the straightforwardness of a life stripped down to basics. The tangled layers of choreography, fashion, and artistry were unspooling, replaced by rough laughter and the easy camaraderie of a super straight jock world.

Judah’s stomach churned violently again, releasing another thick cloud into the stale air. He gagged, but this time there was no fight left in him , only surrender.

His body moved with new confidence, clumsy but assertive. His feet, larger and heavier, planted firmly on the tile floor. His arms flexed unconsciously, muscles standing out like armor. Coarse hair sprouted thicker under his arms, and the earthy musk rising from his skin was undeniable.

And yet beneath it all, a faint ember of the old Judah smoldered , quiet, distant, almost forgotten.

Brock stepped forward, a knowing smile on his face. “Welcome to your new life. It’s simpler, stronger, and real.”

Judah’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, a slow, idiotic grin spread across his face.

Judah took a deep breath, the stench still putrid but now a part of him. In this strange new form, he found a peculiar kind of freedom: the freedom to be uncomplicated, to belong, to start fresh.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The bass thumped through the club like a second heartbeat, lights flashing in a chaotic rhythm. Judah pushed through the crowd with easy swagger, a loose tank top stretched over thick arms and a backwards cap perched low on his head. Gone was the carefully styled hair and polished look of the past , now, his tousled hair and rough stubble gave him the unmistakable vibe of a bro who owned the room.

He laughed loudly, slapping a guy on the back as they navigated toward the bar. “Bro, did you see that tackle last weekend? Total beast mode.”

The group around him erupted in cheers and hollers. Judah’s voice was booming, filled with confidence and just a hint of arrogance. His old self , the thoughtful, stylish, sensitive Judah , felt like a distant memory, buried under layers of bravado and muscle.

He caught sight of a few familiar faces from his old crowd. They looked at him with a mix of surprise and something else , pity, maybe, or disbelief. Judah didn’t care. He tossed back a shot without hesitation and grinned.

When a group of guys started talking about a party later, Judah was the first to jump in. “Count me in, boys. Let’s tear this place up.”

The scent of sweat, beer, and that unmistakable musk clung to him , a badge of the life he’d fully embraced. No more glitter, no more curated perfection. Just raw, untamed energy and the simple pleasures of the “bro” world.

As the music pulsed around him and the crowd surged, Judah raised his drink and shouted, “To the squad, to the night, and to never looking back!”

And with that, the old Judah was gone for good. The club echoed with his booming laughter, the sound of a new man who’d found his place, loud, proud, and unapologetically himself.

[malebodyswap45]

The Compendium

The bolg has now over 1750 stories. In order to celebrate, here is a  recopilation of all the story collections in this blog. Thanks a lot for your support and see you in the future. 

Short Stories Collections:

The Book of Transformations Vol. 01

The Book of Transformations Vol. 02

The Book of Transformations Vol. 03

The Book of Transformations Vol. 04

The Book of Transformations Vol. 05

The Book of Transformations Vol. 06

The Book of Transformations Vol. 07

The Book of Transformations Vol. 08

The Book of Transformations Vol. 09

The Book of Transformations Vol. 10 

The Book of Transformations Vol. 11

The Book of Transformations Vol. 12

The Book of Transformations Vol. 13

The Book of Transformations Vol. 14

The Book of Transformations Vol. 15

The Book of Transformations Vol. 16

The Book of Transformations Vol. 17

The Book of Transformations Vol. 18

The Book of Transformations Vol. 19

The Book of Transformations Vol. 20

The Book of Transformations Vol. 21

The Book of Transformations Vol. 22

The Book of Transformations Vol. 23

The Book of Transformations Vol. 24

The Book of Transformations Vol. 25

The Book of Transformations Vol. 26

The Book of Transformations Vol. 27

The Book of Transformations Vol. 28

The Book of Transformations Vol. 29

The Book of Transformations Vol. 30

The Book of Transformations Vol. 31

The Book of Transformations Vol. 32

The Book of Transformations Vol. 33

The Book of Transformations Vol. 34

The Book of Transformations Vol. 35

Special Collections:

A Gentleman’s Guide for Body Swap

Photochallenge Collection

The Long Journey

Fan Fiction (Part 2)

Imagine This (Part 2)

Vignettes Festival (Part 2)

Alternate Realities

A Face to Dream of

[verus-veritas]

Possessed by Pleasure

(AI Generated)

The summer sun beat down mercilessly on the empty park, the air thick with humidity that clung to everything like a second skin. Colton, a broad-shouldered college jock with a mop of blonde hair plastered to his forehead, chucked another rock at the ducks gliding across the pond. The splash echoed in the stillness, the ducks scattering with indignant quacks. He wiped sweat from his brow, his tank top soaked through, clinging to his chiseled frame. 

Nearby, Samuel sprawled across a weathered bench, his muscular legs splayed wide, fanning himself lazily with his baseball cap. His thick, curly mullet dripped sweat onto his neck, the dark brown strands matted against his tanned skin. His hairy chest glistened under the open shirt he hadn’t bothered to button, the heat making him careless.

“Man, this summer’s a fuckin’ drag,” Colton groaned, tossing another rock. “No parties, no chicks, just our dumbass parents nagging us about school.”

Samuel snorted, tilting his cap back to reveal his sharp green eyes. “Tell me about it, bro. My old man’s on my case about grades again. Like I give a shit about calculus when I could be balls-deep in some sorority girl.” He grinned, crude and unapologetic, scratching at the coarse hair on his chest. “Remember that blonde from the Kappa house? Swear she was begging for it after, like, two beers.”

Colton laughed, a low, arrogant sound. “Yeah, dude, you’re such a stud. Bet she’s still dreaming about that mullet tickling her thighs.” 

They cackled, their voices carrying across the empty park, brimming with the careless bravado of youth. They were kings of their own small world, untouchable in their shared arrogance, lazy in their disregard for anyone but themselves.

Boredom gnawed at them, the kind that made trouble sound like fun. “Let’s head into town,” Samuel suggested, sitting up and cracking his knuckles. “Steal some shit, mess with people. You know, the usual.”

Colton’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Fuck yeah. Let’s see how many of those old farts we can piss off before dinner.” 

They grabbed their stuff, littering the park with empty soda cans and chip bags without a second thought, and kicked over a “No Loitering” sign by the park entrance for good measure. The crunch of metal under Samuel’s sneaker made them both laugh as they sauntered toward town, their strides long and confident.

The main street was quiet, the heat keeping most folks indoors. They passed a diner, where Samuel flipped off a waitress who glared at them through the window, and stopped outside an antique store tucked between a barber shop and a laundromat. The faded sign read “Mabel’s Oddities,” and the window displayed dusty trinkets and creepy porcelain dolls that made Colton shudder exaggeratedly.

“This place looks like a fuckin’ haunted house,” he muttered, but his grin betrayed his interest.

Inside, the air was musty, thick with the scent of old wood and mothballs. Shelves overflowed with junk—rusted candelabras, chipped teacups, a taxidermied owl that seemed to stare right through them. Behind the counter sat an old woman, her hair a wild nest of gray, her eyes sharp and suspicious. She wore a shawl that looked older than the town itself, and her voice rasped like dry leaves when she warned them, “Don’t touch nothin’ unless you’re buyin’.”

“Yeah, yeah, chill, grandma,” Samuel said, flashing a smirk as he poked at a brass lamp. 

The woman, presumably Mabel, glared but said nothing, her fingers tightening around a cane propped against the counter. Colton wandered toward the back, nudging Samuel and nodding toward a glass case behind the counter. Inside was an ancient tome, its leather cover cracked and adorned with strange, swirling sigils that seemed to pulse under the dim light. A small brass lock held it shut, glinting faintly.

“Dude,” Colton whispered, his eyes gleaming. “That book looks like some Harry Potter shit. Bet it’s worth something.”

Samuel’s grin widened. “Let’s snag it. You distract the old hag, I’ll grab it.” 

Colton nodded, sauntering to the back of the store where he “accidentally” knocked over a shelf of glass figurines. The crash was deafening, and Mabel hobbled over, cursing under her breath. Samuel seized the moment, slipping behind the counter with the grace of a practiced thief. His fingers worked quickly, picking the lock on the case with a paperclip he kept in his pocket for exactly this kind of thing. The tome was heavier than it looked, its pages yellowed and brittle, but he tucked it under his arm and whistled sharply. Colton bolted for the door, Samuel close behind, their laughter echoing as they sprinted down the street.

Mabel stood at the entrance, shaking her fist and screaming, “You little shits! You’ll regret touchin’ that book!” 

Samuel turned, flipping her off with both hands. “Suck it, you old bitch! Go back to your cauldron!” They disappeared around the corner, the tome pressed against Samuel’s sweat-soaked shirt, their cackling fading into the humid air.

—

Back at Samuel’s house, the two sprawled in the living room, the AC barely keeping up with the heat. The tome sat on the coffee table, its presence oddly commanding. Its leather cover was warm to the touch, the sigils seeming to writhe when caught in the corner of their eyes. Colton pried open the lock with a pocketknife, revealing pages filled with incomprehensible text, the ink faded but still dark in places, some smeared with what looked like dried blood. The metallic scent hit them both, and Samuel wrinkled his nose. “What the fuck is this? Some kinda vampire diary?”

Colton flipped through, stopping on a page with a vivid illustration. It showed a circle of naked figures—men and women locked in a writhing, orgiastic embrace around a pentagram. Above them hovered a horned creature, its form both grotesque and alluring, with a tail curling like smoke. 

“Yo, check out the tits on that one,” Colton said, pointing at a woman in the drawing, his voice dripping with juvenile glee.

Samuel laughed, but his eyes caught something else—a scrawled translation beneath the pentagram, written in shaky Latin. 

“Hey, look at this. Someone wrote what it says.” Without thinking, he read the words aloud, his voice stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables: “Ego invoco te, Xaz’zaraul, filius Asmoseros, dominus libidinis…” 

The incantation rolled off his tongue, each word heavier than the last, until the final syllable hung in the air like a thunderclap.

The world went silent. The hum of the AC, the distant chirp of cicadas, even the creak of the house all vanished. The air thickened, pressing against their skin, and a wave of dread washed over them, primal and suffocating. 

Colton’s eyes widened. “Yo, Sam, you feel that?”

Before his friend could answer, a deep, sultry voice purred from behind them, “Oh, I definitely felt that.”

Hands, warm, strong, and unnervingly heavy suddenly settled on their shoulders. They yelped, scrambling forward and spinning to face the intruder.

He was massive, at least seven feet tall, his skin a deep, blood-red that seemed to glow faintly in the dim room. Black, wiry hair covered his broad chest and scalp, framing a face that was both youthful and wickedly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a goatee that he stroked with long, clawed fingers. A tattered cloth hung low around his hips, barely covering him, and a long, whip-like tail swayed lazily behind. The air around him shimmered with heat, carrying a scent that was intoxicating—sweat, musk, and something primal that made their pulses race.

Colton stammered, “What… what the fuck are you?”

The creature bowed with a flourish, his tail flicking playfully. “Xaz’zaraul, at your service. But you boys can call me Raul. One of the thirteen sons of Asmoseros, lord of lust and carnal delight.” His voice was like velvet, each word dripping with promise. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he savored the humid air of the room. “It’s been… oh, two thousand years since I last tasted the mortal world. You boys opened a lovely little rift for me to slip through.”

Samuel’s shirt, discarded on the couch earlier, caught Raul’s eye. He bent down, picking it up with a reverence that was almost obscene, and pressed it to his face. His long, forked tongue slithered out, lapping at the sweat-soaked fabric, his sharp teeth grazing it as he moaned softly. “Such… vitality,” he murmured, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure.

Samuel, pale and trembling, shouted, “You’re a fucking sex demon?!”

Raul’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “Precisely.” He dropped the shirt, his gaze sweeping over them both, lingering on Samuel’s hairy chest, slick with sweat from the heat. “And I’m here to indulge. But first, I need a human vessel. A permanent home in this world.” 

His eyes locked onto Samuel, predatory and hungry. “You’ll do nicely.”

Samuel bolted for the door, his heart pounding, but Raul vanished in a blur, reappearing in front of him with a chuckle. “Now, now, where’s the fun in running?” 

Samuel skidded to a halt, fists raised, his voice shaking but defiant. “I’ll kick your ass back to whatever fucked-up hell you crawled out of!”

Raul laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “I admire that fire. It’ll taste divine.” 

Before Samuel could swing, Raul’s hand shot out, clawed fingers tangling in the jock’s curly mullet. Samuel froze, his body seizing as if struck by lightning. His eyes rolled back, turning milky white, and his limbs trembled violently, muscles twitching under his sweat-slicked skin. 

Raul threw his head back, moaning, “More! More! Give me more!” His voice was ecstatic, feeding off whatever he was pulling from Samuel.

Seconds later, the shaking stopped. Samuel’s fists dropped, his shoulders slumped, and his head lolled forward. His eyes returned to their normal green, but they were empty, unfocused, like windows to a vacant house. His jaw hung slack, a thin line of drool trickling down his chin, pooling on his hairy chest.

Colton, frozen in horror, choked out, “What did you do to him?”

Raul smirked, his voice suddenly shifting seamlessly into Samuel’s, complete with the faint Texan drawl. “I vacated the premises, bro. Flushed out all that pesky personality, memories, everything that made him… Samuel. He’s an empty vessel now, ready for me.” He winked, his expression so eerily Samuel that Colton’s stomach churned. “Don’t worry, I’ve got all his essence. I’ll slide right into his life, and no one will ever know.”

Colton tried to run, but his body wouldn’t move, his limbs locked as if bound by invisible chains. He could only scream, his voice hoarse. “Let us go, you freak!”

Raul wagged a finger, his voice back to its sultry timbre. “Oh, Colton, where’s the fun in that? Stay. Watch the show.”

He turned to Samuel’s mindless body, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Leaning close, he whispered into Samuel’s ear, words too soft and guttural to decipher, a low chant that seemed to vibrate through the air. 

Samuel’s body suddenly jerked to life, moving with a clumsy, puppet-like grace, as if strings were pulling him from within. His hands fumbled at his belt, fingers trembling as they unbuckled it, the leather sliding through the loops with a slow, deliberate rasp. His jeans fell to his ankles, followed by his boxers, the fabric catching briefly on his thick thighs before pooling on the floor. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, glistening with sweat in the humid air, the tip twitching as if responding to an unseen command.

Samuel’s face twisted into a vacant, perverse grin, his mouth slurring incoherent groans, “Uhh… nngh… f-feels…” His voice was thick, sluggish, barely forming words, each sound dripping with drool that spilled from his slack jaw, sliding down his chin and onto his hairy chest.

His hands moved mechanically, guided by Raul’s will, fingers grazing his nipples, pinching them until they hardened. His groans grew louder, more animalistic, “G-good… uhh… m-more…” His body shuddered with each touch, his muscles flexing involuntarily, sweat beading and rolling down his torso, catching in the coarse hair that spread across his pecs and trailed down to his navel.

Raul stepped closer, his presence radiating heat that made the air shimmer. He pressed his nose into the crook of Samuel’s neck, inhaling deeply, his long tongue flicking out to taste the salt of Samuel’s skin. 

“This flesh,” he murmured, his voice a low, reverent growl, “so ripe, so brimming with primal energy.”

His clawed fingers traced the contours of Samuel’s back, lingering on the curve of his spine, then sliding up to tangle in the damp curls of his mullet. He tugged gently, tilting Samuel’s head back, exposing the taut line of his throat. Samuel’s empty eyes stared at the ceiling, his mouth open, drool pooling and dripping in slow, viscous strands.

Raul’s hands roamed lower, skimming over Samuel’s hips, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above his groin. Samuel’s cock twitched, hardening fully, precum beading at the tip and sliding down the shaft, mixing with the sweat that coated his skin. Raul’s tail slithered forward, its tip curling around Samuel’s thigh, the smooth, warm surface brushing against his inner leg, teasingly close to his balls.

Samuel’s body reacted instinctively, his hips jerking forward, a slurred moan escaping his lips, “Nngh… s-so… gooood… uuuh…” His face contorted into a lewd grimace, his tongue lolling slightly, drool spilling onto his chest, glistening in the dim light.

The demon’s hands guided Samuel’s own, one wrapping around his cock, the other kneading his pecs, fingers digging into the muscle, tugging at the coarse hair. Raul moved with deliberate slowness, savoring every reaction, every twitch of Samuel’s mindless body. 

He leaned in, his lips brushing Samuel’s ear, whispering more incomprehensible words that made Samuel’s groans deepen, his voice a low, guttural, “F-fuuuck… nnngh… p-please…” The words were barely coherent, a string of slurred syllables driven by pure sensation, his body a puppet to Raul’s perverse control.

Across the room, a mirror reflected the scene, but Raul’s form was invisible. It was just Samuel, standing alone, his hand stroking his cock with slow, rhythmic motions, his face twisted into a perverse smirk that looked wrong, alien on his features. His hairy chest heaved with each breath, sweat and drool mixing into a slick sheen that caught the light.

Colton, paralyzed, could only watch, his pleas growing weaker, his voice cracking. “Stop it… please… that’s my best friend…”

Raul’s voice shifted back to Samuel’s, taunting, the Texan drawl dripping with mockery. “Yo, bro, check it out. Feels so fuckin’ good jerkin’ my fat cock. Look at it, man, fuckin’ throbbing.” 

He sped up the strokes, Samuel’s hips bucking in rhythm, the wet slapping of skin growing louder, more frantic. Samuel’s body was a perfect marionette, every movement dictated by Raul’s will, his thighs trembling, his cock leaking steadily now, precum dripping onto the floor in thick, glistening drops. 

His groans were a constant stream of slurred nonsense, “Uhh… f-feels… s-sooo… nngh… g-goood…” His eyes remained vacant, but his face twisted into expressions of raw, mindless pleasure, his mouth hanging open, drool pooling and spilling, his tongue flicking out instinctively.

Raul’s tail tightened around Samuel’s thigh, the tip brushing higher, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath his balls. Samuel’s body shuddered violently, his hips thrusting forward, his cock pulsing in his hand. Raul’s fingers slid down Samuel’s chest, tracing the lines of muscle, circling his navel, then dipping lower to cup his balls, rolling them gently in his palm. 

Samuel’s groans grew louder, more desperate, “M-more… uhh… f-fuuck… nngh… meee…” His voice was a broken record of pleasure, each sound punctuated by the wet slap of his hand on his cock, the slick sound filling the room like a perverse symphony.

Raul leaned back, his eyes gleaming with delight as he watched Samuel’s body writhe under his control. He pressed his chest against Samuel’s back, his red skin hot against the jock’s sweat-slicked flesh, guiding both of Samuel’s hands now—one stroking his cock, the other pinching and twisting his nipple. The demon’s long tongue slithered out, lapping at the sweat on Samuel’s neck, then trailing down to his shoulder, tasting the salt and musk with a low, satisfied moan. 

“This body is a fucking feast,” Raul purred, his voice vibrating against Samuel’s skin. “Every inch of it, pulsing with desire. I can’t wait to play with you forever.”

Samuel’s body responded with a shudder, his hips bucking harder, his cock throbbing in his hand. His face was a mask of mindless ecstasy, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth open in a constant stream of drool and slurred groans, “G-good… uughh… s-so… f-fuuuuck…”

His thighs trembled, his muscles flexing and relaxing in waves, his body entirely at the mercy of Raul’s touch. The demon’s tail slid higher, the tip brushing against Samuel’s cock, curling around the base and squeezing gently, eliciting another slurred moan, “Nngh… p-please… m-more…”

Raul’s grin widened, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Time for the finale, Samuel. Cum for me. Let me in.” 

He pressed himself fully against Samuel’s back, his red-skinned form aligning perfectly with the jock’s sweat-soaked body. Samuel’s face flushed red, his grin blissful and empty, his thighs spasming as his cock pulsed harder, the precum flowing freely now, coating his hand and dripping onto the floor. Raul’s hands tightened on Samuel’s, guiding the strokes with fierce intensity, the rhythm relentless, the wet slapping echoing through the room.

Then, with a devious chuckle, Raul began to merge with Samuel’s body. His red skin shimmered as he pressed himself into Samuel’s back, his form sinking into the jock’s flesh. The invasion was slow, deliberate, each inch of Raul’s body melding with Samuel’s, the sensation overwhelming. 

Samuel’s body convulsed violently, his eyes crossing, his hips thrusting wildly as if trying to escape the intrusion but unable to resist. His groans became a cacophony of slurred, incoherent sounds, “Nngh…yeees… f-fuuck… c-cum… uuhh… i-inside…” 

His cock throbbed, the tip swollen, and with a final, shuddering thrust, he erupted. Thick ropes of cum shot out, splattering his hairy chest, his face, and the mirror across the room. The orgasm was relentless, wave after wave, his body jerking with each pulse, cum mixing with the sweat and drool that coated him, his face twisted in blissful, mindless pleasure.

Raul’s tail was the last to disappear, slithering into Samuel’s back with a final, obscene wriggle. Samuel’s body arched, his head thrown back, a guttural scream tearing from his throat as the demon fully claimed him. His cock continued to spew, the cum pooling on the floor, streaking his thighs, and matting the hair on his chest. 

His body slumped briefly, jerking erratically, then straightened, standing tall as he took a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes rolled back, then snapped forward, no longer vacant but gleaming with a devious, unfamiliar light.

Colton, tears streaming down his face, whispered, “Sam?”

The figure turned, grinning. “Of course it’s me, bro. Your best friend since middle school.” 

The voice was wrong—Raul’s deep, sultry tone. He laughed, catching himself, and shifted back to Samuel’s voice, complete with the Texan drawl. “Whoops. Sorry, but Samuel’s gone now. His body and mind, however, are all mine to keep.” 

He stretched, flexing Samuel’s biceps, then buried his face in Samuel’s hairy armpit, inhaling deeply. “Fuck, this flesh is exquisite.” His tongue lapped at the sweat, a low moan escaping as he savored it.

He ran his hands over Samuel’s chest, smearing cum across the hair, then scooped some from the floor and licked it off his fingers, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. 

“This body’s a goddamn masterpiece,” he purred, flexing again, admiring the taut muscles. “Not as strong as my old form, but the sensations… worth it.”

Colton’s voice was barely a whisper. “W-What about me?”

The new Samuel sauntered over, grabbing Colton’s chin and licking the side of his face, tasting the salt of his tears and sweat. 

“Don’t worry, bro,” he said, his voice dripping with Samuel’s cadence. “My younger demon brother’s dying to try on some human flesh. You’ll make a fine vessel.” He grinned, the expression alien on Samuel’s face, a perverse mask hiding the demon within. “We’re gonna have so much fun with this world.”

Colton’s tears fell faster, licked away by the demon’s tongue. The room reeked of sweat, cum, and something darker, the air heavy with the consequences of their reckless theft. The tome lay forgotten on the table, its pages fluttering as if stirred by an unseen wind, a silent witness to the demonic desires now unleashed into the world.

The End & Beginning of the Lust Demon's Era...

[megachiraztfs]

A New Curse II

[click here for the first part!]

At first Hook thought that someone had blown up the camp near the quay. Explosions were not exactly rare in Storybrook when you had to deal with giants, fairies, magic and curses. But then… something felt strange. The bad version of strange.

Thirst, unbearable thirst, filled Hook’s throat. Hastily he reached for a bottle on the railing, but… that was not what he craved. The bottle disappeared in a yellow swirl and a huge cup, brimming with protein shake, labelled “Musclebrook”. Water pooling in Hook’s mouth, he poured the creamy liquid into his mouth.

The cup never seemed to get empty. Hook drank and drank and drank….

With a dull sound, his hook fell to the floor and vanished into thin air. A healthy, much thicker hand sprouted in its place. He continued to drink. His slender body began to expand, pushing against his black pirate gear. Hook didn’t care. He wanted more. He wanted to get bigger. With a loud ripping sound, his clothes disintegrated. His now liberated muscles lusted for freedom and swelled more and more. His shoulders stretched in opposite directions while his chest rose and swelled. Powerful pectoral muscles stretched his skin. The hair on his chest fell out, only remaining on his stomach, pointing in a very specific direction. His arms filled with mass, showing all the protein he shovelled into himself every day.

“Fuckin’ thicc, that’s what I am,” escaped a giggle as his figure stretched further.

The pirate captain’s familiar features shifted, losing the harshness and signs of deprivation of the last few years. His hair grew shorter, began to curl, the stubble on his face became a little shorter.

In another swirl of yellow, a bluish swimsuit appeared on his body, immediately filled by his growing buttocks. Pearly white teeth flashed from his mouth. Suddenly Hook no longer felt the planks of his ship beneath his feet, but the hot sand from which his feet sprouted to better bear the new load. The last remnants of the protein shake burned in his throat. New words formed in his head. No longer English, but Spanish, while his thoughts became simpler and less in general. “Carlos,” he gasped with satisfaction and did a few poses. “Carlos needs amigos… ” he said in a heavy accent and strutted along Musclebrook beach, looking for the right “company”. The only concern that remained in his stunning shape was his desire for getting pumped… in all aspects.