Quo Vadis @buck-whitman - Tumblr Blog

A new beginning

Michael had always been the star of the university gymnastics team, a 6'2" tower of lean muscle at 200 pounds, every inch honed from years of flips, vaults, and routines that demanded perfection. His body was a canvas of smooth, hairless skin, shaved meticulously from his broad shoulders to his powerful calves, because a gymnast's form thrived on clean, uninterrupted lines. Wavy dark hair, a jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and size 11 feet toughened by countless landings on thin mats. Graduation had been electric: the roar of the crowd as he crossed the stage, high-fives from teammates, and a quick, heated hookup in the shadows of the parking garage with his girlfriend, the captain of the cheerleaders. Her hands roamed his hairless back as he drove his 8-inch cock, thick and veined, unyielding girth, into her, leaving them both spent and grinning under the stadium lights as they started talking about their future and what their perfectly lined life would soon be. As evening settled over the emptying campus, Michael shouldered open the door to the familiar dorm room, his cap and gown draped over a sweat-dampened white shirt that hugged his defined chest.

“No, stop!” Internal cries drowned as his own body rebelled against him. Alex moved closer, stripping the shirt to fondle the lean hairy chest, fingers tugging pit hair, then gripping the throbbing shaft through the shorts. Jerking slow, the sensitivity amplified every vein's drag, head pulsing like a live wire against the tissue. Michael felt it all, humiliation peaking as Alex grabbed the shorts and dropped them, freeing Charlie’s plug shape hard cock. Alex kissed him as he continued to jerk him off. Charlie fell for the kiss as Michael could feel his tongue fighting with Alex’s one and suddenly, Michael could feel hands on his pecs pushing him down his own bed. Exposing his hairy legs spreading opened, size 12 feet curling toes. Michael was trapped forced to watch as Charlie stood there motionless on the bed watching at Alex in front of him. He could feel the sweat pouring out of his pores and cocooning around his body, drowning him into Charlie’s potent musk. Charlie was grinning, hard and leaking precum in the forest of his pubes, legs spread on the bed. “I hope you are read for me Michael. But first, what is it you said earlier? Oh yea, I should use the technology to alter myself and put on some muscles to look normal huh?” Alex finished as he grabbed his phone to tap on the screen. “Wow, I have to say, it’s quiet a weird feeling, you were right on that point Michael” Alex said as his body goose bumped before settling back to normal. “Watch what happens now Michael!” Alex finished as his body started to grow and elongate, growing taller and more muscles. His clothes adapting around his body and looking like they were now painted on his skin. Veins popping left and right against his muscles and trapped between them and his tanning golden skin. His hair growing out and taking a wavy form before settling in mid long hair while his face grew more angular and defined. In front of his pants, his bulge grew again and again, showcasing a thick and bulging dick trapped against his thighs and leaving nothing to imagination. All around his body, his body hair grew back in his skin as he now stood there hairless. Without even looking at himself, Alex popped a grin on his face before flexing his new modified thick biceps in front of Charlie. “Tell me, how do you like it babe?” he asked in a cocky nonchalant voice to Charlie, truly targeting Michael deep inside, now looking exactly like Michael’s original body.

#male transformation #reality change #male tf #personality change #straight to gay #jock tf #nerd to jock #tf story

butterflyeffect-tfs

David here used to be a straight A student. Top of his class, about to graduate college. Then I went back in time and made his parents sign him up for football. Now he’s a proper alpha jock. Grades aren’t as good, but who cares? Football is all that matters. I think the butterfly effect works pretty well, don’t you?

lavengercrimson

sirjocktrainer

When Coach wants a private word with his Jock nothing else exist for them, no matter how busy the shed.

entouragestories

Proper Lad

I only went into the pub because the train had been delayed again.

It was one of those places I’d normally avoid. Sticky carpets, football scarves pinned behind the bar, the smell of spilled lager soaked permanently into the wood. Every screen had the match on. Half the room shouted every time somebody got near the goal.

I was standing awkwardly near the bar checking train times on my phone when somebody beside me laughed.

“Mate, if you’re gonna watch the game, at least pretend to care.”

I looked up at him and immediately felt slightly out of place.

He was exactly the sort of guy who belonged there naturally. Mid twenties maybe. Tanned. Broad shouldered. Close shaved hair under a cap. Football shirt stretched across his chest.

Everything about him looked easy. Loud. Confident.

“I don’t really follow football,” I admitted.

“That obvious?”

“A little.”

He grinned and shoved a fresh pint toward me before I could protest.

By halftime we were talking like we’d known each other for ages.

Or mostly he was talking and I was listening.

He explained rivalries, players, chants. Stuff I’d never paid attention to before somehow sounded interesting coming from him. He kept nudging my shoulder whenever something exciting happened in the match, laughing when I reacted half a second too late.

“You’ve got potential though,” he said eventually, eyeing me over his drink. “You just don’t look the part yet.”

I laughed awkwardly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you look like you work in IT.”

“I do work in IT.”

“Yeah. Knew it.”

He smirked before taking another sip.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he added. “Just saying. Bet nobody’s ever called you a proper lad before.”

The weird thing was I wanted him to.

After the match he convinced me to come with him to the shopping centre nearby because “you can’t support your sweepstakes team looking like a substitute teacher.”

I should’ve gone home.

Instead I followed him through rows of sports shops while he picked things out for me like he already knew exactly what would suit me.

Slim black joggers.

Fresh white trainers.

Football tops in soft synthetic fabric that clung slightly when I pulled them on.

A cap.

High white socks.

Every time I stepped out of the changing room he looked me up and down with obvious approval that made my stomach tighten pleasantly.

“There you go,” he said when I finally came out wearing the full outfit. “Told you. Proper fit lad.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop looking at myself either.

The clothes changed the shape of me somehow. The joggers hugged my legs more than anything I normally wore. The shirt stretched lightly across my chest and shoulders. Even the trainers made me walk differently.

Looser.

Cockier.

And the materials felt good.

Too good.

Soft brushed fabric against my legs. Smooth athletic shirts sliding over skin. Thick socks hugging my calves tightly inside the trainers.

By the time we left the shop carrying bags, I already felt weirdly attached to all of it.

He noticed.

“Told you you’d suit it.”

Back at his flat we sat on the couch drinking cheap lager while football highlights played endlessly in the background.

The place looked exactly how I secretly imagined his life would. Clothes piled in corners. Football shirts hanging on doors. Empty cans beside the TV. The faint smell of deodorant, sweat, and fabric softener lingering in the warm air.

Comfortable.

Masculine.

Lived in.

At some point he tossed me one of his hoodies because I said I was cold.

The second I pulled it on my brain seemed to soften around the edges.

It smelled strongly of him. Sweat buried deep beneath detergent. Warm skin. Lager. That distinct masculine scent left behind in worn clothes.

“You look better already,” he said casually.

I laughed nervously, but heat rushed into my face anyway.

The beers kept disappearing.

Conversation got blurrier.

Easier.

At some point he moved closer beside me on the couch, his thigh pressed against mine naturally like it belonged there.

“You spend too much time in your head, don’t you?” he asked.

“What makes you say that?”

“You think before every sentence.”

I started apologizing automatically.

He laughed.

“See?”

Then his hand caught lightly around the back of my neck.

Not rough.

Just firm enough that my body immediately went still.

“You don’t need to do that here.”

The room suddenly felt very warm.

His thumb brushed slowly beneath my jaw while he looked at me with an expression that made my stomach flip hard.

“You’d be happier if you stopped trying to act clever all the time.”

Normally that should’ve annoyed me.

Instead it sounded comforting.

Like permission.

He reached over to the coffee table and picked something up.

A chain.

Not huge. Just a simple silver chain with a small padlock hanging from it.

“What’s that for?” I asked weakly.

“Think it’d suit you.”

I should’ve laughed.

Should’ve left.

Instead I sat there breathing shallowly while he slipped it slowly around my neck. The metal felt cold at first touch before warming against my skin.

The tiny click of the padlock made my pulse jump.

“There,” he murmured quietly. “Looks right on you.”

Something in my head shifted.

Subtle.

Dangerous.

I suddenly became hyper aware of him. The tracksuit stretched across his thighs. The roughness of his hand against my neck. The smell of stale beer and male sweat filling the room.

My thoughts started slowing down.

Work emails.

Train schedules.

Meetings.

All of it felt distant now. Pointless noise.

His fingers tightened slightly under my chin, forcing me to keep looking at him.

“That better?”

I nodded before realizing how eager the movement looked.

His smile widened.

Then he kissed me.

Messy immediately. Beer on his tongue. Saliva slipping warm into my mouth while his grip stayed firm against my neck. My entire body reacted at once, heat flooding downward hard enough to make me dizzy.

And underneath the physical rush came something worse.

Or better.

Thoughts unraveling.

The more I tasted him, the less clearly I could remember myself before tonight. My office suddenly felt unreal. The way I used to dress looked embarrassing now. Even the way I spoke in my head started changing.

Simplifying.

Softening.

Every time his tongue pushed deeper into my mouth another piece of my old life seemed to blur apart.

I didn’t want spreadsheets.

Or quiet little hobbies.

Or carefully planned weekends.

I wanted this.

Pubs. Football. Tracksuits drying on radiators. Arms around shoulders after matches. Loud lads chanting in crowded streets. Strong hands grabbing my neck possessively.

I wanted him thinking I looked fit.

Needed it, suddenly.

When he finally pulled back a string of saliva still connected our mouths before breaking onto my lower lip.

I barely noticed.

I was too busy staring at him.

Waiting.

My body practically leaned toward him on its own.

“There he is,” he said softly, sounding genuinely pleased. “Knew you’d come out eventually.”

I swallowed hard.

Not because I was nervous anymore.

Because somewhere deep down I already understood he was right.

#male tf #scally tf #chav tf #tf story #male tf story #gay tf story #soccer tf

alphaservice-deactivated2026051

athleticbro06

@laxbr0sssss rules

alphaservice-deactivated2026051

athleticbro06

@laxbr0sssss rules

misctf

Damage Control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wha… wha's happenin' to me?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#tf story #countrified #country boy tf #country tf #redneck transformation

c0rruptedz

The screen continued to play the spiral. You try to close it, but nothing happens. It wasn't long before you started to stare unblinking at the swirling serial in front of you. Images began to fill your head. They were hazy at first. But as the seconds ticked by they started to become clear. They were memories, ones you don't recall, yet you had this faint lingering idea that you did. It didn't make any sense and you were getting frustrated with how confusing this was. Especially as your head started to ache as you tried to make sense of this. You become distracted by the screen flashing off of the spiral. To your surprise you caught glimpses of a naked woman.

Their large tits bouncing in some of the images, while others were fingering themselves. You're repulsed of course since you're a gay man. Never have you shown any interest in women. Yet for some strange reason you felt your dick spasm in your pants. Your hand moved, groping over your bulge while the screen continued to show these flashes of woman. You make excuses in your head. Telling yourself it meant nothing, you're still gay after all. Still saying as much as you undo your pants and free your throbbing member. Gripping your erected cock, biting your lower lip as you begin to pleasure yourself. Just as the screen cuts to a port scene. Within the scene is a busty woman with a pear shape body type. She's on her back as this brute of a man straddles behind her. His fat cock drooling with precum, he sneers at her. Calling her degrading names before he thrusts into her cunt. You want to look away, you want to be repulsed. But you aren't. You're fixated on the scene playing out. Licking your lips as you're focused more so on the woman being fucked than the man fuckingmher.

“God I wish that was me!” You drawl, voice heavy with a southern twang to it. You're so captivated by the scene you don't even notice. Nor do you notice how your body has to change. Hair sprouting everywhere on you as your body expands with new muscle growing. While gaining hair on your body, the hair on your head falls out as your hairline recedes. Leaving you mostly bald. Your clean shaven face itches with new beard growth coming in. Licking your tongue over the peach fuzz on your upper lip. It thickens as the beard grows out.“Yeah, fuck that bitch.” You grunt. “Make her beg and squeal.” You ramble on. This isn't like you to say to another person, let alone to disrespect a woman. ‘So fucking what? Bitch is only good for shoving my cock into.’ The crude that startled you, yet you grew aroused from the intrusive thought. From there your mind fell further into chaos as your envy grew. You wanted to be in place of that dumb fuckinf brute. To have a bitch spread put under you begging for your dick. You think how you'd plow and wreck her tight snatch, envisioning her pleas to not cum in her, to please pull out.

“That ain't my style.” You'd smirk. After all, why waste your potent seed by pulling out before the fun part can begin? No, he makes sure he thrusts nice and hard into her. His fat musky balls deep in her as he unloads his seed into her fertile womb. Knowing she'd be knocked up, counting on it even. A pussy hound like him, that's what he does. Fucks em and leaves em. Who cares if they carry his child. It meant nothing to him. Fuck, He has done it many times, going back and knocking up a bitch he already impregnated again. You're really getting into it now, drooling like a dumb fucking gooner pervert, grunts getting louder with your hand movements.

These images now felt truly like his memories. His old self fleeting down to his heavy balls. His thick, calloused covered hand fisted around his fat cock. Jerking off to the sound of a moaning bitch in heat as he orgasms. Spraying his old queer self all over the screen. “Hmmm, nice warm up before I have some real fun.” He laughs. Heating up his thicker self up. He lumbers out of his trailer. The White trash redneck climbs into his pick up truck, cock still dripping as he heads out to his usual spot. Knowing there will be plenty of women there for him to seduce and fuck.

#g2s tf #gay to straight #tf story

catton346

She Said

first you straight best friend said "grow the beard, twinks love beards" and so you did. you had never grown one before and didnt think youd grow a good one but she got you brushes and combs and oils and washes and she gave you tips. she brought you to the barbers her brothers, all straight working class type guys, use. the barbers always gave you a good trim, made you look good. you felt fuzzy every time you left. you even let them, against your better judgment, give you a crew cut.

It worked though. the twinks loved you in the bar. you took one home, railed him like you never could before. your cock felt thicker, fuller, heavier. he loved it but you couldn't stop thinking about you straight best friend. it must have been because she gave you the make over but then you thought... no... not her tits? no...

she said "wear this hat, itll give you a butch look the twinks will love." you wore the hat, then the deodorant, then the clothes, you even changed the truck you drove because she said the twinks would love it. she was right... they did love it. now you looked liked one of her brothers and the twinks were all over you but you couldnt get it up for them anymore. you tried bears, DL guys, anyone, but your thick dick didnt get hard unless you thought about her.

Finally she said, "lets have drinks at my place," and your dick stood up. she said "youre so hot now," and your dick got harder. she ran her hands across your chest and said, "bet all that work paid off and you cant even think straight." she was right. you wanted to panic but she just said "no more thinking. youre straight now. youre my husband and all you wanna do is breed me." you cock started leaking.

She said "I do the thinking," and you didnt have a second thought.

#male tf #forced tf #forced masculinization #g2s tf #g2s #gay to straight tf #dumber #gay to straight #tf story

devinpink

Straight Stoner Bro

Mike has no idea his buddies are giving him pussy kush, a strain that turns you into an arrogant, douchey straight bro who's obsessed with pussy. Mike's already feeling the urge to flex and gloat about how "swole" he is, so it won't be long before he's starving for pussy. Pussy kush is also highly addictive. Mike's gay days are over, and that fact has his buddies beaming from ear to ear. Mike's going to be one of them now, a straight stoner bro for life!

#gay to straight #g2s #mental transformation #male tf story #male transformation #tf story #muscle #jock #transformation #devin pink

thegayfleet

sirjocktrainer

His Coach’s voice pumping through his mind all he could do was workout, flex, and report.

Over and over again.

snifffmysmellysocks

transform4u

My partner Kit and I are on a long road trip, they just spent about an hour arguing with their dad about how they’re not a real man. Obviously they don’t argue with that, that’s what being NB is all about, but still I can tell they’re bothered by him.

Just taking a quick stop in this gas station to grab them a little energy drink as a surprise. Let’s see what they got

RED 180. That's what the can screamed in bold, aggressive letters, surrounded by flames and lightning bolts like some kind of energy drink designed by a meth head with a hard-on for explosions. You tossed one to Kit, your partner of three years, as you pulled back onto the interstate. The highway stretched ahead of you, endless and gray, mirroring the awkward silence that had settled in the cab of your truck after that phone call with their dad.

"Thanks," Kit mumbled, cracking it open without even looking at you. They took a long swallow, their adams apple bobbing in their throat.

You focused on the road, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach. Kit's dad had been on a tear again, going on about how Kit wasn't a "real man," how he needed to "stop being so soft" and "man up." The words had hung in the air long after the call ended, toxic and heavy.

"Whoa, this stuff's... intense," Kit said suddenly, their voice strained. They took another swallow, then another, like they couldn't get enough of it.

You glanced over at him, concerned. "You okay? You look a little flushed."

"Yeah, just... burns going down," they coughed, their face turning a blotchy red. "Weird aftertaste."

Before you could respond, he started hacking violently, his whole body convulsing with the force of it. "Dude, I think there's something wrong with this," they gasped, clutching their throat.

"Shit, should I pull over?" you asked, already easing toward the shoulder.

"No!" they barked, their voice suddenly deeper, rougher than you'd ever heard it. "Keep your fucking eyes on the road, faggot!"

The word hit you like a physical blow, sharp and ugly. Kit had never spoken to you like that, never used that word. You recoiled, your hands tightening on the steering wheel as you stared at them in disbelief.

They looked at you, their expression strange. A slow, twisted grimace spread across their face, their eyes narrowing as they raked over you. There was something different in their gaze – something cold, calculating, almost... contemptuous.

"What?" they snapped, but then their own expression changed. Confusion warred with something else on their face as they looked down at his hands, then at his body.

You watched, horrified, as the transformation began. It started subtly – his posture shifting first. His shoulders eased back, his chest lifting as if something heavier was settling into his frame. His spine straightened, his chin dipping slightly, giving him that grounded, almost challenging angle, like he was beginning to look at the world from a more solid, immovable place.

Then his face began to change. His jaw tightened and broadened, growing more defined, more substantial. A rough shadow spread across his cheeks and chin, quickly thickening into a short, rugged beard that framed his mouth. His expression adjusted with it – his lips settling into that faint, knowing smirk, a quiet confidence forming without effort.

"Kit?" you whispered, but he didn't seem to hear you. He was staring at his reflection in the side mirror, a strange fascination in his eyes.

Suddenly, the most disgusting sound ripped through the cab of the truck. PFFFFFFFFFFFFFT! It was wet, nasty, and the smell hit you like a physical assault – something like rotten eggs mixed with a skunk's asshole.

"Holy fuck!" you yelled, rolling down the window despite the freezing cold air, gagging on the foul odor. "Did you just shit yourself?"

Kit didn't answer. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. The changes were accelerating now – his scrawny frame bulking up before your eyes, his t-shirt stretching tight across expanding pecs and biceps. Dark hair was sprouting across his chest, visible through the sweat-soaked fabric.

"Man up," he grunted, his voice now a deep baritone. "It's just a fart, pussy."

The stench was so overwhelming your eyes were watering, your throat closing up as you struggled to breathe.

"Can't... breathe," you gasped, coughing violently. Your eyes were burning, tears streaming down your face.

"Here," Kit said, shoving his half-empty can at you. "Drink this. It'll help."

Without thinking, you grabbed the can and tilted your head back, chugging the disgusting liquid. It burned going down, tasting like battery acid mixed with cheap cherry flavoring, but you didn't care – you just needed something to soothe your burning throat.

As you finished the last drop, you felt it – a surge of energy, of... something else. Something primal. Something angry.

Another fart ripped through the truck – this one from you. PFFFFFFFFFFFFT! It was even worse than his, if that was possible.

"Fuck yeah," you grunted, your voice suddenly deeper, rougher. You ran a hand over your chin and felt thick stubble that wasn't there before.

Beside you, Kit was still changing too. His shoulders were broadening, stretching his t-shirt to its limits. His arms were massive now, thick with muscle and covered in dark hair. His gut was pushing out too, rounding into a solid beer belly that strained the waistband of his jeans.

"Looking good, bro," you said, the word feeling natural, right.

"You too," Kit grinned, showing off teeth that seemed sharper than before. "We're gonna get so much pussy now."

The thought hit you like a punch to the gut – pussy. Yeah. That's what you wanted. That's what real men wanted. Your mind was racing with new thoughts, new desires. You wanted to hunt. You wanted to fight. You wanted to fuck. You wanted to dominate.

The podcast you were listening to suddenly cut out, replaced by some guy talking about how immigrants were ruining the country and how Trump was the greatest president who ever lived. Normally you'd change the station immediately, but now... now it was starting to make sense.

"Yeah," Kit grunted beside you, his voice a deep baritone. "That's right. Build that fucking wall."

"Damn straight," you growled, your anger rising. "Fucking illegals taking our jobs."

The landscape outside was changing too. The open highway was giving way to suburban streets lined with identical houses. You were getting close to your dad's place – Kit's dad's place, you corrected yourself. Your dad now too.

"Remember what Dad always says," Kit said, his voice low and serious. "A man's gotta be strong. A man's gotta provide. A man's gotta protect what's his."

The words didn't just echo in the truck's cab; they bored into your skull, rewriting the very firmware of your brain. It was like a key turning in a lock you never knew existed, and suddenly everything made sense.

All that liberal nonsense about equality and feelings? A weak man's cope. All that worrying about your "career" and "self-fulfillment"? Pathetic. This was the truth, simple and brutal. This was the code.

"Yeah," you grunted, the sound feeling more authentic than anything you'd said in years. Your own voice was changing, the pitch dropping, vowels flattening into a blunt, Midwestern monotone. "Protect what's his."

Your gaze drifted down to your own body, which was still in the throes of its grotesque rebirth. A thick, warm paste of sweat was slicking your skin, making your shirt stick to your swelling torso. You could feel it happening in real-time: a sickening, thrilling softness spreading across your midsection.

Your gut, once flat and toned from your pathetic attempts at boutique fitness, was now ballooning. It wasn't just fat; it was a statement. A declaration of abundance, of taking, of not giving a fuck. It pushed against the seatbelt, a solid, heavy weight that settled you deeper into the driver's seat.

Your chest was next, losing any definition it once had, morphing into two heavy, fleshy moobs that rested comfortably on your expanding belly. A dense forest of dark, coarse hair was erupting across your pecs and down your stomach, a thick, wiry carpet that felt primal, masculine. You scratched at it absently through your shirt, your fingernails catching in the damp fur.

"Fuck, I'm getting fat," you said, but there was no alarm in your voice, only a dull, animal acceptance.

Kit—no, that name felt wrong, too soft—glanced over. A cruel smirk twisted his new, rugged lips. "Nah, bro. You're just getting solid. Building a fortress. Chicks dig a dude with some mass. Makes 'em feel safe."

Your name. What was your name? The one you had before, the one your college friends used, sounded like a fucking fairy tale. It was gone, erased by the chemical fire in your veins. Something new surfaced from the depths of your rewired mind. Something solid. Something dumb. "Bubba," you muttered, testing it out. It felt right. It felt like cheap beer and sweaty balls and yelling at the TV.

"Bubba," Kit repeated, then laughed. "Fuck yeah. That's you. And I'm... Kyle." He said it with finality, as if he'd just remembered his own true name. Kyle. It was a good name. A strong name. A name for a guy who deadlifted and banged MILFs.

Kyle's transformation was nearing its completion. He was leaning against the passenger door, one arm thrown up to rest on the window frame, and the pose showed off the final product perfectly.

His shoulders were boulders, his arms thick with a functional, powerful muscle that wasn't for show but for work. His t-shirt was stretched taut across a broad chest that was hairy but firm, the muscle still visible underneath the masculine layer. He was the alpha, the golden boy. The son who'd made something of himself.

You, Bubba, were his shadow. His dumber, fatter, louder shadow.

"Kyle's right, Bubba," a new voice said, and you realized it was your own internal monologue, now a booming, judgmental asshole that sounded exactly like his dad. You're the older brother, but he's always been the better one. Fitter. Smarter. He gets the prime pussy, and you get their chunky best friends who are just grateful for the attention. That's the natural order of things.

The thought should have been humiliating, but it wasn't. It was just... true. A fact of life, like gravity or the shittiness of the Cleveland Browns. Kyle was the star, and you were the comic relief. The loyal sidekick.

"Damn straight," you said aloud, your voice thick with a newfound conviction. You were turning into his dad's perfect son. The perfect failure.

The truck rumbled into a suburban driveway, the asphalt cracking under the weight of the vehicle. The house was a beige monolith of conformity, exactly the kind of place you would have mocked an hour ago. Now, it looked like heaven. It looked like home.

The man waiting on the porch was a god. A giant, bearded, beer-bellied god of old-world masculinity. This was Dad. Not Kit's dad. Your dad. His arms were crossed over a barrel chest that strained the fabric of his flannel shirt, and in one hand, he held a can of Bud Light like a scepter. His eyes, small and piercing, locked onto the truck as you killed the engine.

"About time you two got here," he boomed, his voice a familiar command. "Dinner's getting cold. Your mother's been slaving over that stove all day."

You practically fell out of the driver's seat, your new bulk making you clumsy. Kyle—no, Kyle—moved with an easy, predatory grace. He was already halfway to the porch, his new gait confident and sure.

You hustled after him, your heavy footsteps thudding on the concrete path. As you got closer, you could see the details of your father's face: the network of wrinkles around his eyes, the thick gray in his beard, the cold, assessing look he gave you both. He saw you. He saw exactly who you were now.

"Kyle," he grunted, a flicker of something like pride in his eyes as he looked at your brother. Then his gaze shifted to you. "Bubba. You look like you've been eating good."

The words were a dismissal, a confirmation of your place. And you loved it.

"Yeah, Dad," you mumbled, your eyes downcast. "Trying."

He grunted again, then turned and led you inside. The smell hit you immediately: fried chicken, grease, and the faint, sweet scent of air freshener struggling to cover it all. It was the smell of home. The smell of America.

"Sit your asses down," Dad commanded, taking his throne at the head of the dining room table.

The conversation was a torrent of confirmation bias. They talked about the "illegals" pouring over the border, a "horde" that needed to be met with bullets, not bureaucracy.

They dissected the "faggot agenda," a coordinated plot by Hollywood elites to chemically castrate American boys. Your mom, once a quiet woman who just wanted her family to be happy, now nodded along, adding her own tidbits about "those people" moving into the neighborhood and how property values were sure to plummet.

You found yourself nodding vehemently, your big, dumb head bobbing up and down, agreeing with every poisonous word as if it were divine scripture. You were Bubba. You were the loyal, loud-mouthed enforcer. Your job wasn't to think; it was to believe.

#tf story #gay to straight #male tf #male transformation #male tf story

badguyswin

maybe something where a guy goes to class but the guy sitting next to him slowly corrupts him into a MAGA straight bro

Ethan walked into the crowded lecture hall for his American Politics 101 class, backpack slung over one shoulder and a notebook tucked under his arm. At twenty years old, he was the picture of an unassuming liberal arts student: slim build, clean-shaven face with soft features, and neatly styled brown hair that he kept just long enough to look artistic. He identified as progressive, openly bisexual with a lean toward men, and he wore his views like a badge, from the rainbow pin on his bag to the “Love is Love” sticker on his laptop. He found an empty seat near the middle of the room and slid into it, pulling out his notes as the professor began droning on about the current election cycle.

The guy who sat down next to him a minute later was impossible to ignore. He was already built like an athlete, broad shoulders stretching his tight red T-shirt, a thick dark beard framing a square jaw, and short, tousled hair that looked like it had been styled with nothing more than a quick run of his fingers. A silver chain necklace glinted against his tanned chest where the collar dipped low. He smelled faintly of body spray and the gym, and when he dropped into the seat, he gave Ethan a quick nod and a confident smirk. “Name’s Brock,” he said in a low, easy voice. “Mind if I sit here? Back row’s too far for notes.”

Ethan shrugged politely. “Sure, no problem.”

Class started, but Brock did not stay quiet for long. He leaned over during a lull and whispered, “This prof is full of shit, man. All that woke crap about equality and whatever. Real America’s about strength, tradition, winning. You feel me?”

Ethan blinked, a little taken aback, but he offered a weak smile and went back to his notes. Brock kept talking though, low enough that only Ethan could hear. At first it was casual observations about the lecture slides, pointing out what he called “liberal lies.” Then it turned personal. “You look like a smart guy, Ethan. But you ever notice how the media twists everything? Real men don’t apologize for being men. They build, they protect, they lead. None of that rainbow nonsense.”

Ethan felt a strange warmth spread through his chest at the words, like a low electric current. He shifted in his seat, trying to focus on the professor, but Brock’s voice kept pulling him back. By the end of the hour, Ethan’s notes were full of doodles instead of actual content, and his mind kept replaying Brock’s comments. When class ended, Brock clapped him on the shoulder, the touch lingering just a second too long. “We should study together sometime. I got some better material than this clown.”

Over the next few weeks, Ethan found himself sitting next to Brock every class without even realizing he had chosen the seat. The changes began small and subtle, creeping in like fog. At first it was mental. Brock would text him late at night with links to conservative podcasts and memes, always framed as “just facts, bro.”

Ethan would roll his eyes at first, but he started reading the articles and listening to the podcasts anyway. The warmth he felt during those lectures grew stronger each time, making his usual progressive ideas feel fuzzy and wrong, while Brock’s talking points started sounding like common sense. “Borders matter,” Brock would say during a quick coffee between classes. “Real Americans come first. And guys like us? We don’t need to pretend we’re something we’re not.”

Ethan’s body began to respond next. One morning he woke up and noticed his chest felt tighter, the faint outline of pectorals pushing against his shirt where there had been none. His arms looked a little fuller, veins standing out more when he flexed experimentally in the mirror. He shrugged it off as maybe finally hitting the gym like Brock kept suggesting.

But the suggestions were constant now. Brock dragged him to the campus weight room after class one day, and Ethan found himself pushing heavier weights than he ever thought possible. Each rep made his muscles swell, shoulders broadening, abs carving themselves into a tight six-pack that showed even under his T-shirts. His legs thickened with powerful quads, and his height edged up an inch or two until he carried himself with a natural swagger.

The physical transformation accelerated in the locker room one afternoon. Brock had convinced him to change there after a workout, and as Ethan peeled off his sweaty shirt, he caught his reflection. His face was changing. The soft jawline had squared off, cheekbones sharpening while a dark stubble thickened rapidly into a full, well-groomed beard and mustache that framed his mouth perfectly. His hair darkened and shortened on its own, curling into the same tousled style Brock sported, with a fresh fade on the sides. He was fucking gorgeous now, with the kind of face no sorority chick would be able to resist!

Ethan reached up, stunned, but Brock just grinned beside him and handed him a silver chain necklace identical to his own. “Put it on, bro. Looks good on you.”

Ethan slipped the chain over his head, and the moment the cool metal touched his skin, a final wave of heat crashed through him. His mind rewired completely. Memories of pride parades and liberal rallies faded like old dreams, replaced by a fierce pride in traditional values, in America First, in being a straight, dominant guy who knew what he wanted.

His old attraction to men evaporated entirely, replaced by a hungry, confident heterosexuality that made him think about the cheerleaders on campus in ways that felt natural and right. He was no longer bisexual, no longer questioning. He was straight. He was a bro.

Brock watched the last of the old Ethan disappear and clapped him on the back again. “Welcome to the real side, man. No more of that weak shit. You’re one of us now.”

The new Ethan, who now answered only to the name he had started using in his head, grinned back with the same cocky confidence that Brock wore so easily. His body was exactly like the guy in the locker room mirror he had become: muscular college-aged perfection with a carved chest and abs, thick arms, short dark hair, and that full beard that made him look like he belonged on a MAGA rally poster or a gym selfie.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick mirror selfie, shirtless in the locker room, silver chain gleaming against his tanned skin, fist clenched at his side in a casual flex. He captioned it later on his newly created account: “Grinding for the grind, bros. Let’s make America strong again. No more excuses.”

From that day on, Ethan sat in class with perfect posture, openly challenging the professor on every progressive point with the same smooth, assured voice Brock used. He wore red hats to campus events, posted memes about traditional masculinity, and spent his evenings at the gym or hanging with the new crew Brock introduced him to, all of them straight, loud, and unapologetically conservative. The old rainbow pin was long gone, replaced by an American flag patch on his backpack. His texts to Brock were now full of “hell yeah, bro” and plans to hit the next campus conservative meetup.

One evening, after a particularly intense workout, Ethan stood in the locker room again, phone in hand for another selfie. He looked exactly like the man he had become: shirtless, ripped torso glistening, beard framing a confident smirk, silver chain resting perfectly between his pecs. Brock stood beside him, mirroring the pose. “You’re unstoppable now,” Brock said with a proud nod. “No going back.”

Ethan laughed, the sound deep and masculine, and flexed one arm for the camera. “Wouldn’t want to, bro. This is who I was always meant to be. MAGA all the way.” He posted the picture without hesitation, already thinking about the cheerleader from his econ class he planned to ask out that weekend. The old Ethan was gone forever, corrupted completely into the ultimate straight MAGA bro, and he had never felt stronger or more alive.

#tf story #gay to straight #male tf #male transformation #male tf story #jock tf #jockification #lib to con transformation #lib to con tf #g2s

transform4u

A Marvel to Look At

The flickering blue light of the TV painted Dustin’s pasty skin in sickly hues. Another Tuesday night, another bottle of cheap Merlot disappearing down his gullet. Guardians of the Galaxy droned on, a soundtrack to his profound loneliness.

At six-foot-five, Dustin was a beanpole of a man, all awkward angles and a soft, doughy midsection that strained against his faded Star Wars t-shirt. A sad patch of whiskers clung to his chin, his half-assed attempt at a beard. His job? Data entry. A soul-crushing void of spreadsheets in a cubicle farm that smelled of stale coffee and quiet desperation.

He was gay, and he made sure everyone knew it, whether they wanted to or not. His entire personality was a collage of campy references and Marvel trivia. His gaze drifted to the screen. Chris Pratt, all smug grin and ridiculous muscles. "Fuck, I'd let him wreck me," Dustin mumbled to the empty room, his hand drifting to his crotch.

A pathetic stirring began in his jeans. He pictured Pratt's abs, that stupidly perfect chest. His average dick started to chub up. But then the thought soured. The politics. The churchy bullshit. The hard-on vanished like smoke. "Asshole," he grumbled, taking a deep swig of wine.

His mind wandered. Chris Evans, then Hemsworth. A parade of perfect Chrisses. But his real obsession, the one that made his balls ache, was Tom Holland. That compact, wiry little fucker with the ass of a god. Plus, he seemed sweet.

Dustin smiled, his erection returning with a vengeance. He grabbed his laptop, the movie just noise now, and pulled up Tumblr. He typed in "Tom Holland shirtless." A waterfall of images flooded the screen. That new Spider-Man trailer was a goldmine—every shot designed to showcase his tight body. He looked so sad and broken in it. "Fuck, I just wanna hold him... and then absolutely rail him until he cries," Dustin whispered, spitting into his palm.

Dustin whispered, spitting into his palm. The saliva was thick and stringy, a pathetic little glob of lubrication for his mediocre, five-inch cock. His hand, pale and soft from a life spent indoors, wrapped around the shaft. It was a familiar, lonely ritual.

He started to stroke, his eyes glued to the laptop screen, to a high-resolution GIF of Tom Holland doing some impossibly athletic flip during a press tour. The way the muscles in his back bunched and released, the sheer compact power of that body—it drove Dustin insane with a lust that was part desire, part self-loathing.

"God, I wish I was him," he panted, the words barely a breath of air in the silent, stuffy room. "I'd never leave the house. Just a non-stop fuck-fest with myself." He closed his eyes, trying to picture it, but all he could see was his own flabby stomach and the sad, patchy beard in his mind's eye. He squeezed his dick harder, trying to force the fantasy.

And then, it started.

It wasn't a gradual warming. It was an internal fire, a deep, volcanic heat that erupted in the pit of his stomach and spread outwards in a searing wave. His eyes snapped open. He looked down at his hand, still working his shaft, and watched in disbelief as the soft, doughy flesh of his lower belly began to… retract.

It wasn't melting away like butter; it was being violently consumed, the calories and cells repurposed with brutal efficiency. He could feel his skin tightening, stretching over a new, firmer structure. A dull, grinding ache echoed in his bones as his entire skeleton seemed to compress and realign.

The pain was sharp, but beneath it was a current of pure, intoxicating pleasure that made his head swim. He let out a guttural groan, his stroke faltering as he stared, mesmerized, at his own transformation.

The flat plain of his chest began to swell. Two distinct, hard mounds of muscle pushed forward, rising and falling with each ragged breath. His pectorals were being carved from clay, the skin pulled taut over the new, solid muscle. His nipples, once pale and soft, hardened into tight, brown points.

His arms were next. The twig-like limbs he'd hated his entire life began to thicken, swelling with new mass. He watched, his mouth agape, as biceps and triceps bulged into existence, hard and defined. Prominent, blue veins snaked across his forearms, which widened, the bones thickening. His hands cracked and popped, his fingers growing meatier, the knuckles becoming more pronounced. They were no longer the hands of a man who typed all day; they were the hands of a man who could bend steel.

"Wh-what the fuck is happening?" he stammered, but his voice was already changing, the reedy tenor dropping into a richer, more confident baritone.

A sharp, blinding pain lanced through his skull, like a hot poker being shoved behind his eyes. He cried out, clutching his head with one of his new, powerful hands. Memories, his real memories, began to fray and dissolve like smoke.

The face of his boss became a blurry smear. The name of his college vanished. The bitter memory of his first kiss with another boy was erased, replaced by… nothing.

And then, the new data started flooding in, bright and loud and overwhelming. The blinding glare of a thousand camera flashes. The suffocating, second-skin feel of the Spider-Man suit. The specific, rubbery smell of a movie set. Zendaya's laugh, loud and real, echoing in his ears. The sharp, surprising sting of her hand slapping his ass after a take. Good one, Tom! Keep that energy!

His cock, which had been a sad, average thing in his grip, suddenly pulsed with a life of its own. It felt heavier, thicker, longer. He looked down. It was a monster, a thick, nine-inch pillar of flesh, angry and veined and demanding. A surge of pure, masculine pride, an emotion he'd never felt before, shot through him.

He looked from a picture of Tom Holland's perfectly sculpted pecs to his own chest. They were identical. The same shape, the same size, the same dusting of hair between them. The next picture on his screen was a candid shot of Tom and Zendaya on a beach. She was in a tiny, black bikini, her skin glistening. And a voice, deep and authoritative and utterly alien, spoke in his head. Fuck, she's hot. I'd wreck that.

Wait, what? Dustin's mind screamed. I'm gay! I don't think about girls!

But the thought didn't feel wrong. It felt… correct. Inevitable. My girl, the voice insisted. I have to treat her right. The idea wasn't just appealing; it was a burning conviction. He was becoming the best version of Tom Holland, a version that was charming, sweet, and utterly devoted to his woman.

His hair felt different, shorter, thicker, styled into that perfect, textured mess. His jawline ached as it sharpened, his cheekbones becoming more prominent. He was so close, staring at a picture of Tom's sweaty, happy face, his new, huge dick slick with pre-cum in his pumping fist. He could feel the orgasm coiling in his balls, a pressure building to an explosive release.

And then, Chris Pratt's voice ripped through the air from the TV. "You said it yourself, bitch! We're the Guardians of the Galaxy!"

Ugh. That conservative, smug prick. But then the voice wasn't coming from the TV anymore. It was inside his head, a venomous whisper coiling around his brainstem. That's right. We're the good guys. The real heroes. We need to make this country great again. Spread the Good Lord's word. Put these degenerates in their place.

Dustin froze, his hand still on his cock, the orgasm retreating. He pictured himself in a red MAGA hat, standing at a pulpit, preaching fire and brimstone to Zendaya about traditional family values. This wasn't Tom Holland mind. This was a monster. This was Chris Pratt. The pleasure in his dick curdled into a frustrated, angry ache. He couldn't cum. It was like his body was rejecting the climax, punishing him for his liberal, gay thoughts.

His eyes fell back to the screen, to Zendaya in that bikini. A wave of pure, toxic aggression, so potent it made him dizzy, washed over him. It wasn't about desire anymore. It was about ownership. About domination. I want to bend her over and fuck her like an animal, the voice snarled. Make her scream my name until she forgets her own. Remind her who the man is. Remind everyone who the man is. The more he indulged the thought, the more it felt right. The more the toxic, conservative worldview solidified in his mind. Fox News. Homophobic rants. Traditional family values. Alpha male bullshit. It was all gospel now.

He felt a strange shrinking sensation, his 6'5" frame compacting, the bones groaning as he lost several inches. But he wasn't getting smaller. He was getting denser. More powerful. A coiled spring of muscle and rage. He was now 5'8" of pure, concentrated toxicity, with a 12-inch monster cock that felt ready to explode. He could almost feel his new, stronger hands grabbing Zendaya's perfect, round ass, the flesh yielding to his grip.

The room spun, the wine-stained carpet and cheap IKEA furniture blurring into a vortex of color. The smell of his lonely apartment was replaced by the scent of expensive perfume and clean linen. He was no longer in his shitty apartment. He was in a sprawling, high-end penthouse, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the glittering expanse of New York City.

And he was balls-deep in a warm, tight, impossibly wet pussy.

Zendaya was beneath him, her back arched, her dark hair fanned out across the silk sheets. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure. "Tom... fuck," she finally managed to gasp, her voice ragged. "You're so aggressive tonight... I love this new you... fuck me, daddy."

That was the final push. The last flickering ember of Dustin, the sad, gay office drone, was utterly annihilated in a supernova of misogynistic rage and orgasmic bliss. He was Tom Holland now.

A Tom Holland with the soul of Chris Pratt. And as he emptied himself into his girlfriend, his mind was already racing, planning the press junket for Spider-Man: Brand New Day. He had a message for the world. Spider-Man was going to Make America Great Again. And any liberal snowflake who had a problem with it could watch him fuck their girlfriends. He'd make them brainless, too.

devinpink

April Fools

"You actually found some!" Oliver exclaimed in astonishment when his best friend and fellow geek, Jake, proudly walked into his room holding two conversion bottles. "How did you manage to get your hands on those?"

"I have my ways," Jake replied smugly, flashing Oliver his infamously mischievous grin. "Now, let's down these bad boys!"

A thrill of excitement ran down Oliver's spine as he quickly jumped out of his computer chair and hurried over to Jake. Nervously biting his bottom lip, he took one of the bottles from Jake's hands. They removed the caps and took a curious whiff, only to be immediately repulsed by the strong odor.

"Damn, that's quite a stench!" Oliver exclaimed in shock, followed by a slight cough. "Are you sure these are the right ones?"

"Come on, dude. You think I'd mess up something this important?" Jake scoffed.

Oliver took a moment to gaze longingly at his newly opened bottle, his mouth watering. "So, these are going to transform us into jocks—big, muscular jocks—permanently? I've wanted this for so long."

Jake smiled. "Then let's not waste any more time, dude." They clinked their bottles together and chugged. Oliver felt the effects of the magical concoction kick in immediately. His shirt and sweatpants suddenly felt tighter. He glanced at the mirror, amazed to see his skinny body bulge and swell with ripped, muscular definition. A wave of pure joy washed over him as he finished his bottle, ecstatic that his nerdy life was finally behind him.

However, Oliver's excitement faded when he realized that Jake wasn't transforming. Instead, Jake stood there with a smug expression, crossing his arms and grinning maliciously from ear to ear, which gave Oliver a pit in his stomach.

"Why aren't you—?!" Before Oliver could finish his question, his mind became overwhelmingly fuzzy as the second phase of the magic kicked in at full force. He tried to find the words, but it was impossible to think clearly as his body swelled and bulged even further.

"There, there," Jake said, gently petting Oliver's newly chiseled head. "Let those worthless thoughts slip away. Just relax and enjoy your transformation." Jake then casually walked behind Oliver, his hands seductively caressing Oliver's newly bulked biceps as he turned. He slid his hands up under Oliver's shirt and removed it, exposing Oliver's ripped chest and prominent nipples to the cold air. He softly rubbed his throbbing bulge against Oliver's tightening ass, turning Oliver on. Jake gently stroked his fingers over Oliver's sensitive nipples, intensifying Oliver's desire. Oliver's eyes rolled back in ecstasy as Jake licked the back of his neck and worked his hands down to his crotch. "You're going to be such a good, dumb jock, aren't you?" he playfully whispered into Oliver's ear. "You'll be my big, dumb jock—my mindless, obedient toy—only wanting to satisfy my every desire."

Oliver's transformation was nearly complete. It wouldn't be long before his mind was entirely lost. Sweat began to drip down his body, as if he had just come back from an intense workout. His thoughts were becoming empty, replaced only by new desires to exercise, play sports, and obey Jake, his new master.

"Didn't I say you could trust me?" Jake playfully asked, stepping back in front of Oliver and grinning deviously, pure lust in his eyes. "April fools."

And just like that, Oliver's old self was gone. His transformation was complete: rippling abs, broad shoulders, a wide chest, perfect biceps, a firm ass, massive feet, and an empty head. He had become the jock of Jake's dreams. Oliver smiled like a dumbass, vacantly staring into Jake's intent eyes, eagerly awaiting his master's command.

"Good thing I switched out my potion for water, huh!" Jake exclaimed, then evilly chuckled.

He got down on his knees and pulled Oliver's sweatpants and underwear down, revealing his newly-enormous cock. He looked up at Oliver, feeling as if he had won the lottery. He paused for a moment to admire Oliver's impressive, chiseled physique, glistening with sweat, before taking Oliver's fat cock into his evil, greedy mouth.

#transformation #male transformation #tf story #male tf story #mental transformation #jockification #jock transformation #nerd to jock #nerd to hunk #iq drain #dumbing down #devin pink

maningup

Tech Amuck: Son Software

You know growing up I had to be subjected to Nate Watson’s perfection constantly. He was my warden. Oh, I’m sorry ‘babysitter’. Yes, Me, plain Edgar Hughes. Though I was certainly NOT a baby, even then, I was considered a miscreant by my parents. Just because I was a little more spirited than most people my age didn’t mean I was bad. Still, I found myself forcibly attached to the hip of the neighborhood's golden boy. I’m talking, rich, star quarterback, clean cut. People started to believe I was his little brother because he had me around so much. My parents had hired him because his limitless stamina and patience made him the only person able to keep up with my antics. To be fair to me though, he wasn't the town’s golden boy when I met him, he was some high school freshman goody two-shoes.

When he came over with that Christian boy smile, it irked me. I couldn’t break his good mood no matter what I did. My little brother was too young and fortunate enough to get to stay with my parents and not be tucked under Nate’s arm while struggling. I guess in someways I mellowed out as my parents began dropping me off at Nate’s place, and though we lived on the same block I understood the disparity between our family’s income when I stepped on his waxed floor. Seeing a mansion and being in one were two very different experiences.

As Nate continued to watch me, his muscles grew and his body enlarged and his name got talked about around town more. People would stop my parents asking about Nate, because they were used to seeing me with him. Weird to actively watch someone grow into popularity in town as people fall in love with their talent. Personally, I couldn’t care about his talent by the time he was a senior, I was having my own struggles being around Nate Watson. Puberty had reared its ugly head and with it an attraction to men. Forget the underwear aisle, Nate was a walking ad. We were close enough that at his house he would walk around in his underwear, or post a shower, come into his room with a towel around his waist, before kicking me out. My eyes would steal so many looks at his chest and often drift lower to look at his bulge. I don’t think he ever really even thought twice about having me around.

But then there was his graduation party.

I learned more about rich people than I ever intended. The end of the party transitioned into a sleepover Nate held for his closest friends. He had sleepovers before and I was never invited, but said his honorary little bro deserved to be at the last one. The graduating seniors were nice to me but also boisterous and peacocking for all the other males in the room. Felt like all of them failed to see what I was seeing in how close they were. Invading personal space, leaning on the other. Literally gaming between another guy's open legs like a TV pillow. I stayed huddled on Nate’s bed.

Then Nate came in, “I’ve got it!” The other boys cheered and hollered. For a moment I thought he meant Alcohol, but then he pulled out something I’d never seen before and wagged it. Who's it going to be tonight? All the boys hand shot up, then they started to fight to put the others’ hands down.

“No fair, you did it last week”

“Well, Jamal did it four times back to back before that.”

“Stay mad.”

Nate rubbed his temples briefly listening to them argue, “You know what! We have someone here for the first time. Let’s have Edgar do it.” A few of the older boys whined as Nate approached me and sat on the bed. “Are you familiar with CGI Labs?” He asked.

“The commercial?” It had been all over the news.

“Yeah well, my dad got a hold of their newest product based on their recent discovery.” He held it up. “An entire person, contained on a disk, this one is mine.”

#muscle growth #mental change #transformation #clone transformation #clone tf #tf story

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