(Disclaimer: All images were generated with the help of AI tools)
The summer sun beat down on Mrs. Clark’s backyard, a relentless golden haze pulling me deeper into the humid embrace of July. Barbecue smoke curled lazily towards the sky, carrying the tantalizing scent of grilled meat and charcoal. Normally, I didn’t mind these gatherings – the casual chatter, the clinking of glasses, the easy laughter. Without fail, my kindly, older neighbor Mrs. Clark always invited me to her summer neighborhood get-togethers, even though I actually live on the next street over.
I’d often pass her on my morning walks, and she’d comment on how solemn my expression was. “Skylar, you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on those shoulders sometimes. Life's too short not to enjoy the sunshine and have a bit more fun!" I can’t help it if I have a naturally serious face! Some people would say I have a “resting bitch face” but that’s just not fair! Sure, I have been known to not take a joke well. And it’s true I have a hard time feeling at ease in social settings. But I’m not a bitch!
Regardless, well-meaning Mrs. Clark often suggested how I should make time to have more fun and get to know more neighbors, and I’m sure her barbecue invitations are part of her less-than-subtle efforts to “improve” my life, but I always accepted, mostly just to appease her. As I said I didn’t mind these gatherings, at least not usually. But today, a sour knot had formed in my stomach, tightening with every passing minute.
It all started, as so many woes do, with a man. Or rather, the stupid drivel that comes out of men’s mouths. Ugh, men. Gary, one of the younger guys from the neighborhood (a stunted manchild who for some reason had actually tried asking me out on multiple occasions), had just sauntered back from the grill, a plate piled high with glistening hot dogs and burgers, and pointed his spatula at something completely crass and truly unnecessary.
“Look at these wieners!” he’d bellowed, a stupid grin on his face. “Remind anyone else of… well, you know?” He punctuated it with a lewd wink, nudging his buddy Dave, who promptly snorted with laughter.
My cheeks flushed scarlet. I knew exactly what he was insinuating. How could I not? He wasn’t exactly being subtle. I doubted the word subtle was even in his vocabulary. Based on my neighborly observations, he was apparently the kind of guy who partied every weekend and dated some new hapless airhead every week. You can see why I always rebuffed Gary’s interests; I don’t care how many muscles he has, he’s really, really not my type.
My plate felt suddenly heavy in my lap, feeling like a lead weight instead of a flimsy paper plate. I set the plate down on the table, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. My hot dog, nestled in its bun, had looked innocent enough a moment ago. Now… now it just looked… phallic. Disgust welled up within me, canceling out my previous appetite. How could I possibly eat this? How could I possibly put that… shape… into my mouth, knowing what Gary had said? Knowing what he was probably thinking, what all of them, all the men in this yard, were probably thinking? That I was just… sticking a penis in my mouth. My cheeks burned. The sound of laughter, a few more chuckles that followed Gary’s idiotic pronouncement, echoed in my ears.
I clutched my glass of iced tea, the condensation chilling my palm. I stared at the untouched hot dog. It looked… obscene. I could feel the invisible eyes of the men around me, imagining them picturing me putting that in my mouth. My stomach churned, the knot tightened, and suddenly, the delicious aroma of the barbecue turned into something vaguely nauseating. I poked at the pile of potato salad on my plate with my plastic fork, the white, creamy texture suddenly equally unappealing.
“Honestly,” I muttered under my breath, my voice tight with indignation. “Some people have no class.”
I took a long, slow sip of my iced tea, the cold liquid doing little to douse the fire of my annoyance. Mrs. Clark came around, offering everyone another helping of potato salad, which I politely declined. I wasn't hungry anymore. Or rather, I was, but my hunger was currently locked in a battle with my disgust.
My eyes narrowed, still fixed on the hot dog. It lay there, unapologetic in its suggestive shape. It’s just a hot dog, Skylar, I tried to reason with myself. Just a piece of meat. You’re being ridiculous. But the thought of biting into it, of wrapping my lips around that… thing… made my skin crawl. What would it look like? How would it feel? The whole thing now felt so… crude.
Minutes stretched, each one feeling like an eternity of self-conscious observation. My stomach rumbled, a traitorous growl that reminded me I hadn't eaten since a meager breakfast. And to think, I’d actually been saving my appetite for the barbecue. I tried once more to shake out of my discomfort, steeling my resolve and my pride. I was not going to give Gary, or any guy, the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. I was not going to let a silly, crass joke ruin my appetite.
With a defiant huff, I picked up the hot dog, my fingers gingerly wrapping around the bun. I brought it slowly towards my face, my gaze still fixed warily on it, as if it was going to somehow transform into something more explicit. My lips, usually a demure and unadorned line, parted slightly. I could practically hear Gary’s snickers in my head. Let them think what they want, I decided, a new wave of stubbornness washing over me. I’m hungry.
Just as my lips brushed the tip of the sausage, a strange warmth bloomed on my face, a tingling sensation that intensified rapidly. It wasn't unpleasant, not exactly. More like… a sudden flush, a surge of pressure. But then it became more. My lips, the very ones hovering over the hot dog, began to throb, to plump, to swell with an almost alarming speed. It felt like they were being inflated from the inside, growing fuller, rounder, until they felt impossibly luscious, like two fat, juicy cushions. They were no longer just my lips; they were, unmistakably, a perfect pout, practically begging to wrap around something. True cocksuckers, a strange, crude thought echoed in my mind, not my own, yet undeniably there, humming just beneath the surface of my consciousness. In my shock, I set the hot dog back down on my plate, and gently probed my lips with my fingers. For the first time ever, my lips felt… sensual.
My eyes widened, the bizarre reality reflecting in the polished surface of my phone screen, which had suddenly appeared, clutched in my hand. It wasn’t just my lips. My hair! A gasp caught in my throat, swallowed by the bizarre sensation spreading through my scalp. My hair, always rather sensible, shoulder-length brown, suddenly felt like it was being pulled taut, stretched, and straightened by an invisible force. It elongated in a rush, pouring down my back in a shimmering cascade. A quick glance down confirmed it wasn't just longer; it was a dazzling, hyper-straightened platinum blonde, gleaming like spun moonlight. It felt impossibly light, yet voluminous. Platinum. I was a platinum blonde. When had I even considered that? Never. I was more of a mousy brown. Wasn’t I? A flicker of confusion, quickly snuffed out by a dazzling new thought: Obvi, like, I’ve always been blonde. Duh.
I was soon distracted from my intrusive thoughts when my chest suddenly tightened, a strange pressure building around my ribs. It wasn't painful, but a rapid expansion, as if two balloons were being quickly inflated beneath my skin. My modest B-cups surged forward, swelling, hardening, becoming a pair of undeniably, spectacularly fake breasts. They felt firm, high, and practically buoyant, straining against the fabric of my demure floral sundress. My breath hitched. It was impossible to miss them, especially for me. They were there, front and center, demanding attention, completely blocking my view of my own lap. Totally, babe, they’re just, like, super perky! Another thought, conflicting with my own identity, yet simultaneously true in this new, warped reality.
A strange, delicious heat spread through my core. The sensation rushed downwards, a wave of intense reshaping. My hips flared, widening with a smooth, almost liquid motion, while my butt seemed to round out behind me, becoming unbelievably pert and full. My waist, in contrast, cinched inwards, tightening, creating an hourglass figure so dramatic it felt like I was wearing a corset, though I certainly wasn't. My body was suddenly all curves, all woman, a caricature of feminine perfection.
The fabric of my floral sundress, which had been loosely comfortable moments ago, now felt like a second skin. It stretched, tightened, and somehow, miraculously, transformed. The floral print faded, replaced by a slinky, stretchy material that clung to every newly defined curve. The neckline plunged, revealing a generous expanse of my new cleavage. The hemline rose, showcasing long, shapely legs I hadn’t known I possessed. It was scandalous, sexy, and utterly unlike anything I would ever wear. Yet, it felt… right. Comfortable, even. Killing. It.
My pale, sun-averse skin tingled, then deepened, absorbing the light around me. In a matter of seconds, I was no longer a pasty wallflower, prone to freckles and sunburn, but a bronze goddess, kissed by a thousand summer suns. I looked as if I’d spent weeks basking on a Mediterranean beach, rather than thirty minutes in Mrs. Clark’s backyard. My nails, which last I checked had been clipped short and unadorned, suddenly sprouted long, perfectly sculpted extensions, painted a vibrant, glossy red. They flashed like dangerous jewels. When had that happened? I wore clear polish, mostly. Or nothing. But these… they felt so natural. So me. Red is definitely my color.
Then came the makeup. A tingling around my eyes, a subtle shimmer across my cheeks. My new, full lips were instantly adorned with a bright, lacquered red lipstick that somehow didn't smudge. A thick, matte foundation smoothed over my skin, erasing every imperfection. And then, as my eyelids fluttered, a heavy fringe of enormous false eyelashes fanned out, catching the light, batting adorably with every blink. My eyes, once unremarkable, now seemed to sparkle, framed by these dramatic new additions. My reflection in the phone screen looked like… a stranger. A bombshell. A bimbo, the intrusive voice helpfully supplied.
Whoa, is that, like, me? Totally a glow-up! The voice in my head was no longer completely unfamiliar. When I focused, which was getting harder to do, I could hear traces of what was definitely my voice. But it was also different. Higher pitched. Breathier. Infused with a sort of vacuous, bubbly energy.
The whirlwind of physical changes was complete. But then, a deeper shift began. It started subtly, a slight fuzziness around the edges of my thoughts, like a radio station losing its signal. Concepts I’d once held dear, like the importance of intellect or propriety, began to blur, becoming less significant. I felt my sense of self shift, becoming les and less serious, and more and more, well… fun. A profound lightness filled my mind, as if several pounds of textbooks had been lifted from my brain.
Then, the memories. They didn’t vanish, not entirely, but they distorted, reshaping themselves to fit my new reality. The strait-laced, self-conscious Skylar who had worried about hot dogs looking like penises? She was a total stranger. My memories felt… fluid. Like warm taffy, easily reshaped. Was my skin ever pale? No, I literally can't picture myself without my tan. Soo weird to even think about. Was my hair ever short and brown? Ew, no! Being blonde is, like, my natural state! Was I ever… prudish? The word itself felt alien, like a relic from a forgotten language. I genuinely can't remember being all, 'Oh, no, that's scandalous!' My brain probably just, like, deleted those files. Gross.
My mind felt lighter. Less burdened by… by all those thoughts. All that overthinking. Why would anyone think so much? It seemed exhausting. I vaguely recalled feeling something about a hot dog joke a moment ago, but it wasn't insult or embarrassment. It was… amusement? A hint of sexiness? My past self, the one who found Gary crass, had morphed into a woman who would have totally high-fived him for the joke, or better yet, come up with a dirtier one herself.
My sense of humor, once dry and perhaps a little too intellectual, now sparkled with a brazen, almost gleeful vulgarity. The thought of eating the hot dog didn’t fill me with dread; it filled me with a naughty thrill. I found myself giggling, a bubbly, slightly nasal sound that was entirely new. Oh my god, like, this totally looks like I’m giving a blowjob, doesn’t it? The thought popped into my head, fully formed, effortlessly hilarious. I wanted to blurt it out, to share the joke, but I paused, distracted by the sheer deliciousness of the moment.
I realized my voice, when I next spoke would totally match the inner voice in my head; higher, breathier, with a distinct, almost exaggerated, valley girl lilt. Slang bloomed on my tongue and in my mind like exotic flowers – "like," "totally," "OMG," "duh." My entire outlook had flipped, from prim and proper to, like, totally ready for anything.
I lifted the hot dog again, my new, luscious lips parting with an instinctive, practiced ease. They felt meant for this. I took a slow, deliberate bite, the casing giving a satisfying pop as my perfectly white teeth broke through. A droplet of mustard fell landing squarely on the valley of cleavage between my new, impossibly perfect breasts, bright yellow against the tan of my skin. My eyes drifted down, a playful smirk curving my lips. "Oopsie!" I purred. I stroked a long, red-tipped finger, slowly, deliberately, tracing the line of mustard, scooping it up, then sensuously licking the mustard off my finger, my tongue lingering playfully for a moment, feeling the warm, soft skin, and my sharp, smooth nail. It felt… decadent.
I continued to eat my hot dog, each bite a slow, sensual experience, practically a show for anyone that cared to look. My mind buzzed with dirty jokes, each one funnier and more outrageous than the last. I giggled to myself, a soft, purring sound. This was so much better than being uptight. Why had I wasted so much time being so… boring?
My hand reached for my drink. The iced tea, that symbol of my former modesty, was gone. In its place sat a frosty, amber bottle of beer, condensation beading on its sides. "Oh, hello there, gorgeous," I purred, lifting it. I chugged it down, the cool, slightly bitter liquid sliding easily down my throat, feeling incredibly refreshing. A little burp escaped, ladylike but unashamed, and I felt a spark of pure, unadulterated joy.
Finished with my hot dog and my beer, and feeling utterly fantastic, I lazily tossed my plate back on the table and stretched languidly, my new curves arching elegantly. My eyes scanned the backyard, landing on the grill, where Gary – He’s so funny! And hawt! Like, why haven’t I gone out with him yet? – was flipping more burgers, his back to me. An echo of a feeling of distaste, or dislike, or whatever crossed my mind, but that couldn't be right; I love guys like Gary. With his, like, hot body, and hi-larious sense of humor, he's the total package, like, for real. A mischievous glint entered my eyes.
"Time for another wiener, I think," I murmured, a slow smile spreading across my newly plumped lips. I flounced over to the grill, a movement I hadn't even known I was capable of, my new hips swaying with a captivating rhythm, my new tits bouncing with every step. The skimpy outfit moved with me, clinging to every curve, flashing skin, riding up just enough to hint at the perfect curve of my butt.
"Heyyy, grill master!" I cooed, my voice dripping with honey and a hint of playful mischief. Gary turned, his eyes widening as they swept over me. His jaw practically hit the ground.
"Skylar? Is that… you?" he stammered, his voice laced with disbelief and something else. Hunger.
I laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. "Like, who else would it be, silly?" I batted my huge false eyelashes. "So, listen, I just finished my first hot dog," I said, leaning in, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "and it was so good. Like, really good. Made me wanna eat another one." I gave him my most alluring pout, my new lips practically begging. “Sooo, got another wiener for me?" I winked, letting the innuendo hang heavy in the air.
Gary swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on my lips, then my chest, then my waist. He couldn’t seem to decide where to look. "Uh… yeah. Yeah, I can definitely get you another wiener." He fumbled for a bun, accidentally dropping it, his movements jerky and distracted.
He handed me the second hot dog, perfectly grilled, nestled in a fresh bun. As my fingers brushed his, a new, intense sensation shot through me. It wasn’t just physical attraction; it was an undeniable, urge. My whole body throbbed as if a liquid heat coursed through me, a sudden, overwhelming desire to be touched, to be taken, to be consumed. The hot dog was a fun symbol, yes, but what I really wanted was the source of the joke; the real thing.
"OMG, this looks delicious," I purred, but my eyes weren't on the hot dog. They were on Gary, or more specifically the subtle bulge in his jeans, the way his muscular chest rose and fell with each breath. All the repressed desires of my former life had exploded, coalescing into a single, ravenous need.
"You know what?" I said, setting the plate with the waiting hot dog onto a nearby table. "I actually just realized… I'm, like, totally not hungry for this right now." I gestured vaguely at the plate. "I'm hungry for… something else." My eyes locked onto his, a challenge and an invitation swirling in their depths. “Something hotter. Something hopefully… bigger."
His eyes widened, understanding dawning in their depths. "Oh?" he managed, his voice hoarse.
I stepped closer, practically pressing my new breasts against his torso. "Yeah. So, like, I think we should totes go find the bathroom, or a quiet bedroom, or something? 'Cause I have a feeling we need to, like, totally go explore the house right now. You and me.” I took his hand, my bright red nails digging playfully into his palm. "And don't worry about manning the barbecue. Mrs. Clark already thinks I'm, like, totally cray, so you can just tell her it’s, like, literally my fault.”
Without waiting for a response, I tugged him along with me as I strutted towards the house. He followed, a dazed, delighted expression on his face, as I led him away from the bustling backyard and into the quieter, cooler interior of the house. We slipped into a dim, unused side room, probably a study or a guest bedroom, its curtains drawn against the harsh afternoon sun. The air was thick with the scent of old books and dust, a stark contrast to the lively barbecue outside.
I spun around, pressing him against the closed door, my hands sliding up his chest. "Okay, so, like, about that sausage," I whispered, my voice thick with desire. My new lips brushed against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. "I've heard yours is, like, totally legendary."
His breath caught. "You… you want to…?"
"Duh!" I giggled, my hands already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. "Are you gonna make me beg? 'Cause I totally will, you know. If you, like, want me to.” My new persona, uninhibited and direct, reveled in the power of the moment. I tugged his shirt open, revealing his chest, taut and warm beneath my fingertips.
"Let's just say," I murmured, my voice a sultry whisper, "this outfit is, like, way too much fabric for how I'm feeling right now." With a swift, practiced movement, I stood on tiptoes and peeled my skimpy dress over my head, letting it fall in a silken pool at my feet. I stood before him, the new queen of curves, my bronze skin gleaming, my ridiculously fake breasts practically thrusting forward, my ample chest, tiny waist and impossibly round hips showcased by the coral bra and matching thong underwear that had magically appeared beneath the dress.
His eyes devoured me, a low groan escaping his throat. "Wow," he breathed. "Just… wow."
"You like what you see, stud?” I challenged, a playful smirk on my lips. My hands reached for his belt. "Good. 'Cause I'm, like, totally ready to have some fun with your… wiener. And, I promise, I’m totally good with a wiener."
The room was bathed in dim, filtered light. His hands, trembling slightly, reached for my waist, pulling me flush against him. His lips found mine, my impossibly plump, red-lipsticked lips, and he kissed me with a hunger that matched my own. It was a raw, bruising kiss, full of pent-up desire. My hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as my hips instinctively began to grind against his, feeling the promising rigidity beneath his jeans.
He broke the kiss, his eyes blazing. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this, Sky."
"Oh, like, I totally do now," I purred, my fingers unzipping his pants. "And trust me, the wait is so over." I reached in, my fingers closing around him, hot and hard. A low moan escaped my lips. "Mmm, this is, like, way better than a hot dog."
I guided him to the dusty armchair in the corner of the room, pushing him down gently. He sat there, his eyes fixed on me, as I knelt, my platinum blonde hair spilling around my shoulders like a silken curtain. My absurdly full lips, made for this very purpose, opened just a fraction of an inch, revealing the tip of my tongue. I took him in, slowly, completely, the sudden warmth and fullness astonishing me. It was, like, everything I never knew I wanted. For some reason, it felt for a moment like this was my first time doing this, even though I knew deep down I must’ve done this, like, a gazillion times before.
My eyes fluttered closed, a soft moan escaping as I felt him fill my mouth, all the way back to my throat. My newly acquired instincts took over, guiding my head, my tongue, my ridiculously perfect lips wrapped around him. I worked him slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste, the texture, the deep, carnal pleasure that surged through me. My hands gripped his thighs, my nails digging in slightly, as I bobbed my head, a rhythmic, sensual motion. The world outside, the barbecue, the guests, all faded away from my awareness, replaced by the intense focus on this one, singular sensation.
He groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair, tugging gently. "Oh, my god, Sky," he gasped, his voice thick with pleasure. "You're incredible."
I pulled back just enough to look at him, my eyes sparkling with a combination of triumph and pure carnal glee. "Like, I told you," I whispered, my voice husky, "I'm totally good with a wiener." And then I took him in again, deeper this time, letting my true cocksuckers indulge in their newfound talents, as the sounds of the summer barbecue faded into the background, replaced by the blissful sounds of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Shit huff huff I’m close. C’mon there’s gotta be a good one around here somewhere.
Nah not this, I’ve already jerked to that one last week, this too... hmm maybe tumblr has something new.
Don’t think I’ve seen this writer before, let’s see.
#muscle tf, #cock growth, #himbo tf.
Yeah... this is the one. Hmm, I'll just skip to the good parts, I'm sure it wouldn't hurt.
He glossed over the contents of the link sent to him, not paying attention as the words magnified the ongoing transformation in his brain and body, each scroll speeding up the growth and slowing down his thoughts.
Heh, there it is, this guy’s not gonna know what hit him. All these muscle-obsessed writers sure love a good dumbing down, huh? Can’t blame them though, must feel nice to be a meathead. Growing big and worshipping yourself...
Oblivious to the changes, his pecs started to swell with muscle, forming a meaty shelf that accompanied his new big dark nipples. They were toned yet squeezable, a symbol of a good himbo.
Fuck. My chest feels pumped just reading that. Though, they do look huge as hell right now, ngh, my nipples also feel extra sensitive... but I guess they've always been like that right? So soft but hard... I can- a-ah! I can definitely get off with this.
His thick fingers fumbled with the site, getting harder and harder to scroll as his arms bulged out. All the friction caused an intense musk to waft through the air, reeking of pre-cum and testosterone.
Mmpfh- feels a little different today, these calluses rubbing up and down my cock like that. Guess the gym's paying off huhu, can't get arms as huge as these without a little wear and tear. So fucking big.
Next were his back and shoulders, which widened themselves to perfect proportions, complementing his newly carved abs and obliques that begged to show themselves off to the world.
It's getting so hot in here, shit, I'm getting sweat all over. But it smells so... so ggooood. W-Why am I so horny... I just want to... need to flex.
A loud moan erupted as his thighs pressed together, threatening to compress his balls from their sheer size. His ass followed suit, rounding into a juicy bubble butt that sent chills up his spine and into his brain, relieving it from its duties of thinking and processing for pleasure and lust.
NgHHH - god I'm throbbing like hell down there, this dude sounds like an absolute beast. Mmmnhh that ass must be so grabbable, so fuckable. Just like mine. No room left to spread, everything's so tight.
He pounded his palm like a wild animal in heat, sending drops of pre-cum that drenched everything with its scent. Every pump only made his dick grow further, adding inches upon inches, as his balls dropped with heavy cum, becoming so long and thick until he had no choice but to cum.
Huff huff I can feel it coming, I'm close, too close, I'm gonna mmfph - just take every inch of my fat fucking cockkkkk UGHhh!
So much cummmm -Ooooughhhh - again and again, spilling everywhere, more fucking MORE-
Fff-ffuckkkkkkkkkkkk that was… that was fucking amazing bro… I gotta share this one with the rest, it felt soooo... uhhh, real yeah real. Dude in the story sounds just like me, huhuhuh, sexed up and horny for more.
Mmm... fuck I still got another load left, I wonder if there's anything else around.
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I'm back again! Wrote this really quick one because I NEEEEED to get back to writing. I had wayy too much stuff going on during the holiday season, but hopefully 2026 will be the year I write more!
Nick was trying to get some sleep. He had been lying on his bed, clad only in briefs, focusing on the spinning ceiling fan as if trying to lull himself into deep slumber. Nick thought he would finally join a club, go to parties, maybe even fool around with some boys. But college was just lecture after lecture, his overactive imagination already stressing about tomorrow's seminar. Goddamn. He needed to calm his mind, trying to focus on something else - that is, hot jocks.
Tall, beefy, muscular men had popped up in his brain like fleeting mirages. Somehow, Nick had ended up in a college that was a giant in every sport imaginable. From sun-kissed boys in the swimming club, to the brawny brutes of the football club. Of course, he could only watch, not do. Next to the pinnacles of fitness, Nick was just a regular unassuming guy. In a campus full of jocks he was short at 5'5", and though he worked out on occasion, his body didn't show anything impressive. The only interactions he got were accidental shoves from people walking past.
Still, an occasional glance at the hunks in his class or at the soccer team out the window helped get him through the day. He noted how each of the sport teams had their own sexy characteristics:
Down by the pool, the swimmers were lean and tanned to perfection, dripping water highlighted the grooves of their abs, carving straight to their cum gutters; brought out perfectly by tight speedos that left little to the imagination, showing off juicy curves and asses.
Full of testosterone and ego, the quarterbacks were huge. Larger than life in body and demeanor, always rowdy and loud in the field. Drawing attention with their boulder shoulders, accentuated by their shoulder pads; and tight pants that showed their meaty behinds. Unlike the smooth shaven boys in the water, the footballers were hairy and musky, pits and pubes full of sweat that could drive you crazy.
The soccer team were the complete definition of hunks, they loved to strip down on the field, showing their carved torsos in glory; the basketball players were tall and packing heat, black shorts only highlighted their lengthy members, and their stamina on the court wasn't just for show according to some rumors.
Nick could go on and on about every fantasy in his mind, hoping one of the jocks would magically ask him out, allowing him to feel up their bodies. Or even better, if he could be them. To be that muscular and commanding jock, sauntering into a room bulge first, popping his pecs in class, having a flex off with his like-minded bros. Although it was just a pipedream, it permeated his mind over and over, usually ending with him grumbling to himself and sighing deeply.
Out of all the stereotypical jocks, there was one he loved the most, the perfect combination appearing in every sport, and the final hot image in his brain - a frat bro.
Dumb, muscular, horny, hung, himbos, every descriptor activated the right neuron in his brain. These words were on constant repeat in Nick's mind, remembering them as he drifted into horny dreams, carrying those words with a wish. But tonight, someone heard it. And soon enough, static and fuzz crept into Nick's brain, compelling him into deep sleep.
Something whispered from the dark. Granted.
A small hum of energy blew in the air, as the bed began to creak, not from Nick's tossing and turning but from an increase of weight. With a sudden pop, his legs started to rapidly stretch, causing them to hang off the bed. His torso and limbs followed along, elongating in a deep stretch and pop that elicited a groan from the sleeping Nick.
Tall. Basketball player height.
5'5" became 6" that further lengthened into 6'4", leaving him as tall as most of the basketball team. Damn, he might have to duck under some doorways every now and then. The stretch continued, perfectly proportioning his limbs, as his neck and arms grew to fit. Meanwhile, a surge of energy focused on turning his average feet and hands into gargantuan monsters. His size 7 feet became meaty size 16s, toes becoming wider; they would make an audible stomp everywhere he went now, along with an unmistakable sweaty imprint. He remembered his bros complaining about the loud stomping in the frat house. Heh. He couldn't help it, they were just marks of a man. His fingers followed, popping longer and thicker to become meaty digits. They were better suited for gripping dumbbells and protein shakes, rather than any pens or keyboards for class. Not like he used them often. English and Arts? Nah, he was only there for sports, Athletic Science or some shit, with grades at the bare minimum.
Hunk. Toned Soccer Player.
Nick's body began to lean out, the frustrating belly fat that had stayed through countless 15 minute core workouts dissolved into rock hard abs. Each individual ab popped into a perfect six-pack, carving and embedding themselves into his core. His waist cinched tight as his cum gutters became visible, allowing any drops of sweat to slide and accentuate his toned and tiny waist.
But it didn't stop there. Muscular. Football team large.
A warmth spread up from his feet, which made his calves swell into massive diamond shapes. His thighs piled on muscle after muscle, causing his legs to spread apart, threatening to spill off the bed. A mixture of pain and pleasure washed over Nick. Memories of brutal leg presses and squats injected themselves straight into the fibers of his massive columns. After all, bros never skipped leg day, that was how they got their signature lumbering walk. His once average ass - not wanting to lose the fight - fattened into massive globes that lifted him higher into the air, soaking his sheets with sweat. Nick’s upgraded bubble butt was huge and round, each cheek constantly bouncy and jiggly, especially when riding his frat bros. In response, Nick started gyrating on the bed as new memories flowed into him -nights of being fucked and used - the sensation sending tingles down his spine, as his hole tightened to be used for maximum pleasure.
Nick's audible groans became louder as the energy surged through his chest, ballooning into mounds of firm pecs that would show through any shirt he tried on. They swelled out into hefty milkers, his nipples stretching just a little wider, big enough for his bros to play with. His shoulders followed, doubling in width as they grew along with his broad back, connecting with his traps. Giving him that strong structured look. Biceps and triceps exploded with muscle, defined by a juicy vein that ran up from his steel forearms. When flexed, they would tear sleeves to their breaking point, but it didn't matter, his wardrobe was stock full with singlets and tank tops, just like any other bro.
Smooth and hairy in all the right places.
A tingle swept over his entire body, as his old pitiful wisps of leg hair fell out and disappeared into the ether, giving him smooth and soft skin. Instead, all the hair went into his pits and pubes, fluffing them up into musk-filled bushes, hairy and dark. They would peek out in his singlets and jockstraps, enticing everyone to sniff or lick. His hair grew to a messy mop that would be paired with beanies and baseball caps.
Dumb and Handsome.
With a crack, Nick's face began to rearrange to model status, making him attractive while permanently affixing him with a dopey grin. His nose thickened to breathe in more musk from bushy armpits, sometimes even his own. His lips fattened; sloppy and wet for passionate kisses or blowjobs for his bros. Panting like a dog, his tongue lolled out, wide and long, a pleasure tool on its own. Eyes became clear, removing any need for glasses but also becoming vacant, an open window to the constant horniness and empty thoughts in his head. And the final pop of his enlarged Adam's apple gave him that stereotypical bro cadence. His deep and dull voice had two purposes, dumb moans in the bed and rough grunts in the gym.
Hung like a horse. Heavy bull nuts.
Groans and pants filled the air with heavy breaths as the warmth spread to his most sensitive area. His cock and balls. Nick's average 5 incher rose to a sizable 9 inches, barely fitting into his white briefs, its uncut head leaking pre everywhere, almost turning the fabric translucent. Still, it kept growing. 10 inches... 11 inches... Harder, thicker, longer, into a fat meaty pole that shot out of his briefs with a satisfying pop, landing with a wet smack on his abs. Now uncontained, his 12 inch monster cock was a weapon of its own, when not being bred, Nick ravaged the bedroom with his footlong size. Thick veins ran up his erect dick, overflowing with cum from his pumped up nuts. His balls had swelled along with his hefty member, dropping from regular to swinging, heavy, animal nuts. Finding underwear would be impossible for the new himbo, remembering his package bursting through buttons and briefs in the past. Luckily, jockstraps could barely contain the beast, and the tight fabric behind settled perfectly in between his cheeks, pulled taut to tease his hole throughout the day. His balls were now cum factories, capable of going endlessly in a night, churning to the brim with frat bro seed.
With one final swell and thrust, Nick erupted in a loud grunt, tensing his entire body as his cock quivered with pressure, balls tightening for release. A force in the air blew, and with the gentle gust of wind caressing his cock, he exploded with mind-breaking pleasure. Spurts of cum flew out, almost reaching the ceiling, as Nick bucked his hips in mindless pleasure. Each load caused deep and heavy moans to reverberate on his bedroom walls, his thick and smelly cum landing on every surface. He continued his musky assault on his surroundings, bucking his cock in the air like fucking an invisible hole. After painting the room white in cum, and staining the air with sweat, Nick let out a rich sigh, his sleeping face dumb and exhausted. His wet dreams were fulfilled.
In a sudden, it whispered. Wake up.
Nick groaned, his body was on fire. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed himself so hard at yesterday's full body workout, but he knew the pump was well worth it. He stared blankly at the empty ceiling, strange, he could have sworn he had a fan up there. Maybe that's why he was so goddamn sweaty. Nick pulled himself out of bed, making a goofy grin at his still hard cock, twitching and ready for countless rounds. His sheets were always stained with a mixture of sweat and cum, making the room reek with musk. Last night must have been super wild, he'd always get extra wet dreams if he didn't jerk off before bed, but fuck there was even cum on the floor today, though he was unable to remember what the dream was. It didn't matter though, all it took was a second for his doubt to fade away. He'd clean up the mess later, or ask a bro to do it.
Heavy footsteps paved their way to the shower, an audible signal of the dumb himbo. His horsecock dripped precum all over the floor, making a light slapping sound against his thunderous thighs. After a quick rinse to get rid of the excess sweat and cum, Nick stared hungrily at his own reflection. His towel draped at just the right angle to reveal his shredded torso and give a peek of his gorgeous v-line.
Fuck, he was hot. His model face and beefy body greeted him in the morning, along with his throbbing monster cock. Nghhh. He groaned, bull balls slapping against the white sink, he almost fucked the countertop in desperation. However, it stopped him, giving three basic words that completed his transformation. Lift. Eat. Fuck.
Freshly imprinted into his brain, Nick let out a long guttural moan as the command settled into his every cell. "Huhuhu." A dumb laugh followed, and like a robot, Nick was steered by the hypnotizing call. Fuck it, he would go commando today, He threw on a white tank top and black sweatpants, ones that hugged his body tight for everyone's viewing pleasure; making sure to add a gray beanie and a chain necklace that screamed douchey bro to the world. Taking a quick snap in the elevator, the new Nick cemented himself as a forever dumb, muscular himbo.
With another wish granted, it murmured. Good Himbo.
*you've made it to the end! finally wrote a tf story after lurking for so long, gotta start with one of my favorite tropes, the himboooo. but wait! who was that mysterious force? maybe we'll find out one day ^^, or you could find out if you magically wake up as a himbo ;)*
ughhhhhh fuuuuuck bros... my head is so fuckin empty again 😵💫💦 i think i cummed my brains out for real this time... like i was jerkin it so hard last night watchin my own pump videos n i just kept goin n goin n every time i blew a huge load it felt like more of my smart stuff shot right outta my dick... now im even dumber than yesterday haha
i used to be kinda smart i think?? like maybe went to school n shit but now every time i nut my brain gets smaller n smaller. my big swollen muscles are takin over everything. i cant even remember what i ate for breakfast but i remember exactly how many times i edged my thick cock before i exploded everywhere.
look at me flexin these huge guns tho!! 💪😩 i was tryin to think of sumthin to say for this pic but nahhh... brain all drained out. just cum n protein shakes up there now. i swear my skull is hollow except for the echo of me moanin like a stupid whore while i pumped load after load. every orgasm melts another braincell n im down to like... three left tops. one for liftin, one for eatin, n one for flexin in the mirror like the brainless muscle slut i am.
i keep strokin it thinkin it'll help me get smarter but it just makes me dumber n hornier. my balls are always full n my head is always empty... perfect trade if u ask me. i try to read a text n my eyes cross n all i can think about is bustin another fat nut till my brains leak out my dick again.
so yeah this is me... big dumb cum-drained jock who just blew his iq into a sock for the 50th time this week. cant even spell "intelligence" anymore but who needs that when u got these boulder shoulders n a fat pump??
if ur readin this n ur smart... come drain the rest of my brains out for me bro. ill just sit here flexin n moanin while u empty whats left of my head.
Joe slumped onto his bed, backpack still on, and stared at the ceiling.
Another day. Another shove into the lockers. Another "nice shirt, faggot" from Brad Miller and his knuckle-dragging crew. The bruise on his shoulder throbbed where he'd hit the metal door.
His phone buzzed. An advert. Again. A pink shield icon, pulsing gently against a black background.
BratBlock – Bully Free Forever!
Tired of getting pushed around? BratBlock's patented protection algorithm creates a safe space around you. No more bullies. No more drama. Just peace.
He'd swiped past it maybe fifteen times this week. But tonight—tonight it hit different. His shoulder ached. His pride was in pieces. And the advert just sat there, pulsing pink, almost mocking him.
(It's probably malware.)
Probably.
(It's definitely malware.)
Definitely.
He downloaded it anyway.
___
The app installed in seconds—no terms and conditions, no sign-up, no email required. Just a single screen. Black background, that pink shield logo, and one button in the centre.
ACTIVATE PROTECTION
Below it, in tiny grey text: BratBlock works by creating a personalised safety field. User experience may vary.
Joe frowned. "What does that even mean?"
He locked his bedroom door. His parents were out—date night, wouldn't be back until late. He had the house to himself. Privacy. Safety.
(Just press it. What's the worst that could happen?)
He pressed it.
The screen flashed pink—so bright it lit up the whole bathroom when he caught his reflection in the mirror. Then his phone went dark.
"Wait—did it crash? Did I just brick my ph—"
Warmth.
It started in his chest. A soft, golden heat, like sinking into a bath. Pleasant. Almost nice. He exhaled, shoulders loosening.
Then the heat intensified.
"Mmmmmh… ohhh fuckkk" he moaned, and the sound of his own voice made him freeze. It was higher. Softer. Still his—but not. Like someone had reached into his throat and plucked a string, tuning him up a semitone.
His fingers were next. He watched—transfixed, terrified—as they slimmed, the knuckles popping inward with tiny crick crack sounds. His nails grew, pushing out pink and glossy, perfectly shaped. His hands became dainty. Petite. Girly.
(No. No no no.... ooohhh fuck yessss....)
He grabbed the sink. His phone screen lit up again—pink, glowing, the shield icon pulsing steadily. And on the screen, text scrolled:
Protection active. Reality field establishing…
User profile: JOE → recalibrating…
New profile: JOJO. Status: ALPHA.
"What the f—"
His shoulders cracked inward. Both of them—CRACK POP—and he screamed, but the scream came out as a giggle. A bratty, entitled giggle that horrified him even as it left his lips.
His waist cinched. He could feel it—ribs shifting, organs rearranging, fat redistributing. His stomach flattened, toned, like he'd done a thousand crunches in two seconds. Then his hips popped—both sides, simultaneous, a wet grinding sound that made him grip the sink so hard his new nails left marks in the porcelain.
"Fuck—fuck— yesssss, ooooh what's happening to me— it feels so fucking good."
But his voice was wrong now. Completely wrong. High, breathy, with a bratty drawl that made every word sound like an eye-roll.
His hair. Oh god, his hair. It spilled down from his scalp in waves—platinum blonde, thick, glossy, cascading past his shoulders and down his back. He could feel the weight of it, the way it brushed against his skin, alive and growing.
(Stop. Please stop.)
Mmmh, no don't stop. Give me MORE. Fill me with pink. Make me into a fucking bitch.
The thought came from somewhere else. Somewhere new. A voice in his head that sounded like him but wasn't—confident, cruel, amused.
His chest swelled. Two mounds pushing outward, round and full, straining against a black crop top that materialised on his body out of nowhere. He could feel the fabric—soft, tight, hugging curves that hadn't existed ten seconds ago. His breasts were big. Round. Perfect. The kind that made boys stupid. The kind that made you feel powerful.
"Oooooh…" The moan escaped before he could stop it. The sensation of her new nipples rubbing against the fabric sent electricity straight down between her legs, where the final change was already underway.
(I'm not a boy anymore... I'm a girl and it feels so good. Fuck yessss, I'm a SHE now and I like it. Mmmmh I can feel it, feel my pussy forming.)
Her boxers shifted—rewove—became a tiny thong. And between her legs, she felt herself inverting. Pulling inward. Remaking.
Pop.
She smirked, feeling complete. Feeling good. Her tight waxed pussy was already dripping and she loved it.
Joe was gone. It was like he never existed.
With a slutty purr the new woman he had become looked in the mirror and giggled.
The girl staring back was stunning.
High cheekbones. Small, pert nose. Full lips—naturally pink, glossy, slightly parted. Big blue eyes framed by long lashes. Skin flawless, glowing, lightly tanned. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves around her face.
"Ooooh fuck yah, like look at how like pretty I am."
She was wearing a black crop top that hugged her massive round breasts, white ripped shorts that clung to an ass that was impossibly perky and round, and tiny gold jewellery—a necklace, a bracelet, small hoop earrings.
She looked like the kind of girl who had never been told "no" in her entire life.
(I'm… I'm a girl.)
You're a fucking goddess, babe.
The voice in her head was louder now. Stronger. It felt like her.
JoJo raised her phone. The screen glowed pink:
Protection active. Reality field ESTABLISHED.
Welcome, JoJo. You are: bully-proof.
She didn't understand the technology. She didn't need to. What she did understand was the mirror. And the mirror said she was hot. The mirror said she WAS the bully now. No one would dare touch a bitch like her. She felt fucking supreme. Full of slutty new thoughts and desires.
She snapped a selfie. Lips parted. Eyes half-lidded. That entitled little smirk. Click.
"Fuck yes, I'm like sooo hawt now."
She checked it. Flawless. She checked her followers—her Instagram was different now. Not @JoeBoring89 with forty-three followers and three posts. Now it was @xoJoJo_xo with 4,872 followers and a grid full of bikini pics, gym selfies, and club photos.
(This isn't real. This can't be real. I'm having the best dream ever. )
It's real, babe. Look around. Doesn't it feel good to be me and have everything you ever wanted?
She looked around. Her bathroom was different. The plain white towels were now fluffy and pink. Her mum's skincare products on the shelf were now hers—a whole row of them. Dior. Charlotte Tilbury. Drunk Elephant. Hundreds of pounds worth of product, just sitting there, like they'd always belonged to her.
Omg - I'm so spoiled and I love it.
She opened the bathroom cabinet. Tampons. Birth control pills. A pink razor. Hair ties. Lip gloss—three shades.
Yummy, three perfect colours for sucking dick.
Her room had changed too. She peeked out—no more band posters and dirty laundry. Now there was a vanity table with a ring light, a wardrobe full of clothes she'd never seen but somehow knew were hers, a bed with pink silk sheets, and a full-length mirror angled to catch the best light.
My boudoir - because I'm a Princess and I deserve it all.
Her phone buzzed. A text from someone called Tiffany:
bitchhhh where r u?? brad's party starts at 9 and u PROMISED we'd pregame at mine first 😤
JoJo stared at the message. Tiffany. She knew Tiffany. Best friend. Fellow mean girl. They'd been tight since year seven. The memories were there, layered over Joe's like a transparency—faint underneath, but JoJo's life on top, vivid and real.
Like, I even have hot friends. I'm literally perfect.
Brad's party. Brad Miller. The guy who shoved Joe into lockers. The bully she'd activated this app to protect herself from.
Her phone buzzed again. This time from Brad himself:
hey jojo u coming tonight?
Then, seconds later:
been thinking about u all week ngl
JoJo's lips curled into a smile. A cruel smile. The kind of smile that could end a boy's self-esteem with one glance.
(He bullied me. He made my life hell.)
And now he's begging for your attention. Isn't that funny? He is kind of like hot right? Mmmmmh all those muscles and that big dick...
She giggled and typed back:
maybe. if u behave 💕
She hit send. Then she laughed—bright, bitchy, musical.
This was going to be fun...
___
Tiffany's bedroom. 8:47 PM.
Tiffany was a brunette in a tight pink dress—gym-toned, pretty, and almost as bitchy as JoJo. Almost. She handed JoJo a shot of vodka.
"Girl, you look insane tonight. That top? Obsessed."
JoJo downed the shot. "Obviously."
They pregamed for an hour. Shots. Mirror selfies. Gossiping about girls they didn't like. JoJo fell into it like she'd been born for it—which, in a way, she had. Every bitchy comment felt natural. Every eye-roll felt earned. The old Joe was still in there somewhere—faint, muffled, like a TV playing in another room—but JoJo didn't care. JoJo was alive.
(This isn't you. This isn't—)
Shut up loser. This is exactly me. You fucking love how good this feels. Being a brat is like awesome. Give into it. Embrace it.
___
They arrived at Brad's at 9:30. The party was already loud—music pumping, red cups everywhere, people crammed into every room. Brad's house was big. Rich parents. The kind of house that made you feel small just walking in.
But JoJo didn't feel small. JoJo never felt small.
Brad spotted her from across the kitchen. His eyes went wide—then darkened. Hungry. He excused himself from the group of boys he was with and walked over. He was tall. Muscular. His shirt was tight enough to show every line of his chest.
"JoJo. You came."
She giggled. "I told you I would. If you behaved..." She looked him up and down. "You behaving, baby?"
He leaned in. "Trying to. Though maybe you'd prefer me to be a bad boy?"
She could feel the heat coming off him. Could smell his cologne. And underneath—something else. Something musky and male that made her new body tingle in ways Joe's never had.
She tingled all over and felt her pussy start to get wet.
(No... what are you doing? He used to shove you into lockers. He used to call you—)
So what? Bullies are hot and we aren't a victim anymore. Mmmh, he's looking at my tits right now. Get a good look stud. Oooh who's in charge now Brad?
She was. She always was.
"Get me a drink," she said. Not a request. A command.
Brad obeyed.
___
The party was in full swing.
Two hours had passed. Three drinks. Dancing. Grinding. Brad's hands on her waist, her hips, her ass. She let him touch her—on her terms. She controlled every second. When he got too handsy, she pushed him back. When he pulled away, she pulled him close. She was playing him like an instrument, and he was begging for it.
But she was so fucking horny too. She wanted it bad.
"Let's go upstairs," he murmured against her neck.
Fuck yes. I need to get fucked by him so bad.
She pretended to consider it. Took her time. Sipped her drink. Made him wait.
Oooh I can't take it anymore. I need that cock.
"Fine. But I'm in charge."
He grinned. "Obviously."
They stumbled upstairs, his hands already on her ass and squeezing.
___
Brad's bedroom. Door locked. Music muffled through the walls.
Mmmmh it smells of bully in here.
He pulled her in and kissed her—hard, desperate, hungry. She kissed back, biting his lip until he groaned. Her fingers found his belt. His found the hem of her crop top.
Fuck yes, take me. Take your prize.
The top came off. Her breasts—huge, round, perfect—bounced free. Brad stared like he'd found religion.
"Fuck… you're so—"
So big? My titties are amazing aren't they you horny boy.
"I know." She unzipped his jeans. Reached in.
Oh.
(Oh my god yes. A big cock for my big titties.)
He was huge. Thick, long, veined—the kind of cock that made her new pussy clench just looking at it. Her small hand could barely wrap around it.
Mmmh yummy. Big bully dick is my favourite dick.
She stroked him slowly, feeling him pulse in her hand. Power. Pure power. The biggest bully in school, reduced to putty because she was pretty and he was weak.
"Suck it," he breathed.
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Beg for it you bastard. This cock is mine now.
"Please—please suck it."
She felt her pussy clench with pleasure.
"Mmmmh much better."
She dropped to her knees. Took him in her mouth. The taste—musky, salty, male—flooded her senses. She swirled her tongue, took him deeper, gagged slightly, then recovered and kept going. She could feel him shaking. Could feel his hand on the back of her head, trembling.
You used to shove me into lockers.
And now you're shaking because of my mouth. Because I can suck cock better than any girl you know.
She pulled off with a pop. Looked up at him. Lip gloss smeared. Eyes watering. Smirking.
Fuck I need this inside me.
"Bed. Now. On your back."
He obeyed.
She straddled him. Positioned herself. Teased him a little, then sank down.
Ohhhhh fuckkkkkk it's so big.
"Fuck– fuck yes–" she groaned.
He was so deep. Stretching her in ways she didn't know were possible. The fullness was overwhelming—intense, almost painful, but good. So good her eyes rolled back.
Oh god, right there– oh fuck I'm going to cum on my bullies big dick. I'm giving him validation, showing him it's okay to be a bully. Showing him he gets hot girls if he acts like a jerk. I shouldn't do this... I shouldnt encourage this toxic behaviour.
The thought dissolved. She didn't care. She was JoJo now—entitled, bratty, addicted to this. She rode him slow at first, then faster, grinding her hips in circles, using him for her pleasure. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, but she set the pace. Always her pace.
"You like that, you little slut?" Brad groaned.
"Obviously," she moaned, pushing her ass down harder. "Harder, dumbass."
He flipped her over. She yelped—then laughed. Face-down on his pillow, ass in the air, completely exposed. He grabbed her hips and slammed back in.
Ohhhh fuckkkk he's hitting my cervix!
"YES—fuck—"
The headboard cracked against the wall. She could hear the party still going on downstairs. Could hear people laughing, music thumping. And here she was—getting railed by the biggest cock she'd ever seen, screaming into a pillow, and loving every second.
Every thrust erased another piece of Joe. His memories. His fears. His weakness. The boy who got shoved into lockers was gone. There was only JoJo now. Bratty. Beautiful. Powerful. Full.
Yessss fuck me into a bitch. Make me into a slut. Make me into a female bully. I love how this feels.
"I'm gonna—" Brad grunted.
"No! Not yet," she commanded as she gasped in pleasure. "Make me cum first. Make this tight pussy pop."
I'm so fucking close.
He slowed down, he obeyed. He always obeyed and it made her so wet.
Boys are so easy to control. But they definitely have their uses. Oooh fuck I need to cum so badly.
She reached down, rubbed her clit in tight circles, felt the pressure building—building—
Yessss. My pussy is gonna explode. I'm so hot, I'm so perfect. I love it. Ohhh fuck I'm gonna... gonna...
"OH FUCK—"
Her orgasm hit like a wave. Her whole body clenched. She screamed into the pillow, legs shaking, pussy gripping him so tight he groaned in pain. Seconds later, he pulled out and finished on her back—hot, thick ropes across her lower back.
She collapsed. Breathing hard. Smiling.
Mmmmh next time I want it on my face or even better, deep inside me. After all that's what birth control is for...
She felt his cum on her skin and smiled wider. Maybe he would be up for round two?
Her phone sat on the nightstand. Screen glowing faintly in the dark room. She didn't see it.
BratBlock: ACTIVE Reality field: STABLE WARNING: Battery: 1%
A notification popped up:
⚠️ LOW BATTERY – BratBlock will deactivate when battery reaches 0%. Reality field will collapse. User will revert to previous profile: JOE.
The screen dimmed. The battery icon blinked.
1%...
Then 1% again.
JoJo didn't see it. She was on her back now, legs wrapped around Brad's waist, pulling him back inside her. He was hard again—she'd made sure of that.
"This time cum inside my pussy. I want to feel your load dripping out of me."
"Fuck yes baby, anything you want."
"Mmmmh more, harder, deeper" she demanded as he began to pound her with wet slaps. "And don't you dare stop."
I never want this to end.
Brad kissed her neck. Thrusted deeper.
On the night stand the phone switched off.
JoJo and Brad were about to get one hell of a surprise...
"I just want a girl who's a total baddie, bro. Like – blonde, stacked, wears those little cropped hoodies. A girl who tells me what to do but then…" You'd make that obscene gesture with your hand, miming something your dorky roommate Mitchell did not need to see.
Mitchell – glasses, brown hair, built like a lamppost – would just stare at you from his desk, jaw tight, patience eroding like a cliff face.
"And she'd be, like, a bit stuck up? Bossy? The kind of girl who makes you fetch her stuff but then sucks your cock so good you see God—"
"Bro. Bro. I get it."
But he didn't just get it. He got fed up.
---
The hoody arrived in a package with no return address. Light blue, cropped, with GODDESS stencilled across the chest in hot pink. Mitchell pulled it from the wrapping with trembling fingers.
"A girl in my Lit class – she does… stuff. Wiccan stuff." He held it up. "She said this'll turn whoever wears it into exactly the kind of girl you won't shut up about."
You laughed. "Mate, you're not seriously—"
"I'm dead serious." His jaw set. "You want a bossy blonde baddie who gets everything she wants? Sounds pretty fucking hot from the other side, honestly. So I'm going to become her."
He pulled the hoody over his head.
---
Oooooh…
The fabric slid down his torso and clung – not like cotton but like something alive, something hungry. Mitchell gasped, and the gasp pitched upward, softening into a breathy moan.
"Mmmmmh— fuck—"
His shoulders cracked inward – pop, pop – narrow and delicate. His spine curved with a wet shhhhlick, hips flaring outward with a sound like knuckles cracking, pelvis widening into something made for low-rise shorts and thirsty DMs.
"Oh God— oh fuck my— ahhh—"
Brown hair lightened at the roots, bleaching platinum in streaks, then pouring down past his – her – shoulders like liquid gold. The glasses dissolved. The face beneath softened, sharpened, restructured – cheekbones rising, lips plumping, jawline refining into something that belonged on an Instagram explore page.
(This is… oh fuck this is actually… I'm getting so hot…)
His chest swelled – two mounds pushing outward against the GODDESS lettering, round and firm and perfect, stretching the fabric taut. His stomach flattened. His ass inflated with a obscene pop that made you flinch. Legs slimmed. Feet shrank.
And then the light blue shorts materialised – pink, tiny, riding high on thick hips.
Mitchell was gone.
In his place stood a girl – maybe 20 – with a slim build, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and a face that radiated the specific cruelty of someone who'd never been told no. She looked at you with playful, confident eyes and smirked.
Reality shuddered. You felt it – a ripple through the room, through your memories – and suddenly she wasn't your roommate anymore. She was Tiff. Your girlfriend. Six months. The girl who texted you demands at 2am and rewarded compliance with her mouth.
---
"Baby." Her voice was honey and vinegar. She flopped onto your bed, legs crossed, scrolling her phone. "I'm starving. Make me a sandwich. Turkey, extra mayo, cut diagonal – you know how I like it."
You blinked. "Tiff, I—"
"Now." She didn't look up. "And my psych essay's due tomorrow. You're doing the first three paragraphs."
"Tiff—"
She finally looked up. Those eyes – blue, sharp, dangerous – pinned you like a butterfly to a board. "You want me happy, right?" She bit her lower lip. Tilted her head. "Keep me happy and…" Her tongue traced her upper lip, slow and deliberate. "I'll keep you happy."
(God, he's already folding. This is going to be so easy.)
Your mouth went dry. Your cock twitched.
You made the sandwich.
---
Three hours later. Homework done. Sandwich made. Her laundry sorted. Her water bottle refilled twice because the first one was room temperature and she doesn't drink room temperature, obviously.
Tiff pushed you onto the bed.
"Good boy," she whispered.
She kissed down your stomach – slow, deliberate, each press of her lips a reward – and when she finally wrapped those plump lips around your cock, the sound she made was pornographic.
"Mmmmmh…"
You understood everything. Every bitchy demand, every eye-roll, every "fetch me this" – it was all foreplay. She was training you. And the payoff?
Oooooh… fuck…
Her mouth was hot, wet, relentless – tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, blonde hair spilling over your thighs. She looked up at you with those cruel blue eyes and you saw it: she owned you. Completely.
You came so hard you forgot your own name.
She swallowed, wiped her lip, and smirked.
"Same deal tomorrow, babe. My laundry won't fold itself."
Cory had gone over the plan in his head. He was going to book it down the hall, get his bag from his locker, find an open exit and get the hell out of dodge. It was a lot easier said than done, some sort of weird virus had taken his school by storm. Given that the virus was only affecting men and he goes to an all boys school, it took only a day for the entire school to be fully infected.
The outbreak started when he was in Pre-Calc. He was sitting in the front of the class when he heard a kid in the back shout “GET OFF OF ME!” When he turned around he saw Levi, the most stereotypical jock, grabbing one of their classmates and then he watched as within a matter of seconds the classmate turned into a big, muscular meathead, just like Levi. The weird thing was that as the kid grew he let out a loud echoing fart that was almost cartoonish as it was a bright green hue.
Cory couldn’t help but watch as the two students grabbed more and more students slowly turning most of the room into Hulk-like teens each letting out their own ripe torrent of gas as they grew. He ran out of the class and as he looked back into the classroom saw his teacher get grabbed and saw him turn too. Running down the hall with only a few others who escaped the class, Cory watched as a door right next to him flew open. It knocked down one of the students he was with, and before anyone could react this absurdly big man came out and grabbed the student who was knocked to the floor. Flailing to escape the kid screamed “HELP ME PLEASE ANY-“ but was cut off as suddenly “FRAAAAP” a foul green cloud was expelled from his butt cheeks and the space around him filled with the fart funk. He had to watch as the newly transformed Jock was released and let out a loud “HUHUHUH” before lunging at another boy.
Running further down the hall and into a classroom that looked empty, Cory bursted in and was met with the lingering smell of stale farts, he quickly ran to hide behind a desk. Glancing up at the whiteboard he saw that he was in Mr.Jack’s room. Cory loved Mr.Jack and also knew that his best friend Mikey has his class right now. Although there was no one in the room, Cory whispered loudly enough to be heard “Mikeyyyy, are you in hereeee?”. No response, so he whispered it again. He heard rustling from the other side of the room and saw as a cabinet opened and miraculously Mikey emerged. Filled with relief that he wasn’t alone and that his best friend was uninfected, Cory ran to Mikey but Mikey stayed put and put his finger to his mouth. Confused, Cory slowed down and noticed Mikey pointing to the room’s closet. Cory asked Mikey “What is going on dude?” and Mikey didn’t respond, electing just to put his finger back up to his mouth. Mikey gestured to the room’s door, trying to give the hint that they needed to leave but Cory said “Mikey! Dude! We can’t go out there, it’s crazy outside!” Alerted by the noise Cory made, the closet began to make noise, and then something on the other side began to bang on it. Unfortunately for the two boys the door didn’t hold for very long and when the door quickly came down out strode a buff but not huge young guy, he looked no older than 19 but he had a striking resemblance to Mr.Jack. What was even stranger was that he was wearing one of Mr.Jack’s ties around his neck.
He looked at the boys and dumbly chuckled as he suddenly rushed at them and they were forced to dance around classroom desks and chairs in an effort to avoid him. Running for the door the two boys made it out barely as Jack barreled through the desks not paying them any mind. Slamming the door behind them they took down the hall again looking for a safe haven.
Making down the hall and into a utility closet the two boys caught their breath as they leaned on the cluttered shelves. The boys told each other what had happened to them and that is when Cory learned that Mr.Jack was giving a test and was walking through the aisles when Miles, one of the school’s wrestlers, grabbed Mr.Jack and wouldn’t let go. Mr.Jack tried to escape and was calling for help just like the kid in the hall when suddenly he let out an absolutely putrid fart, worse than Mikey had ever smelled, and fell silent. It only took a little bit of time until Mr.Jack turned into what the two boys saw in the classroom. Mikey went on to say that the boys sitting near Mr.Jack and Miles began coughing until they let out their own less putrid farts and transformed too. Mikey ended up hiding in a large cabinet while the rest of the class was chased out of the class by the newly minted jocks. He had eventually slipped out of the cabinet and ended up trapping Mr.Jack in the closet, and for whatever reason he was incapable of opening up the door, Mikey hadn’t locked it since he didn’t have the key and he had nothing to block the door. From comparing each other's stories the two of you deduced that inhaling Jock Gas will transform you into a jock yourself and that once transformed the person has all intelligence zapped from their brain, essentially turning them into a Jock Zombie.
The two of you then proceeded to start coming up with a plan on how to escape. They needed to get to their lockers to retrieve their things, mainly they needed their car keys which were stored away in their backpacks kept in their lockers. They also need to find a viable exit given that Jock Zombies were roaming the campus everywhere. Mikey’s locker was on the opposite side of the school, and Cory’s locker was on the second floor and the boys found themselves on the first. As they were getting ready to open the door to go get their bags, that’s when it happened. Mikey’s stomach growled and clutched his stomach, feeling something bad was happening Cory, filled with worry, asked “Mikey…? What's wrong bud?”, “I…I don’t know…My stomach…it feels…BRAAAAAP” Mikey fell silent. He was turning before Cory’s very eyes, his best friend was turning into a jock. The boys didn’t realize it but all the time Mikey spent hiding away in the fart-filled classroom was enough to infect him, it just took time to transform him into a jock. Quickly rushing out of the utility closet before he could smell Mikey’s rancid Jock Gas, all Cory could do was watch as his best friend was turned into a big, gassy idiot. Cory watched through the tiny window the door had. He watched as Mikey grew beefier and beefier as the window slowly got clouded up by the green hue of the Jock Gas.
Cory was devastated by the loss of his friend, Mikey was so kind and smart and it was all stripped away because he breathed in a stupid fart. Cory couldn’t believe that any of this was happening but he still knew that he had to go on and escape. He began to cautiously make his way to the stairs, he passed by a couple of jocks but they seemed occupied, already trying to get to other nerds to turn them into Jock Zombies. Cory carefully made his way up the stairs and was able to get to his locker, which luckily was only a little ways down the hall from the staircase. He put in the combination and slowly opened up his locker and reached inside. grabbing his backpack, he quickly pulled it out but in doing so he dragged his water bottle out, and it fell to the floor. Letting out a deafening ringing sound, the metal water bottle noisily clanged to the floor. Cory knew that he was gonna have to run and hide before any dim-witted Jocks converged on his locker. He made his way back down the stairs and sighed a sigh of relief as the Jocks down on the first floor were still preoccupied with catching the students they were already focused on. As he began looking for an exit he could see that the main doors were wide open and there was no one around to stop him. But it was just his luck that one of his classmates from your Pre-Calc class tried to B-line it for those open doors. He had a Jock on his tail and it looked like the lanky student was gonna make it out when suddenly another jock wandered into the hallway as the student was looking behind him at how close the Jock tailing him was. The student ran right into the wandering Jock and fell flat on his back. Catching up as soon as he fell, the Jock chasing him squatted over the students face and Cory watched as a green fart cloud was forced right onto the students face. He couldn't bear to watch another innocent kid turn into a farting buffoon but as he looked away Cory knew that that exit was no longer a safe escape. Not since three Jocks are around it.
After scouting out a couple more exits, Cory finally found one that seemed like an easy escape. As he crouched his way towards it he heard a pair of footsteps behind him. He wanted to run away and get to the door but before he could even try he looked behind him. He was met with a fat, smelly Jock butt, the Jock had pulled his pants down enough to expose his bare ass. Cory was quickly dealt a face full of a hot, steamy, rank fart, contaminated with the virus turning all his peers into stinky Jocks. Falling to the ground, Cory began coughing and he realized who the Jock who just infected him was, it was Mikey.
Feeling like a failure, he couldn’t save Mikey and he couldn’t even save himself, Cory began to feel the effects of the noxious fumes take over his mind and body. He tried to apologize to Mikey for failing them both but all that got out was “Mikey…Im so…sor-PFFFBBBTTTT” He was done for, the fart he just released from his rapidly expanding ass was not only filled with his natural boy stink but it was also Cory releasing all of his intelligence, his insecurities, his memories, his fears, etc. Cory was no longer Cory. Cory was now a Jock Zombie, his only thoughts were about making more Jock Zombies and hanging out with his bros. Cory’s transformation quickly concluded as his body doubled in muscle mass and his body was transformed into a fart producing machine. He let out a moronic chuckle and started hunting for a nother person to Zombify.
Hi! Do you think I could get some Red 180? I have a lot of long nights coming up with finals and all that.
I'm a 20 year old college students. I'm kind of scrawny, and look young for my age. I really need to get my hands on any sort of energy drink, because lately my dorm mate has been making it impossible to get any kind of sleep. He's this big, muscular jock who's impossible to live with. He's crude, homophobic, and a total douche. And on top of all that, he keeps bringing girls back to our dorm and having loud, raunchy sex with them in the middle of the night! It's a one room dormitory, I'm in the bed right across from him! Of course I have to be completely silent when he does, or he'll beat me up. I've asked him to stop a million times and he just... won't. Anyways, he and all the girls he keep sleeping with have been keeping me up. I need an energy drink that will make sure I can stay awake in class. Can you help me?
You drag your exhausted ass across campus, every step feeling like you're wading through concrete. Three hours of sleep. Again. Your roommate's grunting and some girl's fake moans still echo in your head as you stumble toward the campus store.
"Fuck finals," you mutter, rubbing your bloodshot eyes. Your stomach growls, but you ignore it. Vending machine chips can wait. Right now, you need liquid lightning or you're actually going to die in your 8 AM lecture.
The fluorescent lights of the store make your head pound worse. You scan the energy drink aisle, hands trembling slightly. Nothing looks strong enough. Then you spot it—RED180, in a black can with red lightning bolt. The label promises "EXTREME ENERGY" in aggressive block letters.
"Perfect," you groan, grabbing two cans. The cashier barely looks up from their phone as you pay.
Back in your dorm room, you crack open the first can. The chemical smell hits you first—like battery acid mixed with cheap berry flavoring. You pinch your nose and chug half of it in one go.
The liquid hits your stomach like napalm. A searing heat radiates outward, a sickening warmth that makes you break out in a cold sweat. "Ugh, that's... foul," you wheeze, leaning forward. Your stomach gurgles ominously. But then, a strange energy begins to fizz just beneath your skin. It's not the clean buzz of coffee; it's aggressive, invasive. You feel a strange pulling sensation in your shins, a deep ache in your bones.
"What the hell?" you mutter, your voice sounding slightly off. Deeper, maybe. You stare down at your worn-out sneakers as a sharp crack echoes in the quiet room. You yelp, pulling your feet up. It feels like your tibia is being stretched on a rack.
Another pop, this time in your hips. You're literally growing, rising in your chair. The hem of your jeans, which usually rests on your ankles, is now hovering mid-calf. Five-foot-seven... five-ten... six-one... The world looks different from this height. More... conquerable.
The heat intensifies, focusing on your chest and shoulders. Your hoodie feels tight, suffocating. You claw at it, ripping it over your head just as your shoulders burst outward with a series of wet, tearing sounds. You watch, horrified, as your collarbones seem to widen, your frame thickening.
The scrawny birdcage of your chest begins to expand. Two hard knots form on your sternum, then swell rapidly, pushing forward into solid, heavy slabs of muscle. Your pecs. You have pecs. You tentatively poke one. It's like pressing a finger into a firm cushion. The sensation sends a jolt straight to your groin.
Your dick, usually a humble participant in your daily life, suddenly stirs with alarming urgency. It thickens, pressing painfully against the denim of your jeans. You fumble with the button, your fingers feeling clumsy and swollen. As you pop it open, your cock practically bursts free, already hard and significantly larger than you remember.
It's thicker, longer, a deep, angry red color. "Oh my god," you pant, a wave of raw, animalistic lust washing over you, so powerful it momentarily erases the panic. You wrap your hand around it—the hand itself feels different, the palm broader, the fingers thicker—and the pleasure is almost blinding.
But the thoughts accompanying the pleasure are all wrong. You're supposed to be thinking about that cute guy from your lit class, the one with the glasses. Instead, your mind is flooded with images of cleavage. Not just any cleavage, but massive, tanned, fake-looking tits spilling out of tiny cheerleader uniforms.
The word "jugs" echoes in your head. Then, a memory that isn't yours surfaces with the clarity of a photograph: you, at a high school party, motorboating a giggling blonde while your friends whooped and cheered. No, that wasn't me I'm gay, you think, but the memory feels as real as the throbbing in your new, massive cock.
Your jeans are painfully tight now. You stand up, the motion tearing the seam down the side of your thigh. Your legs are changing, too. Your quads balloon, pressing together, and your calves harden into solid diamonds.
You kick off the ruined pants and stare at your reflection in the darkened window of your laptop. It's a stranger. A tall, muscular, half-naked stranger with a raging hard-on. But the face is still yours. Mostly.
The heat concentrates in your jaw. You grit your teeth as a dull ache spreads through your mandible. You run a hand over your chin and feel rough stubble, thick and dark. Your face feels heavier, broader. Your nose seems bigger, your brow more prominent. Your lips, once thin, are now full and almost perpetually parted in a smug half-smirk you didn't ask for.
"Fuckin'... yeah," you grunt, the words tearing themselves from your throat. The voice is a gravelly rumble, completely alien. A new thought surfaces, sharp and cruel: Fags should be shot. It's so visceral, so disconnected from anything you've ever believed, that it makes you physically recoil. "No," you whisper, but the thought is already being replaced by another, stronger one: God, I need to get my dick wet. Find some bimbo with huge tits and just... wreck her.
The internal war is being lost, and fast. Your old self, the bookish, anxious you, is being drowned in a tidal wave of testosterone and toxic certainty. You remember struggling with calculus, but now you recall effortlessly acing it while the professor, a woman, clearly wanted to fuck you.
You remember being nervous around Chad, but now you remember being his equal, his teammate, his partner in crime. You remember... hating fags. Always have. It's disgusting, unnatural. A memory of you and Chad cornering a skinny theater kid in the locker room, calling him a queer until he cried, flashes through your mind. It feels... good. Righteous.
Your skin is crawling. A new sensation starts at your chest and spreads outward. Prickling heat. You watch in horrified fascination as dark hairs sprout from your areolas, swirling around your new, thick nipples. They continue down your stomach, tracing the deep cuts of your abs, which are now sharp enough to grate cheese on.
The trail thickens as it disappears beneath your waistband. You lift an arm and see a thick, dark forest of hair growing in your armpit. The smell hits you a second later—a pungent, musky, undeniably male scent of sweat and pure animal dominance. You take a deep breath, inhaling your own stench, and a wave of pride washes over you. That's the smell of a real man.
The final changes are the most brutal. Your mind, once a library of facts and fears, is being systematically purged and rewritten. The nuances of your personality are sanded away, replaced by crude, simple absolutes. Chicks are for fucking. Dudes are for lifting and football. Fags are for beating up. School is for maintaining eligibility to play football. Your name isn't even your name anymore. It's... something else. Something simple. Something strong. Casey. Yeah. Casey
You look at your desk, at the complex organic chemistry textbook open to a page of intricate diagrams. The symbols and formulas now look like meaningless chicken scratch. A complete, total waste of time. Who gives a shit about benzene rings when there are pussy to conquer? With a roar of frustration, you sweep your arm across the desk, sending books, papers, and pens clattering to the floor.
The door swings open. Chad stands there, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He stops dead, his jaw dropping. "Who the... fuck are you?" Chad finishes, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and confusion. He takes a hesitant step back, his usual arrogant posture faltering as he takes in the sheer size of you. You're taller than him now, broader. The air crackles with a new energy, a challenge he instinctively understands.
A grin spreads across your face, a slow, predatory stretch of your new lips. The fear in his eyes is intoxicating. It's the same look you used to give him. "What's the matter, bro? Look like you've seen a ghost," you rumble, your voice a deep, mocking vibration that seems to shake the very dust in the room. You take a deliberate step forward, your heavy, bare feet thudding on the linoleum. "Or maybe you're just not used to sharing a room with a real alpha."
Chad swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Dude, where's my roommate? The little twerp?" He glances past you at the empty bed, as if expecting you to be hiding him.
You let out a harsh, barking laugh that feels completely natural. "That pathetic faggot? Gone. He couldn't handle the pressure. Packed his shit and ran home to mommy. Probably crying into his pillow right now." The lie feels so true, so right, that for a second you almost believe it yourself. The memory of your own transformation is already being buried under a mountain of new, simpler truths. Weaklings don't deserve to be here. Only the strong survive.
"But... your face..." Chad stammers, pointing a finger. "It's... it's kinda his."
You run a hand over your rough, stubbled jaw. "Yeah? Well, maybe the little shit had good bone structure under all that... weakness." You flex your right bicep, watching with a primal satisfaction as it peaks into a hard, vascular knot. "I'm Casey. And you're my new roommate. Got it?"
Before he can answer, another thought, crude and urgent, shoves its way to the front of your mind. Your ass clenches. A deep, gurgling pressure builds in your gut. You don't hold back. You don't even think about it. You just shift your weight, lift your leg slightly, and let it rip.
The sound is magnificent. A deep, resonant, window-rattling blast that seems to go on forever. It's not just a fart; it's a declaration. A statement of dominance. The stench is immediate and overwhelming—a toxic, humid cloud of rotten eggs, protein powder, and pure, unadulterated masculinity. It fills the small room, clinging to everything, a physical manifestation of your new power.
Chad recoils, his face contorting in disgust. "Oh, DUDE! What the FUCK?" He fans a hand in front of his nose, gagging.
You just grin, inhaling deeply through your own nose. The smell is glorious. It's the smell of victory. "What? Can't handle a real man's gas?" you taunt, stepping even closer. "This room's gonna smell like this from now on. My sweat, my farts, my jizz. Get used to it, pussy." The words pour out of you, easy and hateful. You remember hating guys like this. Now, you are the guy like this. And it feels fucking incredible.
Your eyes drift from Chad's disgusted face to the door, where a hesitant knock sounds. "Chad? Are you in there? It's Jessica."
Your new, single-track mind kicks into gear. Jessica. Blonde. Big tits. Cheerleader. A fresh memory, as clear as day, pops into your head: Jessica in the back of your truck, her cheerleader skirt hiked up around her waist, her tight little pussy wrapped around your cock. No, that wasn't me, a tiny, distant voice whispers. But the memory feels so good, so right, that you just shove the voice down and focus on the present.
Without a word, you push past Chad, yank the door open, and lean against the frame, crossing your thick arms over your bare chest. Jessica stands there, her eyes widening as they travel up and down your body. Her mouth forms a perfect 'O' of surprise.
"Whoa," she breathes, her initial annoyance forgotten. "Hi."
"Hey," you grunt, giving her your best smoldering stare. You can feel her eyes on your pecs, your abs, your bulge. You know that look. It's the look of prey.
"Chad, you didn't tell me you had a... roommate," she says, her voice suddenly a little higher, a little breathier.
"He didn't know he was getting the upgrade," you say, not even bothering to look at Chad, who is standing behind you looking utterly defeated. "Name's Casey."
"I'm Jessica," she says, a blush creeping up her neck.
"I know," you smirk. "I've seen you at practice. Bouncing around on the sidelines. You've got a great rack." The words are crude, blunt, and completely out of character for the person you were an hour ago. For the person you are now, they're just a simple statement of fact.
Jessica giggles, a high-pitched, flattered sound. "Oh my god, you're so direct."
"Only way to be," you say, pushing off the doorframe and closing the distance between you. You can smell her perfume, some fruity, sweet crap that does nothing to mask the scent of your own potent musk. "Listen, Chad's a little busy. Why don't you and I go find something to do? I've got a truck with a camper shell. It's private."
She bites her lower lip, her eyes darting from your face down to your crotch and back up again. "I... I don't know..."
"Sure you do," you say, your voice dropping to a low, confident growl. You reach out and tuck a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, your fingers brushing her skin. She shivers. "Let's go."
She nods, almost trance-like. You shoot a final, triumphant look at Chad over your shoulder. He just stands there, mouth agape, as you lead his girlfriend out the door, your heavy arm draped possessively around her shoulders. The tiny voice in your head is screaming, NO! STOP! THIS IS WRONG! But it's a distant whisper, easily ignored. All you can think about is getting Jessica alone, ripping off that cheerleader uniform, and fucking her stupid. It's what she wants. It's what you deserve. You're Casey. You're a jock. You're a god. And tonight, you're going to get what's yours.
Hello sir.
Sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you could help me. You see, on Saturday i'll turn 30 and I feel awful and miserable. I hate my life, I hate my body, I hate myself. Most of the time I feel out of place and lonely. I just wish for a brand new start for this brand new chapter of my life and if possible in a jock body full of confidence and muscles. I wish for a big dick, sex every day and sexy men all around me. I wis for gym, for a job I love and to find true hapyness. Can you help me?
You're slumped on your ratty couch, the one with the mysterious stains that you've stopped trying to identify, scrolling through mind-numbing content on your phone.
The glow of the screen illuminates your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes and the perpetual frown etched onto your lips. Another Friday night wasted, another weekend of loneliness stretching before you like a desolate highway.
Your thumb hovers over a dating app before you scoff and toss the phone aside. What's the point? You're a pathetic excuse for a man, and you know it.
Without any real thought, as if guided by some desperate, primal impulse, you find yourself opening a notes app. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, typing out a message to whatever cosmic entities might be bored enough to listen.
"Hey there, Mr. Trickster God or Imp God or whatever the fuck you call yourself. Yeah, you. The one who gets his kicks messing with mortals for shits and giggles.
I want to be the guy who gets laid daily, surrounded by other hot dudes who worship the ground I walk on. I want to live for the gym, love my job, and finally feel what it's like to not be a miserable piece of shit."
You hit send before you can chicken out, then immediately feel like an idiot. A cosmic DM? Really? You're losing your damn mind. You delete the message, convinced you've finally snapped.
I watch your pathetic message flicker into existence on the cosmic web. A grin splits my face, sharp and predatory. "Oh, this is rich," I chuckle, the sound like grinding glass. "Another mortal who thinks the universe is a fucking wishing well." My own celestial birthday is looming at the end of the month, and I'm feeling... charitable. Or maybe just bored.
My first instinct is pure, unadulterated mischief. I snap my fingers, and an image of your future forms in the air before me: you hairy, with a dad bod and a love of Christ, with most unimaginative boring life.
You're standing in a suburban lawn, screaming at a kid to get off your grass while your wife nags you about taking out the trash. "A boring suburban dad," I muse aloud. "I've been mighty keen on those lately. The sheer, soul-crushing mediocrity is just... chef's kiss." It would be so easy. A perfect, cruel twist of fate.
But then I sigh, a long, dramatic sound that echoes through the void. "Eh, fuck it. Against my better judgment, I'll give you exactly what you asked for. It's my birthday month, after all." I wave a hand, and your pathetic apartment winks out of existence, replaced by a scene I find much more entertaining. It's your birthday.
"Alright, you miserable little shit. Blow out those candles and make your wish. Make it count."
Saturday comes and goes, and nothing happens. Of course not. You spend your birthday alone, eating stale pizza and feeling sorry for yourself while your neighbors throw another party you're not invited to. What a joke.
But when you wake up Sunday morning, something's different. The air in your room feels strangely cold, but your body is burning up from the inside out. You're sweating buckets, your sheets soaked through, and your skin feels like it's stretching, shifting, changing in ways that defy biology.
"What the fuck?" you groan, the sound tearing from your throat like gravel. Your attempt to sit up is a pathetic failure; your body feels like it's been filled with wet concrete, heavy and alien and fundamentally wrong.
Every single nerve ending is screaming, a symphony of pure agony and something else... something sickeningly close to pleasure that makes your stomach churn with revulsion.
Your eyes snap open, and the first thing you see is your hand. But it's not your hand. Your fingers, usually nimble and pale, are swelling before your very eyes, thickening like rising bread dough, the knuckles becoming raw, calloused monuments to a violence you've never known.
You watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the skin stretches taut over expanding bone and sinew. A strange warmth spreads up your arm, a creeping fire that leaves a trail of molten change in its wake.
"No... no, this isn't... stop," you whimper, but the words are swallowed by a low, guttural moan that escapes your lips. Your vocal cords feel like they're being sandpapered and re-woven, each vibration coming out rougher, deeper, coated in a bovine, broish vocal fry that feels utterly foreign.
The heat intensifies, a furnace blazing in your core. Your spine arches violently off the bed, a searing pain lancing through it as vertebrae crack and pop, elongating, stretching you taller.
You can feel the individual bones in your legs shifting, your shins burning with an itch so deep you're convinced you're being torn apart from the inside. Your feet throb as they lengthen, stretching the fabric of your pajama pants until the seams scream in protest.
30... 28... 26... The numbers materialize in your mind, a countdown to your own erasure. With each number that falls, another piece of the old you is chipped away, replaced by something crude and simplistic.
Your chest suddenly explodes. It's not a gradual growth; it's a violent, painful blossoming. You gasp, your hands flying to your pecs as they surge forward, becoming two thick, meaty slabs of muscle.
The sensation is overwhelming—your sensitive nipples, now hard and rubbing against the fabric of your shirt, send jolts of electricity straight to your groin. Your waist cinches, stomach muscles clenching and carving themselves into a solid, undeniable six-pack.
Your memories begin to warp, the colors bleeding into each other. The face of your first boyfriend, a sweet, gentle man named Alex, dissolves like sugar in water. In its place, a new memory solidifies: you and your dad at a country club, him pointing out the "faggoty" waiter and laughing as you, a younger version of yourself, joins in with a cruel cackle that doesn't feel like yours but is.
25... 24... The mental reprogramming accelerates. The art gallery you loved becomes a sports bar you've frequented since you were old enough to fake an ID.
Your collection of classic literature is replaced by a mental library of locker room insults and crude jokes about women's bodies. A wave of intense, visceral disgust rolls through you at the mere thought of two men together, so potent it makes you want to puke.
"Fuckin' disgusting," you growl, the words tasting right in your new mouth. "Should all be put on an island somewhere."
Your hips buck as your dick suddenly engorges, thickening to the width of a beer can and shooting up to a solid, intimidating eight inches. It strains against the fabric of your shorts, a throbbing, insistent demand for attention.
A wave of pure, animalistic lust washes over you, so powerful it whites out your thoughts. All you can think about is fucking, burying this new monster cock in something warm and tight.
Images flash through your mind, but they're not of men anymore. They're of women—women with huge, bouncing tits, with plump asses and wet, eager mouths. Specifically, older women.
Your English professor, Mrs. Davison, with her tight sweaters and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Your best friend's hot mom, who always sunbathes in the backyard. The thought of them, of their experienced hands and bodies, makes your dick twitch violently.
"Fuck yeah, MILFs," you hear yourself say, a stupid grin spreading across your face. "But nobody over 30, though. That's just gross. Like, who wants to fuck a grandma?"
More memories flood in, replacing the old ones. You're not from the city anymore; you're from a wealthy, gated suburb. Your parents aren't liberal academics; they're conservative, country-club Republicans.
Your dad isn't a writer; he's a "businessman," a vague term that somehow translates to him being mayor or some other important shit. You remember him patting you on the back after you beat up a kid for looking at you "the wrong way."
23... 22... Your thoughts become simpler, coarser. Complex sentences dissolve into grunts and one-word answers. Your vocabulary shrinks, replaced by a lexicon of sports metaphors and misogynistic slurs.
"Bro," you say, testing the word. It feels good. Natural. "This is sick."
Your arms continue to swell, biceps becoming round, dense spheres of power. Your forearms thicken, veins popping like highways on a map of muscle. You run a hand through your hair, and it's different now—blonde, curly, damp with sweat. It feels right, feels like you.
Your face reshapes itself, your jawline becoming sharper, more angular. Your features soften into that all-American, boy-next-door look that's so disarming, so perfect for hiding the toxic asshole brewing underneath. A cocky, entitled smirk settles on your lips, as if by divine right.
21... 20... You're getting dumber, so much dumber, and you don't give a shit. In fact, it feels great. All that worrying, all that thinking... what a fucking waste of time. It's so much easier to just be a dumb, horny jock.
The room around you shimmers, the walls of your small, lonely apartment melting away to reveal a lavish dorm room, one that's clearly been paid for by someone with deep pockets. And beneath you, there's a woman. Not a girl—a woman, maybe 29, with glasses and brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun.
She looks smart, professional, but damn, what a rack. That's the first thought that cuts through the thick, soupy fog in your head. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose, her brunette hair is pulled back into a tight, and she's probably got some fancy-ass degree from a school you've never even heard of.
But none of that matters, not really, because her tits are fucking phenomenal. They're straining against the fabric of her button-down blouse, two perfect, round globes of flesh that you just know would feel amazing wrapped around your cock.
"Fuck, Mrs. Davison," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural rumble that you barely recognize as your own. "Your tits are... fuck."
She blushes, a pretty pink creeping up her neck, and pushes her glasses up her nose. "Language, Tanner" she says, but there's no real heat in it. "And it's 'Professor Davison' in the classroom."
You laugh, a loud, obnoxious sound that makes her tits jiggle. "Yeah, whatever, Teach. But right now, you're just a MILF with a tight pussy that's begging for my dick."
You're not sure where the words are coming from. They're just... there, bubbling up from some dark, primitive place inside you. The old you, the one who was respectful and considerate, is gone, replaced by this... this thing. This vain, self-centered, entitled asshole who says whatever the fuck he wants, whenever the fuck he wants.
You thrust into her, hard and deep, and she cries out, her back arching. "Yes! Oh, god, yes!"
"That's right," you growl, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer. "Take it. Take all of it."
You can feel yourself changing, even as you're fucking her. Your thoughts are becoming simpler, more focused on the here and now, on the pleasure coursing through your veins. The world outside this room, with its books and its rules and its expectations, doesn't exist. All that matters is this, this moment, this feeling.
Memories continue to warp, the old ones dissolving like sugar in water. You remember your mom, not as the warm, loving woman who read you bedtime stories, but as a cold, distant figure who was more interested in her charity events and her tennis lessons than in her own son. You remember her looking at you with a mixture of disappointment and disgust, as if you were a bug she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.
"Is that all you are?" she'd say, her voice dripping with condescension. "A disappointment?"
The memory makes you angry, a hot, burning anger that fuels your thrusts. You'll show her. You'll show everyone. You're not a disappointment. You're a god. A fucking sex god with a giant dick and a body that's built for sin.
You look down at yourself, at your sweat-slicked muscles, at your thick, powerful thighs, at your massive, pistoning cock. You're perfect. A fucking Adonis. And you know it.
"Who's your daddy?" you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl.
"You are," she moans, her eyes rolling back in her head. "You're my daddy."
"Damn right," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "And don't you forget it."
You can feel your balls tightening, a familiar pressure building at the base of your spine. You're close, so fucking close. You're going to cum, and you're going to fill her up with your seed, mark her as yours.
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," you grunt, your voice a low, guttural growl. "I'm gonna fucking cum!"
"Do it," she cries, her nails digging into your back. "Cum inside me! Fill me up!"
You let out a roar, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph, and explode inside her, your hot, thick seed flooding her womb. It's the most intense, most powerful orgasm of your life, and it goes on and on, until you're completely spent, your body trembling with exhaustion.
You collapse on top of her, your weight crushing her, but you don't care. She's just a hole, a warm, wet hole for you to fuck. That's all she is, that's all any woman is.
You roll off of her, your body slick with sweat and cum. You lie there for a moment, your chest heaving, your mind a complete and utter blank. You're dumb, so fucking dumb, but you don't care. It's easier this way. No thinking, no worrying, just fucking and fighting and being the best.
"Fuck yeah," you say, a smug grin spreading across your face. "That's what I'm talking about."
You're Tanner. A dumb, horny, self-centered, entitled, misogynistic, homophobic, racist, classist piece of shit. And you wouldn't have it any other way.
You grab your dick, your hand stroking its length, and grin. Life is good when you're a brainless jock with a giant dick and a rich daddy.
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