Hey I’m a 22 year old gay guy working IT and an unmarked package filled with these boxer briefs was delivered with no return address, there’s stains on the porch and they smell so enticingly mushy, can you help me out? Someone said your good at figuring out mid delivered packages
The package was on the doorstep.
He, 22 years old, wearing glasses, with short hair and an IT-guy physique, picked it up curiously. No sender. No address. Just his name handwritten on it.
He opened it.
Inside, a pair of checkered boxers. Red and black. Stains on the fabric. A strong, inviting smell of mold and sweat. Warm. Inexplicably warm.
"What a disgusting..." he muttered.
But his fingers trembled. He touched them. The fabric seemed to vibrate.
Try me.
He took off his pants. Put on the checkered boxers.
The fabric clung to his hips. Warm. Damp.
Then it began.
A wave of heat exploded from his lower abdomen. Dense, powerful.
"Ah... what..."
His voice cracked. It dropped lower.
His muscles began to swell. His pectorals rose, enormous. His biceps exploded. His triceps became defined. Veins appeared.
"AH! YES!"
His shoulders snapped. They broadened. His back straightened.
His belly became slimmer. His abs emerged. Eight deeply carved sections.
His face. His glasses fell off. His hair began to fall out. Shaved. Completely shaved. Zero hair on his head.
His jaw snapped. His beard began to grow. Thick, dark, coarse. It covered his chin and cheeks. Thick mustache.
His armpits. The hair in his armpits thickened, wild, dark, smelly.
His skin darkened. It became olive-toned. Latino.
His body grew larger. His thighs exploded, his calves widened. His glutes lifted.
His penis grew. Swollen, hard. Pressing against the checkered boxers. Big bulge.
"AH! AH! FUCK!"
Sweat poured down. From his shaved head, his chest, his armpits. Smelly.
Then silence.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
A Latino man was looking back at him. Shaved. Muscular. Enormous pectorals, sculpted abs, veiny arms. Thick, coarse beard. Hairy, smelly armpits.
The checkered boxers were stretched to the limit. Big bulge.
He flexed. His biceps swelled, monstrous. 55 centimeters.
"Shit..." he muttered in a low, stupid voice. "I'm... big."
His brain was slow. Words were difficult.
"Ass. Lots of ass."
An idiotic grin.
He looked at his body. The muscles. The beard. The hairy armpits. The big bulge.
He laughed. A stupid laugh.
"Tonight... sex."
The anonymous package was gone. Now there was a man. Big, muscular, Latino, smelly, stupid.
I was wanting to get back into writing (especially after all the love i've been getting on my first story (thank you^^)) and I just happened to receive a request that piqued my interest. If anyone wants a story written for them just send me a message or an ask and i'll see what i can do.
Enjoy!
=======================
Requested by @reddarkfox222
Another long day of lectures is finally over. Your face was still hot remembering the embarrassing interaction you had earlier today.
“At least I can go home now…” you mutter weakly.
You thought they would’ve grown out of teasing you by now, but evidently the jocks still pick on those they consider lesser than them. And while you’re not bad looking yourself, the combination of being 6 foot and just shy of 160lbs meant you weren’t much to look at either.
The fratboy jocks thought it would be funny to ambush you and put their used jockstraps in your face.
“Huhuh, wore that one for a month straight!” “Now who’s the dumbass?” you heard their voices getting further away as they left you lying on the restroom floor.
It wasn’t entirely undeserved, you had embarrassed them in class after asking them questions about the presentation they obviously didn’t write. They were unable to do more than read directly off the slides some poor nerd made for them.
---
Now in the safety of your own apartment you take out the used underwear you “accidentally” stored in your bag.
“They’re just bodies with no substance, who would be jealous of that?” you said to yourself. Justifying your actions to your nonexistent audience.
Suddenly, your face started feeling even hotter, then that heat spread through your whole body
“Of course, I probably caught something from those nasty jocks”
Your shirt felt tight. Actually, everything felt tight as you felt your body start to swell under your clothes.
Allergic reaction? You desperately tried to rationalize what you were seeing. In fact, you thought you were going to die.
Then you felt your clothes start to tear. Starting with your sleeves as huge tree trunk arms burst out of them. Biceps and triceps pulsating until they grew larger than your head. Your shoulders grew wide and round like cannonballs. Your torso becomes thick growing with strength and firmness with a bit of fat making you a solid built tank.
Speaking of tanks, your pecs jut forward, growing into the biggest pair of pecs you had ever seen. The very definition of muscle tits. The rest of your body continues growing. Your legs become thicker than most normal people’s waists. And finally, your ass balloons out with a perfect mix of fat and muscle.
Feeling the warmth fade, you go to your bedroom and look in the mirror.
“This can’t be happening. I don’t want to look like some dumb jock! I look like I spend all my time and energy on getting bigger and nothing else!”
Then, something catches your eye. The jockstrap you left hanging from your bag. Your body moves before you notice. Panic sets in once you realize what’s going on.
Screaming internally, you pick up the used underwear and bring it to your face. You press it against your nose and inhale deeply. Like an addict getting their fix.
The warmth comes rushing back. This time it sweeps through your head. You feel yourself being swept away. Your intelligence broken down to fuel the rest of your transformation.
Looking in the mirror you see your new massive body sprouting hair all over. Then that hair starts to produce an intoxicating musk, making the jocks from earlier smell like candles by comparison.
Finally, you put on the jockstrap. The last bit of your intelligence drains into your balls, pumping and growing them into grapefruit sized hormone factories to fuel your new body. Your cock follows and grows into a thick 13 inch meat club.
You don’t remember being anything but this mass of hairy musky fuck meat. Your only remaining thoughts are lifting, flexing, and fucking. And thanks to your new bros, you’ll have plenty of that to keep you happy.
-------------------
thanks again for reading this far. messages and asks are always open for any feedback, requests, or just questions. thank you ^^
Hey. So I don’t know what to do with these stupid purple briefs I got in this weird package. They’re addressed from my ex and it’s not like anything bad happened between us, he just wasn’t super attracted to me is all. I mean, I’m a 20 year old chubby guy with little else physically to my name. Could I maybe have some help so this purple underwear stops staring at me…?
The package had been sitting on the table for three days.
He, a 20-year-old guy, a little overweight, without much confidence, looked at it suspiciously. It was addressed to his ex. The one who had left him because "he wasn't physically attractive enough." Words that had remained lodged in him like thorns.
The purple underwear was inside. Bright purple, almost glowing. Smooth, silky fabric. They looked new, but they gave off a strange warmth.
"Stupid underwear..." he muttered.
But his fingers touched them. The fabric was warm. It vibrated. His eyes couldn't look away from that hypnotic purple.
Try them on. Just to see.
He took off his boxers. He put on the purple underwear.
The fabric clung to his hips, to his soft belly. Warm. Too warm.
Then it began.
A heat exploded from his lower abdomen. Dense, powerful. Sweat began to run down his forehead, his chest, his back.
"Ah... what..."
His voice dropped. It became deep, hoarse.
The fat. The fat he hated began to melt away. His belly became thinner, flatter. Beneath it, his abs emerged. One after another. Six, eight. Sculpted, deeply carved.
His chest. His pectorals lifted, swelling. Flat, hard, muscular.
"AH! YES..."
His shoulders snapped. They widened. His back straightened.
Muscles exploded everywhere. His biceps swelled, enormous. His triceps became defined. Thick, bluish veins surfaced.
His jaw snapped. It widened. His chin became massive. A beard began to appear. Thick, dark. It grew before his eyes, covering his chiseled jaw.
His chest. Hair began to sprout across his chest. Thick, black, coarse. A dense covering of hair spread over his pectorals and down to his abdomen.
His arms. The hair thickened. His legs. Hair grew wildly across his thighs and calves.
"AH! AH! FUCK!"
His body swelled even more. His thighs exploded. His buttocks lifted, becoming two firm, hard spheres.
His penis. He felt his penis growing. Swelling. Becoming enormous. It pressed against the purple underwear, forming an enormous, obscene bulge.
His face. His face became younger yet more mature. Thirty years old. He looked like a thirty-year-old man. Bearded, muscular, virile.
One final jolt. His entire body contracted.
Then silence.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He was no longer himself.
He was a thirty-year-old man. Muscular, sexy. Huge pectorals covered in black hair, sculpted abs, veiny arms. Broad shoulders. A thick beard framed his chiseled jaw.
The purple underwear was stretched to its limit. Big bulge.
His phone vibrated. A message.
"See you tonight at the usual bar? I need to talk to you."
His ex.
His heart raced. He didn't know why, but he felt that he had to go.
The bar was crowded, neon lights, music pounding.
He walked in, his new body attracting glances from every direction. The girls looked at him. The guys too. But his eyes searched for only one person.
And he saw him.
At the bar, a man. Tall, muscular, bearded. Huge pectorals. An enormous bulge in his shorts. Dark, wild hair.
His ex.
But he was no longer the skinny guy he remembered. He was a man. Muscular, hairy, sexy.
They walked toward each other. They looked at one another. Their bodies had changed. But their eyes were the same.
"You... you're..." his ex murmured, his voice deep.
"You too..." he replied.
His ex smiled. "The purple underwear... I ordered it especially for you. Because... because I knew it would transform you. I wanted to see you like this. I wanted you to be like me."
"Like you?"
"I found a pair just like them. Purple. I changed. I wanted you to do it too. I wanted us to be... the same."
Their hands clasped. Their muscles tensed.
His ex looked at him, admiring him. The thick beard, the hairy chest, the veiny arms, the hairy legs. The big bulge pressing against the purple underwear.
"We're made for each other," his ex said.
"Now we are."
Si baciarono. La folla intorno a loro scomparve.
His ex's hands moved down onto his hairy chest. The hair was coarse, bristly. Beneath it, the muscle was hard.
"I want you," he whispered.
"Me too. Tonight. Every night."
They left the bar. The city was illuminated. Their muscular bodies moved together.
I’m a white gay guy that is working on being a bodybuilder. But I often feel like I wasn’t born the right race. I feel like I should be a big Arab bodybuilder instead. Do you think you could help me with that?
The package arrived without a sender😉.
He, a white gay guy, 26 years old, with a passion for bodybuilding but the feeling of not having been born in the right race. He watched Arab bodybuilders on Instagram and dreamed. That olive skin, those enormous muscles, that thick body hair. He was white, blond hair, a physique in progress but still far from the dream.
The package was dark green. He opened it.
Inside, a pair of dark green underwear. Used. Damp. Warm. They smelled of male sweat, of musk, of something animalistic.
His fingers trembled.
He put them on.
The fabric clung to his hips. Warm. Wet. As if someone had just taken them off.
Then it began.
A heat exploded from his lower abdomen. Dense, powerful, spreading through his whole body.
"Ah…"
A moan. His voice lowered, became deep, husky.
The skin. His white skin began to darken. It became olive, warm, Mediterranean. Arab.
The body. The muscles began to swell. The pectorals rose, became two enormous, heavy shields. The biceps exploded, 55, 60 centimeters. The triceps defined themselves. The veins surfaced, thick, bluish, running along the arms like rivers.
"AH! I FEEL…"
The shoulders snapped. They widened, 80 centimeters. The back arched, the lats swelled like wings, 140 centimeters of span.
The waist tightened. The abs emerged, eight deep, carved squares.
The thighs exploded. 75 centimeters of quadriceps. The calves 50 centimeters. The glutes rose, two firm, hard spheres.
The hair. The hair began to sprout everywhere. On the chest, wild, black, rough. It covered the pecs like a fur, descending along the abdomen down to the pubis. On the arms, the hair thickened. On the legs, a thick dark body hair.
The jaw snapped. It widened. The chin became massive. The beard began to grow. Thick, black, bristly. It covered the chin, the cheeks, the upper lip.
The penis. He felt the penis grow. Swell. Become enormous, heavy, Arab-style. It pressed against the dark green underwear, forming a huge, heavy bulge.
"AH! AH! FUCK!"
The body swelled further. 120 kilos of pure muscle. 1.90 tall. Broad shoulders, massive chest, enormous arms. A real bodybuilder.
Then silence.
He looked in the mirror.
An Arab man looked back at him. Huge. Muscular. Hairy. Thick beard. Olive skin.
The dark green underwear was stretched to the maximum. Big bulge. His Arab cock pressed against the fabric.
He flexed. Double biceps. The muscles swelled, monstrous. 60-centimeter biceps. The pecs danced. The abs contracted.
"Perfect…" He murmured, the voice deep, with an Arab accent he had never had.
But his gaze fell on the hair. Once blond. Now dark, but…
It began to fall. Locks. The scalp became visible. The baldness advancing. Steroids. He had to take them to get even bigger. And the hair was falling.
He took a yellow hat. He put it on. It hid the baldness. He looked like a bodybuilder. An Arab bodybuilder. Big, hairy, muscular, with the yellow hat.
"Now I am what I was meant to be."
He looked in the mirror. He flexed his biceps once more. The muscles pulsed.
The dark green underwear was wet with sweat. The heavy bulge.
You read the text over and over, and stared at the pic below. It was totally out of character for your intellectual, anxious boyfriend to send you a text like that out of nowhere, even at the gym. And the picture he had sent with it…
You couldn’t quite put your finger on what was different, but he looked incredibly sexy. The coloured hair, the tattoos, even the way his shirt clung to his body, it was somehow different than what you expected but you still knew it was him. His eyes were just the same as always. Fuck, did he really want to get dirty right now?
Another text popped up. “Bro, my pits are fuckin rank, cum 2 the last stall”
This must be some kind of surprise roleplay. You were both into those dumb, musky jocks and fantasised about public sex, even though you'd never tried it. And you could feel yourself starting to chub up in your gym shorts, too.
Fuck it. “On my way, baby.”
“Call me dude, bro.”
A moment later, you pushed open the door to the bathroom. It felt so dirty to walk casually past the urinals, watching yourself in the mirror as if your body was moving on autopilot. Were you walking differently than normal? Could people tell? The air itself felt different, pregnant with horny anticipation.
You knocked gently on the last stall, and the latch slid open.
“Hey bro,” said your boyfriend, pulling you into the close space. Was his voice deeper, more smokey? He looked even bigger than he had in the picture, his eyes full of desperate lust.
“What’s up dude?” you replied, using the nickname like he’d told you. “How’s the lift going?”
“Oh, you know me,” he crowded you against the wall, raising one arm so all you could see was the tangled, wet hair of his armpit, “I got too fuckin’ horny and had to call my bro in to help.”
This was really happening. You had your boyfriend’s fresh, musky pits right in front of you. Five minutes ago he’d been on the elliptical, and you could still feel the heat of his exertion radiating onto you. You angled your head forward, straight into the dense, sweaty forest, and took a deep whiff.
Your boyfriend stifled your moan with his pit as he crushed you against the flimsy stall wall. “Let it in, bro,” he ordered you, his free hand reaching down to fondle your cock straight through your shorts.
As you started licking, you felt something like a finger reach down the back of your shorts and tease your ass. You gasped at the intrusion.
“Shhh,” your boyfriend told you. “Keep quiet, bro. Let it in.” One hand was behind his head, the other beginning to undo the drawstring of your shorts.
You pulled back, looked up at his face. You trusted the expression in his eyes. It felt so good to lean back in as your boyfriend started to stroke your cock and the something behind you ran a cold finger around your rim.
The sensation quickly slipped into your ass, and you barely held back a keen as it massaged your prostate. You felt so full all of the sudden, but all you could focus on was the pleasure and the sharp, musky stench overpowering all your senses.
“C’mon bro, keep going, you’re almost there,” came your boyfriend’s voice as your rock-hard cock started to fill your shorts with precum. “Fill up so good.”
Your belly felt swollen now, and so, so cold, even enveloped in the warmth of your boyfriend’s body. Suddenly, the cold clawed upwards into your chest, and you looked down in shock.
Your belly was overfilled, and your pecs were bouncing of their own volition. They were bouncing and growing, thick dark hair covering them as the areolae expanded. “What’s-“ you gasped, but then your boyfriend’s hand shot to your new muscle tits. His callused, wide, masculine hand. The pleasure of his touch shot through your brain and your voice cut off in a choked gasp.
Suddenly, you could see what had happened to your boyfriend. The tattoos, the hair, the muscles, the voice. They weren’t him, they were something else inside him. Something dumb, musky, and perverted.
“C’mon bro, you’re so close, let my bro and me play a bit,” the thing in your boyfriend rasped in your ear. Meanwhile, you felt your lats jerk wider, hair growing wild in your armpits as the intense scent of your musk began to fight with your boyfriend’s.
You looked into his eyes and realised they hadn’t changed. Your boyfriend was looking out, watching your biceps thicken and your neck widen, and he was loving it. Every motion, every touch, every hushed gasp in the public bathroom, was exactly what he had always wanted but never been able to actually do. And you wanted it too.
Your arms, out of your control, pushed your shorts down your thickening thighs, letting your massive cock flop out. One massive, thick-fingered hand pulled out your boyfriend’s hard cock and put them both end to end, stretching your foreskin over his cockhead and starting to stroke. Now it was your boyfriend’s turn to stifle his yell as you lost control of your face to the thing inside you.
“Fuck yeah, dude,” your mouth said, the voice deep and slow. “Found such a good body for your bro. He’s so fuckin’ happy in here, lettin’ me flex and bate him and givin' into the musk.”
Your boyfriend grunted and grabbed your lips in a bruising kiss. “So’s this guy, bro,” he purred. “Fuck, I can’t wait to make you smell these feet, bro.”
A moment later, your boyfriend hissed and you felt his hot cum flood your foreskin, tipping you over the edge. Foreheads pressed together, you rode out the orgasm with ragged breaths and shifting feet, flexing muscle on muscle to prolong the pleasure. When you finally released your foreskin, your boyfriend cupped his hands to get both your loads as they spilled out, and met your eyes as he tipped it into his mouth. You felt a shuddering aftershock as your boyfriend looked out past the thing possessing him, delirious with pleasure.
“Let’s crush the rest of the workout, bro,” he whispered, giving you one last cummy kiss.
“You’ll smell me from across the gym, dude,” you said, lifting one arm and sticking your tongue out.
You didn’t know how long you and your boyfriend would be passengers in your own bodies, but you were ready to settle down and enjoy it.
@idesofrevolution sent a pic of him and his boyfriend at the gym and this is my response. Your move, Frost ;) Good boys will go check out his Ko-fi.
Jake had a bit of an inconvenient habit. He had tried to get rid of it when he moved on to college - new beginnings and all that - but before October had arrived he was already back to his old tricks. It took maybe a day to figure out how to sneak into the official McGill University Basketball team's locker rooms. Jake tried to resist going as often as he did, but some animal part of him forced him to back to the musky basketball shoes again and again…
After a few days of this Jake started to feel a bit funny. His clothes didn't fit quite as well as they used to. Rather than seem concerning, this was very exciting to him. After sophomore year of high school he seemed to cap out at a mere 5'6", something he was endlessly insecure about. If he had visible ankles from under his formerly loose fit jeans now, that must mean we was going through the fabled late bloomer college growth spurt! Moreover, he began to notice his frame filling out. Where once he was a scrawny nobody, the other day a friend complimented him on his thick biceps. Jake tried to tell him he didn't work out, but his friend didn't want to hear it.
"Weren't you always built like that?"
The comment struck Jake as odd. He was always short and skinny… right? However, when he checked his driver's license, it stated he was 5'10". The next day it listed him as 5'11". Jake's clothes began to tighten on him more rapidly by the day. Now the clothes which he had specifically bought just last week to celebrate his entrance into the 6 foot club were already looking like hand-me-downs.
Jake just kept growing and growing. People he once (literally) looked up to now looked tiny. It still hurt his neck to meet their gaze, only now he had to crane his neck to look down rather than look up. He could see the tops of people's heads for the first time. He could see above crowds for the first time.
6'4",
6'5",
6'6",
Jake counted the inches day by day with glee. He reveled in his newfound confidence. It wasn't only his height growing either, he was getting stronger. He started to enjoy hitting the gym and the stares he got there.
At well past 7 foot, he could feel the growth slowing down. It didn't bother him so much - bumping his head on door frames was getting a bit old. Some recruiter caught him hanging around the team locker room exit after practice. Instead of giving him a weird look, he practically begged him to join the team. Jake accepted.
Personally I would age you up a few decades til you're in your late 40s early 50s. Make every hair on your body a sexy white color, turn you into a dilf himbo obsessed with protein. I like a good silver fox if you cant tell.
Too Old for Games
The gym smells like iron and sweat and cheap citrus cleaner.
Beau lived for the comforting gym smell.
He’s mid‑set on incline dumbbells, elbows flaring wide, chest pumped so tight it almost aches. White stringer clinging to him, black short shorts riding high on his quads. Backwards hat keeping his curls out of his eyes.
His phone buzzes on the bench between sets.
He doesn’t even look at it at first. One more rep. Controlled. Slow negative. Chest screaming.
Buzz. Buzz.
He exhales, racks the dumbbells, grabs the phone. I swear if its him...
Carlos
So… you still lifting with me tonight or you gonna ghost again? 😏💦
Beau snorts, thumbs already slick with sweat. He'd met this dude a few times at the gym. Gay guy, but super chill tho. Wanted to get a lift in.
Haha fuck 😅 I’m actually here rn
Had to reschedule today...
Almost instantly, Carlos Replied,
Again?? 😒
Then when the hell we lifting together, man?
Beau glanced at his reflection. Pumped chest. Easy grin.
I’ll hit you back about it
Been busy lately
Carlos hit him back,
You always “busy” when it’s me 🤨
Be honest—your girl not cool with it or something?
Beau rolls his shoulders, stretches his chest, feeling the skin tight and hot. Embarrassed.
Yeah… kinda 😬
She’s been weird about my gym schedule lately
There’s a pause. Longer this time.
Then—
Damn 😕
That sucks
I just wish you’d be more grown about our plans man. Was looking forward to it bro!
The words more grown linger.
Beau’s throat tightens.
He blinks.
His posture shifts in the mirror ever so slightly, feeling slightly uneasy for a moment.
He shakes his head, chalk dust puffing off his hands. The hell...
Heat spreads low in his gut. His waistband feels tighter. His breathing deeper, slower.
Buzz. Carlos again.
You mad at me? 🥺
Didn’t mean to push
Beau smiles without realizing it.
His fingers feel thicker on the phone.
Beau:
No.
I’m not mad.
He pauses. That answer doesn’t feel complete.
Beau:
I’m too old for that kinda drama anyway
Send.
His body shifts.
A slow stretch through his spine. His back pops—not painfully, but satisfyingly. His lats flare wider. Chest hair prickles as dark strands push through sweat‑slick skin, dusted with silver. His arms thicken, biceps hanging heavier at his sides.
His reflection ages quietly. Lines deepen at the eyes. Jaw roughens. Scruff blooms salt‑and‑pepper across his face. Beau stares at his phone, noticing nothing.
The thought of a girlfriend flickers...then dissolves.
Replaced by memories of early mornings, steel‑toed boots, foreman meetings, steady paychecks, and years of Anadrol, Testosterone, and gym worship
He types again, without thinking.
And I could never be mad at a guy as cute as you 😏
That does it.
His shorts strain. His thighs press together, massive now. His curls shorten, tightening, dark strands giving way to a clean, practical cut shot through with silver.
His shoulders outgrew the frame of the mirror. The new 51 year old leaned back into the bench. Feeling the weight of the pecs and glutes he’d spent decades building.
BUZZ. Beau quickly thumbed open his phone then blushed.
Carlos:
Thought this might help 😈
Damn these kids were bold,
Another buzz before Beau can breathe.
You still want me to come over tonight or what? 🥵💦 I could leave now? 👀
Beau groans, low and slow.
His cock is thick now. His knows this game. Knows Carlos. Knows exactly how this ends.
Christ, pup…
You’re gonna kill an old man acting like that 😌
He chuckles, scratching his hairy chest under his stringer.
Beau:
You trying to make me leave the gym early?
Carlos replies with fire emojis and hearts.
Send me a pic 😏
I miss you
Beau frowns at his phone, squinting.
Hold on… how the hell does this camera flip again?
He could never get this damn thing to work.
He steps into the locker room for a moment, shuffling to the mirror.
He mutters, thumbs clumsy with tech, then finally manages it.
Click.
He sends it.
There you go.
Behave yourself till I get there 😈
We get some good cardio in tonight, I’ll bump your allowance kid 😉
Carlos replied
Fuck 😍
That’s my silver fox
Hurry up, daddy 🥵🔥
Beau locks his phone, smirking.
He stretches once more, muscles rolling under thick, weathered skin. God that kid made him horny. He slung his worn gym bag over his shoulder and started confidently for the door. Nodding at the old heads with a smile. He paused for only a moment, feeling like he had forgotten somthin', then shrugged it off.
Tonight was gonna be fun.
....
I hope Yall liked the story! please shoot me an ask if you have an idea! DM me, would love to chat haha.
After badgering director's to perform As You Like It for years Toby finally gets what he wanted. Well, besides his favorite part that is. Cast as a wrestler, Toby is going to steal the stage in the only way he knows how: losing himself to his role.
Don't be alarmed but this is my longest story yet! Toby's true love of theatre trickles away and fuels his quick and intense growth into the perfect wrestler. Aided by his soon to be 'best bro' Cal, singlets that never seen to fit, and waning knowledge of stagecraft Tony's trip to the ring is my favorite yet. Hope you enjoy ! -Occam
They do one Shakespeare play on mainstage every year and without fail, every year, Toby has made a case to perform his favorite play: As You Like It. And at last, at this super-senior’s absolute final chance he has convinced them to put it on.
While obviously a fan of the play, the real reason he had been pushing so hard was so he could finally embody the ever-melancholic Jacques. To give the ‘All the World’s a Stage’ speech has been a dream of his so long that it is basically always looping in his head. The casting directors are well aware its verses are engraved upon his heart.
Longingly imagining being the actor to teach those humdrum layfolk in the audience that they too are players in this farce that we call life as he walks in for his audition, Toby smirks knowing this charade is all just a frivolous formality. The cast list may as well already have his name written next to the most pensive character in the Bard’s canon.
Crossing onto the too-familiar stage, already in character, Toby performs as pitiful a bow as he can muster. Sauntering to center stage, he prepares to give a dramatic monologue before he’s interpreted by the director. House lights go on and Toby squints into the mostly empty auditorium.
“Heyyy, Toby! So sorry! We really meant to meet with you before this-”
“Oh of course Sir! I know I know, this is all just a big waste of your time, my time– Shall I instead come down there and help with casting? You know no one knows this play better than moi!”
“That won’t be necessary, in fact-”
“AH! Or better yet let me toss my audition monologue prepared to the wind. I’ll just do Jacques again, give you all a sneak peak into my stellar performances to come! *Ahem* All the-”
“Tobias! I’m sorry this is how you’re finding out but the role of Jacques will be played by a professional guest artist. I- We really did mean to tell you.”
It feels like glass physically breaks within the poor actor’s chest. “Wh- Wh- Why!? You literally know Jacques is the whole reason I’ve been trying to get this play put on by our department for years!”
The directors sit there in silence as Toby’s voice echoes through the cold room. Someone clears their throat as the exposed nerve of an actor’s shoulders quiver. Taking a beat, Toby turns away from them to collect himself. He’s not become the theatrical powerhouse he is by letting every shitty mistake made by casting turn him into a pool of tears. Squeezing back tears with nothing but force of will, Toby forces a smile back on and turns.
There’s still the jester! He can be Touchstone! He can play a clown, he’s been the go to fool for years! If you can’t go for gold you can still play its foil, he tells himself. Slowly bouncing back between his feet to work into a solid jester’s caper, Toby starts to perform his next favorite character.
“Not a problem! The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly! If you’d rather I play to type I’m more than happy-”
Looking to his audience he finds a grimace on every face.
“I’m afraid Touchstone has already been cast as well, Toby.”
“God! It’s Jacob isn’t it!? That kid can barely speak in pentameter and you’re going to let him ruin Shakespeare’s greatest fool!”
Again, hearing his shrill voice echo back, Toby just rolls his eyes and awaits whatever his obviously incompetent ex-favorite director is going to lob at him next.
“We’re doing this for your own good Toby! You’ve been in four of our annual Shakespeare selections already, and countless other productions at that. It’s time for other actors to shine and for you to, well, move on Toby.”
Chewing on his lip, the broken actor doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps he should have taken the hint the numerous times he was encouraged to put on the play himself, but producing and directing were of absolutely no interest to him. As he tells the directors presently when they suggest he work instead on the production side of this production.
“I’m an Actor, sir. If I’m alive it is to be on the stage performing. I know this play by heart and am not going to stand in the wings watching other people- some blackguards butcher lines that should be coming from mine mouth!”
Slowly starting to pace the stage, Toby wonders if they’re going to let him have any part to play. This was supposed to be his stage. His production. His proper adieu to the program before touring the nation in a company or hitting the silver screen. “I don’t suppose you have another role in mind for me?”
“Well, there’s still Charles?”
“The wrestler!? He’s in two scenes!”
“They’re the opening scenes, Toby. It’s the perfect role if you change your mind and opt to join the production side. And better yet, it should allow you to spend more time on pursuits outside of our season? Perhaps audition for other local stages?”
“I can take a hint.” He says not taking a hint, “If you want me to bring my show stopping self to this inferior role, so I shall. There are no small parts, as you’ve said to my quite lesser cohorts over the years. If Charles I am to be, I’ll be the best fucking wrestler this stage has seen!”
Leaving then and there to secure the final word, Toby flees the stage and starts scheming as to how on earth the twiggiest man in the BFA program is going to portray a brawny professional wrestler. How he’s supposed to steal the stage in a role that doesn’t even qualify as two-bit. He absolutely doesn’t want to play it for laughs, but genuinely– how is Toby supposed to portray a serious threat to their leading man?
It’s perhaps his greatest challenge yet. But Toby’s no stranger to dramaturgical difficulties, he is going to be the most convincing wrestler no matter what it takes. He already knows the book well enough to recite Charles’ lines in his sleep, now to truly embody the man. He’ll spend hours on end watching matches, live in singlets, ugh perhaps he’d even stoop to interview those dullards on the wrestling team.
In preliminary research he quickly finds the appeal of the sport. Never one for any kind of physical activity, let alone bloodsport, Toby never thought he’d be so sold on such a macho sport, forgetting just how obviously homoerotic it is. This is not the angle he’s going to take with the wrestlers themselves of course, they don’t need to know how hot he finds the whole dicks out sweaty grappling thing.
Schedule mostly vacant, Toby has more than enough time to sneak into a practice and take notes. Being the only witness to this perhaps only technically open practice of the university's wrestling team, when the athletes begin sparing their coach sidles up to the actor-brained student taking notes.
“You one of them figure drawers son? Usually y’all come as a whole class.”
“Ah! It’s a pleasure sir! No, I’m with the theatre department! Are you familiar with the Bard’s As You Like it?”
“Debard? No. Wouldn’t say I am, never heard of ‘em. Theater type ehm? Here to ogle m’boys?”
Blushing, Toby frantically waves him off, “AH! Ah Ha ha, no of course not! I’m here to learn my good sir! I’m so fortunate as to play a wrestler in our upcoming annual Shakespearean production and desire nothing more to get in the headspace of a wrestler.”
“Y’don’t say?” Scratching a few days stubble that’s thicker than most men’s beards, the coach seems to have a few gears turning. The team has gone far too long without a proper featherweight contender… Looking within this wayward thespian the coach seems something he can work with. Something he can mold. Someone he can make into a real wrestler. “Wanna learn what it’s like to wrestle, boy? How’s about you suit up and get down there.”
What a chilling idea. Little Toby amongst those sweaty behemoths. One stray elbow and he’d need to be taken out on a stretcher. And yet, this very, very simple man is right. There is no better way to become a wrestler but to wrestle. His joke of a role cannot dominate the stage without Toby throwing everything he’s got into it.
Wandering down to the only other even vaguely bookish man in the room, the equipment manager, Toby is led to a pile of haphazard singlets apparently left behind by visiting schools. “They skew large, for obvious reasons, but I’m sure we can find something small enough.”
Displacing just about the whole pile, the manager eventually digs up some long forgotten spandex that Toby will surely still be swimming in. Unwilling to strip in front of the man, he rushes to the next room to change. Giving the garment a quick sniff he can’t tell if the acrid musk he’s smelling is from the singlet’s invisible stains or just the ambient odor of the locker room.
“And you said these have all been dry cleaned yes?”
Scratching his ass, the manager certainly didn’t say this, but he’s happy enough to lie about it now. What does he care about the pipsqueak wearing some second hand shit. The baked in Test’ll probably be good for him. “Sh’yeah kid? You think I don’t know how to do my job?”
Frowning, Toby sticks his legs into the purple garment and pretends he doesn’t know what dried sweat stains feel like as he tugs the armholes over his shoulders. Still fully wearing boxers and his Julius Caesar show shirt, even this does little to fill out the too-big singlet.
“Lookin’ good. Well, good enough. Think most’ve the team has gone to weights but Coach held someone back for you.”
“Wh-no. Surely you don’t mean he intends for me to.” Do you want to think like a wrestler or not. Not particularly, but duty calls. With a gulp Toby peeks out of the locker room and sees the coach talking with a man who is at least slightly smaller than the most terrifying of his peers.
No going back now, Toby fights down mortal terror and does what he does best- Acts. “Well I say you put me in direct- coach! I’m raring to go!” Cocky smile on his face, Toby’s sure the pair staring at him with tilted heads are none the wiser to his mortal terror. When he approaches near enough the smaller man reaches out a hand to introduce himself, to which Toby only barely flinches back.
“Hey! Heard you’re interested in the team, Toby right? I’m Cal!”
At first still smiling, Toby meets his hand. Though when he feels the wrestler's rough grip he cannot hide the frown that crosses his face. It’s like sandpaper. Compared to his own soft hands, clean and maintained by rigorous routines of moisturizing, Toby can hardly believe someone willingly letting their skin devolve to such an unpleasant state.
“Oh yeah takes some getting used to,” Cal smiles awkwardly, “Shoulda warned you hah! Really makes dating hell when chicks or whatever get grossed out by your touch.”
Toby smiles awkwardly in turn, sure his tacking on that ‘or whatever’ was trying to signal something to him. Looking Cal up and down, Toby figures he could certainly do worse. But, he’s sure that the coach isn’t intending this as a meet cute. And when the burly man whistles and nods to a mat he sees Cal’s awkwardness shift to excitement. Blush remains painted on his face as he nervously messes with his hair.
“Sorry for whatever’s about to happen Tobe,” seeing his the actor start sweating bullets, Cal walks over to the ring, “Ahh don’t worry though it’ll be alright. I won’t hurtcha!”
“Right.” Toby follows suit and does his best to match the trained wrestler’s stance. As he does so one of the loose strands of his singlet falls from his narrow shoulders. Just before he can cry out to ‘wait’ the coach blows his whistle again. Any look of goodwill in Cal’s eyes fades to make way for some intense gaze of near-bloodlust.
And then he charges.
Fiddling with his singlet’s not-sleeve, by the time Toby looks up Cal is already upon him. Thouse uncomfortably rough hands grab his bony arms with the strength and precision of a machine. Hoisted into the air, the thespian feels weightless. As he’s manhandled by the man, he feels his adrenaline start to spike. He feels the very first rushing sparks of excitement course through him. He watches as the focus on Cal’s face shifts to a cocky, victorious smile. As air rushes past him their eyes meet and Toby wonders if his whole life has been leading to this. And then he’s thrown to the mat and sees nothing.
Coming to with a pounding headache in Coach’s office, Toby moans deliriously. Grabbing his pounding head, Toby mutters out a “Whuh happened?” as Coach fills out some paperwork on the desk.
“Got some sense knocked into you out there kid. Cal feels bad ‘bout the whole thing and wants to walk ya home. Chat yer ear off the whole time I’m sure.”
Woozy, Toby’s happy to hear he’s got an escort home, too out of it to wonder any more about the wrestler’s proclivities. Wobbling slightly as he stands, for a moment the actor wonders why Coach is acting so blase about giving what simply must be a concussion to a student out of his program.
And while some perceptive part of him catches the half-smile on the man’s face, notices how Coach- how the coach seems to be playing some game with him, all of a sudden Toby feels a great deal of trust for the man. Stealing one last glance at the brawny man, Toby feels with certainty that Coach knows what’s best for him. Must be the concussion.
“Cal’s running weights with some of the younger students tomorrow late morning. Be there.”
Slowly nodding at the command as he exits to greet Cal, Toby grins as he sheepishly apologizes a few times over. Taking in his meek words, Toby feels his higher functions slowly booting back up. The musclebound brute apparently has a good deal of curiosity about theatre that Toby is happy to help sate.
On their brisk walk to Toby’s apartment, the thespian teaches Cal the plot of Twelfth Night and Hamlet in between explaining why he’s so interested in wrestling in the first place. When they arrive on his doorstep, Toby finds himself all the more won over by the broad-shouldered man, and those feelings have begun to trickle into a fondness for his brutish sport.
“And uh, don’t mean to be forward or anything but uhhh? Did you want me to stay over and make sure you’re all good from that hit dude?”
“That hit? Oh shoot, uh yeah? Do you think that’d be a good idea?”
“Couldn’t hurt! And I don’t mind dude, besides, Coach said you really wanted to come train with us tomorrow so I can just take you straight there!”
Murmuring in agreement, Toby welcomes a jock he never thought he’d be caught dead with into his neat home. Crossing the threshold over a campy welcome mat, immediately does the weight of weariness come crashing down onto Toby. Forgetting the anxiety from earlier, he lazily removes his shirt and resolves to just sleep in the singlet.
It’s surprisingly comfortable, almost feels a little tighter than it did that afternoon. Strange. Turning to find Cal already at home sitting on his couch, Toby drags his feet to join him. He deliberately falls over the arms and into Cal’s lap as the athlete throws some wrestling onto the TV.
“Woahhh watch it dude, gotta be careful with your head! Don’t want to lose any of your play-smarts y’know heheh!”
Cal pointedly doesn’t touch the man whose head is resting on his thigh. But as he feels heavy sleep coming, he can’t help but smile as the man squirms under his head. Toby doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. This is insane. There’s a man who basically assaulted him sitting on his couch, watching godawful tv on his account, and for some reason Toby feels as at home as he does on stage.
Cal feels as familiar as any of his co-stars. Lulled to sleep by the warmth of his muscular thigh, the sound of men grunting as an audience cheers acts as a lullaby to the injured Toby. Rather than the glitzy lights of the stage, in dream Toby only sees the inside of the ring.
The next morning the actor awakens to Cal making liberal use of his kitchen. Steam rises from a pan and from a few plates already loaded with more meat than Toby thought he had in his fridge. Still cooking, the wrestler hears him stir and welcomes him to the new day.
“Heyyyy G’morning Tobe, hurry and load up on some protein so we can head out to the gym!”
Nodding mindlessly as he rubs sleep from his eyes and starts housing some eggs and sausage, Toby looks down and notices how his singlet is indeed closer to fitting his still-thin frame.
“I- Do I have time to take a shower Cal?”
“Before getting all sweaty dude? Nahhh, ‘s a waste of time forreal. Now shut up and eat, dude! As soon as I pack up the leftovers we’re out the door.”
Obeying his trainer apparent’s commands, Toby scarfs down the breakfast, choking out an “Unquiet meals make ill digestion, you know.” before confirming he’s quoting Shakespeare like a tic after being chided once more to fill his gob rather than chat.
When at last they beat feet and arrive at the gym, Toby finds himself experiencing meat sweats for the first time in his life. Stomach so overfull he can visibly see his stomach bloating against the hitherto limp singlet, Toby’s not sure how he’s going to move at all productively, let alone work out.
Little does he know, as soon as Cal begins instructing him any concern or discomfort melts away. Everything else fades away, including the memory that he is currently missing a class he was auditing. But that’s of no matter, theatre history can wait, he needs to think like a wrestler.
While this was ostensibly a group activity, every other wrestler seems self-sufficient so Cal is entirely focussed on the scrawny actor. Issuing orders like a drill sergeant, Cal ushers his trainee from machine to machine, from lift to lift and delights as his little pretend-wrestler sweats through a baggy tee he borrowed for a pump cover.
When at last he’s sick of the feeling of wet fabric on his back he tears it off to reveal arms that are shockingly large. Balking at the newly beefy biceps hanging where there was once but skin and bones, Cal has a hard time justifying the amassed muscle as a mere bump. Reaching over to feel the man’s sweaty, twitching arms, Cal demands he show off.
“What the fuck dude! Flex those things!”
Panting as he feels as woozy now as he did post-concussion the day before, Toby struggles to raise his arms before flexing them with a pained grunt. Corded muscle twitches through their whole length as they peak larger with each microsecond he keeps up the performance. Cal’s eyes flit to the shadows in the man’s pits as he’d swear the man was hairless yesterday, but watching as the fresh growth drips with sweat he decides ont to mention it.
“Fuck dude! This must be like a beginner’s lucky pump or something! Looking like a member of the team already!”
Rolling his eyes as he trips over to a mirror, Toby prepares to tell Cal to knock it off before throwing up another flex, for his own eyes this time. In his reflection he finds his new arms exactly as Cal described, slightly thicker even. It seems impossible. Truly muscular, sculpted arms. Ones made to manhandle. His ever overactive mind scrambles for something poetic or funny to say only to fall flat.
Beyond that, he’s at last notices how he is clearly filling out the singlet!? He can hardly believe it as it strains against the beginnings of pecs and slightly wedgies into his ass crack. Tugging down on his thighs as he sees the singlet cut into the trunks, Toby frowns at how his boxers ruin the look. Slightly tuning out Cal discussing the importance of recovery and routine, Toby pointedly sniffs the air and realizes how much of a sweat he’s worked up.
Raising one arm into a flex, he fights back a grin as it hardens and throbs to instead look at that dark patch of new growth. Must’ve been a minute since he’s waxed? Yeah, that makes sense. His other hand reaches over to feel it and for half a second he scratches the dank, itchy bush before recoiling. Something deep suggests he give the digits a sniff but he makes the slightly less uncouth decision to just wipe the sweat on his singlet.
“Yo Tobe, is that your phone?”
Returned from his delirium, Toby finds a few texts from his castmates asking where he is. It’s not like him to not be early to rehearsal. “Oh shoot! Wait Cal- I think I need to go, like now.”
Jumping into action Cal tosses him a hoodie and a slightly larger singlet. Neither man even spares half a thought to the fact his musk factory of a body is going to be rushing to a black box without showering, but the rehearsal must go on! Throwing on the baggy hoodie, unconcerned with its cleanliness as well, he shoots his fellow thespians a text saying he’s on the way before rushing out the door.
En route, he finds the idea of being late not weighing all too terribly as it did even moments ago. Texting Cal as he walks briskly, the jock does his best to shift gears back into that friendly curiosity.
yo wait dude speaking of! did u no that ten things i hate about u wth heath ledger was based of shakespear
Toby grins and rolls his eyes. He loves Cal, it’s so nice to spend time with people outside of his bubble. Literally anyone who’s spent half a second studying the Canon knows that. He begins his reply wondering how hard to go on his new friend.
Of course Cal, Ha Ha! You know I basically have a degree in this ;). Everyone knows it’s based on . . .
It’s based on? Uh..? Toby trips over his feet and stands there for a few moments. He’s absolutely blanking. Thank god it’s to Cal rather than anyone who knows better. God! What play is it based on though? He pounds his forehead with his fist assuming that’ll summon the answer. Surprisingly his memory doesn’t seem to react to brute force.
Getting another text from his director he shakes off his stupor and returns to his journey. Leaving it at the wink, he’ll just look up whatever play it was later, no tame– time to waste! Stumbling into the Fine Arts Building, Toby tugs on his hoodie to air out the singlet now stained with his own sweat.
God it’s so tight. He didn’t notice while moving, but now that he’s slowed down every seam is cutting into him. Toby’s bulkier limbs twitch as they’re off and on overtaken with pins and needles from increasingly inconsistent circulation. He knew lycra was supposed to be like a second skin but this is unpleasant, especially in his pants where his boxers really cause it to pinch.
“Toby!? Is that you?”
Looking up, Toby sees Claude, the young man cast as Orlando, the male lead. Wearing a baggy sweater and massive pants, there’s a look of amused disbelief as he holds back a giggle. “My, my! I had heard you were going method for your, abbreviated role? I certainly didn’t think you were to go this far!”
“Yeah yeah, whatever Claude. I’m sure you know this whole production’s a farce anyway, what with me cast beside- er aside.” Disrobing the already damp sweatshirt, when he unveils his newly built body, Claude is taken truly stunned.
“Oh my word!” Blushing slightly at the sightly figure, Claude opts to tease him further. “We should have had you playing brutes some time ago! And- no don’t tell me!? Is that hair? You stopped shaving your pits for this!? Ah Ha! What will that surly trade think of their little boytoy playing at being a man!”
Jaw clenching, every targeted dig flung makes his singlet all the tighter. For the first time in his life, Toby feels what can only be described as rage. Crossing his arms to hide how hard he’s tensing them, veins begin to crisscross their length as they twitch larger. Doing calf raises and flexing his thighs as he stands there and takes it, his singlet again gives him a wedgie before he switches to instead reflexively pop his pecs which sends a tear straight down the middle of his trusty singlet.
“Oh shit.”
Claude averts his eyes with a dramatic turn and gasp while Toby just nonchalantly looks down at his chest. “Fuck that’s kinda hot” he mumbles to himself before awkwardly waddling past the lead. “I gotta- I have a change of clothes, just tell the director I’ll be there in five, kay?”
Rushing as well as he’s able when every slightest movement sends another tear through this fabric designed to not tear, Claude goes to his usual changing room and locks the door as he at last bares his new body. Swearing he looks even larger than he did at the gym, his semi is just as visible in his boxers as it would be in the spandex.
No real time to lust after himself, Toby quickly gets changed, feeling the chill of this spandex unworn as it fits him like a glove. Obviously, after his previous discomfort wearing boxers underneath the singlet, he opts to go commando. Cock shame is a thing of the past, he thinks, smirking. If anyone ogles his cock that’s on them, not that he particularly minds of course. Shit he definitely would. The thought sends it throbbing one inch higher towards his belly button as he sternly tells himself to not get fully hard.
Easier said than done.
Sauntering onto the stage unembarrassed, every eye in the room is on him and his shockingly muscular form. Everyone there has seen him fully nude on stage before, that he’s somehow bulked up in less than a few days seems wrong. Convincing themselves it’s a muscle suit or the like, everyone comes to their own explanation so they can focus on their work. All ignoring the sweat dripping down the lifelike arms or the bushy garden in his pits, thankfully they’re mostly obscured by his massive biceps.
And so begins rehearsal. He’s read the play hundreds of times at this point. Not even opting to check his lines, as they run through the first scene, Toby awaits his cue and acts with aplomb.
Standing straight as he strides onto the stage, still clad in singlet as everyone else performs in their everyday clothes. “Good morrow to your Worship.” It’s such light work, he doesn’t even listen to his scene partner’s lines, simply filling in the blanks as necessary, “They say he is already in the Forest of Arden,
and a many merry men with him…” Resetting as commanded, “Marry, do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you with a matter.”
By the time their work on Scene I is done, Toby has noticed some fuzz on old Claude’s cheeks. Is he growing a beard? Rubbing his own hairless face he feels a tickle in his chest as he considers doing so himself. Awfully masculine. He really should look- He should be more masculine than that princely fraud.
Wonder what Cal would think– “Toby?”
“Huh?”
“You missed your cue.”
Oh shit. He hadn’t even noticed they moved onto the second scene. Getting on with it, he starts to notice his cheeks and jaw are suddenly itchy. It’s annoying. Almost as annoying as the fact that they’re skipping the fight for now. What the fuck is he here for if they’re skipping his big moment.
Getting worked up, his face begins to burn red as there’s almost a prickling underneath his skin. Yanking out his phone as he gets an urge to text Cal, he waves off being chewed out for being distracted before just walking off stage as his last scene ends. When asked if he’s interested in staying to help he laughs in the director’s face “If you wanted me here you’d have given me a real part, Sir.”
And with that he heads on out, excited to chat with Cal and too full of energy to sit around and watch other people act. He only takes the slightest detour towards Claude to stomp at him and fake him out, smirking as the lead flinches back. Scratching his cheek, when he leaves the theater he finds his wrestler-friend has beaten him to the punch:
heyo brobro u comin to practice today?
Man, he's so busy these days. Classes and rehearsal for theatre on top of wrestling practice and the gym? Won’t even have time to play around. His schedule’s so jam packed it’s tighter than a quick..? A quick something. Quick switch? Whatever. He again gives up on what should be the simplest of recalls to text Cal he’s on the way.
This time Coach has absolutely switched up his tune. Still gruff and brusque, when he sees Toby today there’s an unmistakable grin on his face. From afar Cal give two thumbs up with a wide smile of his own as Coach shouts, “Whooee boy! You sure are sproutin’ from Cal’s mornin’ program.”
Nodding approvingly, he pats Toby hard on the back as the younger man blushes and scratches his cheeks, peach fuzz slowly prickling thicker into stubble. On the walk over, every text back and forth with Cal seemed to darken his face with more stubbly curls. The sound of his slightly thicker digits scritching his cheeks is buried beneath Coach’s laudations as his voice drowns out everything else.
“So. Tobias. You wanna get on down there with the boys t’day?”
Arms crossed, he stares down at Toby, eyes burning embers beneath thick brows. The thespian nervously looks down at the wrestlers all going at it already as his pulse begins to accelerate. He remembers himself, he’s no wrestler. He’s a dramaturg! “Uhh no, no I really, I really- uhh?” But his heart races with excitement, he’s almost vibrating as everything within him burns.
He wants to. He needs to. More than anything. The idea of character research is little more than an afterthought as everything within him shouts he has no greater purpose right now than getting down there to spar. To show off his strength. To grapple those men and put them in their place.
Trying to shake his head no, his head instead twitches as his neck thickens. Paltry stubble crawls higher on his cheeks as it lengthens and spreads enough to be a proper beard coating his jawline. Clenched hard enough to crack his teeth as he now has to force his feet to stand in place lest he bolt, Toby feels his most bestial urges rise and rise in volume.
Who dares be more a man, is none. No that’s- that’s not the line. No matter. Blood rushes in his head, he can hear nothing but the toll of his heartbeat and the need to fight. To win. He hears Coach’s whistle blow and he charges. Cal stands there ready to catch him in the ring and in a far more level battlefield, the pair begin to wrestle.
In between lunges and grasps, Toby can’t help but notice he’s taller than Cal. He would’ve sworn he was shorter. He knew he was. He should be shorter. And then Cal punishes him for focusing on anything but the battle at hand. Arms pump larger as he strains against Cal’s strength. His chest widens as he grunts and gives everything he’s got to not go down.
Toby’s thick thighs balloon even larger as he tries to root himself in place, refusing to go down as he scowls with intense focus. And then the sound of tearing echoes in their small ring as Cal accidentally finishes the job begun by Toby’s bulking form. Surprise on Cal’s face as his hand slips away, the actor sees his chance.
Twirling around him as if in slow motion, Toby throws his arms around Cal and knocks his legs. Falling on his back, the growing man shouts for Coach to come and call it, his voice cracking deeper as he pins Cal on the ground. Sweat drips into his eyes and burns the couple new scratches on his muscular back.
One. He can’t believe he’s done it. Two. He has done it. He’s a wrestler. Three. He needs to be more.
Coach’s whistle resounds as he yanks Toby off a smugly grinning Cal. The other wrestlers break into applause witnessing Toby’s first victory, many eyes slightly confused as surely this isn't their first time seeing Toby dominate. Look at him, he took down Cal. Though perhaps not all that fair a fight given the height and weight advantage.
Helping Cal to stand, he sees the smarmy smile and wink of a man who might have let him win. “Nice beard Tobe” For a moment he has no idea what his friend’s talking about, before of course scratching his thick and sweat covered beard. The one he’s had since he could first grow one. There’s no better immediate show of masculinity and all.
“Thanks dude.” Patting Cal on the back, the pair head off to the locker room to get Toby another singlet.
“You’re really going through these things buddy!”
“Maybe if you guys got me a real uniform rather than throwing hand-me-downs at me one of them might stick.”
“Sure bro, then actually join the team.”
His mind stumbles over the thought. That’s right, he’s not actually on the team. Even if he suddenly feels like he’s been here for years he knows he hasn’t. He’s a- Uh. He’s an actor. Yeah. He shakes free from the confusion, refusing to engage as he instead just laughs at Cal’s words. Pausing at a mirror in the locker room he runs his hands down his beyond-defined abs.
Despite his newly prodigious beard and the jungle-adjacent bushes in his pits, his body is relatively hairless. Frowning at the thought, he wonders if that will change any time soon before basking in a few poses. When he catches Cal staring at him he decides to turn the tables and teases him for a change.
“See something you like there Cal?”
“Can’t blame a guy for taking in a work of art bro.”
“Ahh too kind buddy, bet you just can’t wait for me to pin you again huh?”
Cal slaps him, laughing, “Whatever dude!”
Toby’s phone vibrates in his bag. Frowning he finds a couple messages from his director, scheduling combat rehearsal and letting him know when to be ready and at the stage. He rolls his eyes and just mutes the man. They’re lucky to have him there at all. Looking to Cal as he begins showing off a handy few flexes to the mirror, even if he was consciously aware of his priorities realigning. One wonders if he would even care.
This is what it’s all about.
And so his life goes for a few weeks. Prioritizing practices over rehearsals. Going along with the mimesis of fighting rather than putting Claude in his place like he so deeply yearns. Enjoying wrestling more than he ever thought he could, flirting with Cal whenever he gets the chance. It becomes quite the routine, leaving him little time to notice as knowledge he used to consider baseline begins to seep away, replaced by new instincts and strategies for the ring.
Stumbling on free time one day, he finds himself craving an easy win and finally returns to the theatre history class he decided to audit what feels like a lifetime ago. Having already aced it he’s eager to drop in and see where they are, maybe offer some of his expertise since the pushovers in rehearsal are too stubborn to know his worth.
Arriving a couple minutes late, the professor is at first eager to see her once teacher’s pet return. Turning to greet him, she’s concerned by how deep his voice sounds, assuming he must be struck with quite the cold. After a moment of inspection, besides his bullish new size, she is taken aback by how sloppy he seems to be dressing. Once something of a fashionista, now more jock than actor, the man’s baggy clothes cling to his broad frame. While not coming from practice or the gym, the slightest sweat stains are already visibly.
“Hey! Professor, sorry I’m late!” His voice cracks deeper as his tone tinges slightly vacuous.
“Of course we’re happy to have you Toby, please find a seat! I must say you’re looking rather, uhm, jocular?”
“Right, yeah. Dunno if you heard but I’m, or I was cast as Charles in As You Like It.” He gestures with his hands, flexing reflexively which strains the seams of his already failing outfit, “Really trying to get into that Alpha headspace y’know.”
Surprised at his informality, she remains shocked at how differently her neat and cordial once-term favorite seems to be carrying himself. “Very well! Well where was I…”
The erudite professor continues lecturing on about the tradition of Greek theatre. Toby vaguely remembers enjoying the section of the course a great deal. He’s sure if it came down to it he’d remember the nitty gritty details. Still, as she drones on and on, the theoretical-thespian can’t help but get a little bored.
Despite this, when she asks a question, Toby can’t help but bolt up his hand. Some stray instinct from his know-it-all self acting with the urgency of the man in the ring, the sound of his shirt sleeve tearing can’t be ignored as a chunk of his pit fur bursts from the new hole.
“Ahh of course, you’re eager to show off for the class Toby. Well, go on! What do you think the audience of the Bacchae thought of the gruesome violence coupled with the joy of the Chorus?”
The Bacchae. Of course. Maintain composure. Toby slowly lowers his arm, keeping an air of confidence only interrupted when he accidentally elbows his seat neighbor. “Right.” He clears his throat to buy time. This should be a cakewalk, he did a presentation, staged a selection of this just last year. But for the life of him he can barely remember who or what the play’s even about.
“Of course, easy. Well we all know the Greeks loved violence right? S’why the Romans were all about it too. Why shouldn’t they love a good fight scene?”
The professor tilts her head staring, almost looking hurt as she believes Toby isn’t taking her seriously, “Ah, hm. Well, interesting supposition Toby. I was more referring to the Dionysian-”
“Dionysus, yeah! It was on the tip of my tongue.” The professor stares at him blankly causing him to blush with embarrassment before apologizing, “Sorry prof. My mind was elsewhere I guess.” Moving on and making a mental note to check on her wayward student, she focuses instead on the rest of her class.
Unable to ignore how he’s floundering, Toby does his best to hide in his seat. Difficult given he barely fits in it. Starting to nervously sweat, the stains start to grow. Trying to compact his upper body to hide from view, his legs stretch wider into his neighbor as his longer legs blatantly manspread. The poor guy next to him grimaces after taking a breath before being even further inconvenienced as Toby’s massive thigh pushes him to the side.
Still, rather than complain he leans close to the brutish actor’s ear, “Hey psst, sorr- Toby right? did you need to borrow some deodorant?”
Turning with a scowl to the weasly little nerd speaking to him, Toby feels alarm bells start to ring in his head. What is he doing here. He’s embarrassing himself. His chest prickles as his skin starts to burn. “Why don’t you mind your own business kid.” His pecs itch like something is crawling across them and his thick, clumsy hands reach to scratch it.
“Woah jeez? Hey sorry dude, I was just trying to help,” his neighbor does his best to ignore the man whose torso sized thigh is more in his space than Toby’s own. And Toby just continues scratching, reaching under his shirt he discovers the root of his burning itch. At last, his chest has started to prickle with hair.
Ignoring that upstart kid complaining about his sweat, forgetting about the professor who so embarrassed him, a grin twitches across his face as he delights in the new lengthy curls circling his nipples. Feeling thick new strands pressed into his singlet as a wide treasure trail prickles up his tight abs to meet the hopely intense growth smattering across his heavy chest.
Tight against his singlet, he feels his cock start to stir from excitement at his increasingly masculinity. Looking down at his crotch it’s thankfully obscured by the lycra if not his too-small shorts. Seeing his thick thigh pressing into his neighbors though, noticing how it seems to be the size of the little runt’s legs put together, that’s just too much. “Ahh fuck…”
“Toby? Did you need something?”
Shit. Shit. “Shit uhhh yeahh so sorry Professor, uhhh” He forgot her name, shit. “I totally have wrestling practice soon I gotta dip! I’ll uh, see you guys later!” Making no effort to obscure how he waddles as his hog of a dick starts taking blood from his brain, Toby doesn’t even look back at the classroom as he bolts from the Fine Arts building.
Annoyed with his shirt constraining his biceps, he tears it off and shoves it in his gym bag. Seeing the consistent new hairy coat on his chest does little to abate the growing issue under his singlet. Staring as it spreads further, filling the gap between his straps, Toby tugs at his shorts to try and fix the awkward situation but that only exacerbates the problem as his excitement continues to rise.
Thinking back to that twinky man who complained about him stinking, he angles his head towards the bush in one of his pits and takes a deep breath. Fuckkk he does reek. Biting his lip and feeling his facial hair scratch, Toby starts booking it home as his hips feel suddenly tighten and buck.
Sprinting as well as he’s able with a hardon like he’s never felt, he’s at least glad it’s happening now and not in the ring. Mind dancing to wrestling does little for his boner, but it does lead to his singlet getting tight elsewhere as well. Tugging on the shoulder straps as he runs, Toby feels them yank against shoulders cracking taller and a torso inching wider with gasping breath as he sprints onward.
The singlet wedges itself into his ass crack as his cheeks shake with every step, it becomes increasingly clear that he’s going to move up yet another size. He feels it strain against his thighs while inching up higher and higher as he rushes onward. So too do his actual shorts begin to tear, lighting a fire under his growing ass.
He knew he shouldn’t have borrowed clothes from Cal, for some reason nothing from his bro seems to fit anymore? Arriving at his place, Toby finds Cal is already there cooking some trademark protein-slop for the two of them. Beaming when he sees his bro, he asks how class was. “‘S been too long since you had fun with theatre stuff bro! What’d you learn.”
Toby opens his mouth to reply but finds no answer coming forth. Furrowing his heavier brow he struggles to remember, what did he learn, having already forgotten the Bacchae he opts for the most basic of stagecraft lessons. And still he fumbles.
“Uhh y’know just went over simple stuff. I really helped ‘em Like, I bet you didn’t know that to make sure it makes sense for the audience, right, they switch which one’s stage left and which one’s stage right! Like they go by what the audience sees bro!” Convinced this is accurate, his smile grows wider as he watches Cal nod and take this unfortunately incorrect information in.
Then before they can enjoy their stew-ish dinner, Toby’s phone starts going off. He silences it only for a second one to stop blaring as well. “What the…” Squinting at the phone, he starts to mute this one as well before Cal speaks up.
“Wait brobro, I think those are your As You Like It Alarms.”
“As I like what dude?”
Cal smiles, finding his bro’s stupidity and disregard charming rather than concerning. “The play Tobe,” gently pushing Toby to the door, he pats his bro on the ass to try and strike some urgency in him. “Ah and I packed some clothes from the gym in your bag in case you get too sweaty again. Now, go! And on’t worry about dinner, Imma slowcook this shit!”
Realizing he forgot to show off his chest hair to Cal when he’s about 3/4th there, Toby makes a note to do so later since it seems like he’s already late. Yanking on the door, he forgets he needs to do his ID since it’s after hours. Dutifully retrieving it from the bottom of his bag, strange even after four attempts the building refuses to yield. It’s almost as if he no longer had permissions for the building?
Whatever. He sneaks in with some little dude wearing all-black head to toe. Must be a goth, Toby figures. Making no rush, Toby strides in with pride and disregard for the rest of the production. “Worry not everyone, ol Tobe’s here,” the director calls cut from the scene they’re working on and turns to chew out an actor he used to trust implicitly.
Turning around, priorities instantly realign as he sees a man now seemingly twice as wide and infinitely hairier than the one he knew to be a leading actor. “Jesus Christ Toby!? Are you on steroids for this part or something?”
Looking gravely serious the man shakes his head, “God no! Wouldn’t dream of doing gear dude. They’d kick me off the team!”
“Th- Are you on the wrestling team?”
Rubbing the back of his neck and exposing his beyond-hairy musk traps he shoots back a “Don’t worry about it.” Scratching the same pit with his other hand, he looks deadeye at the director, “So we starting with my stuff or what?”
With a sigh he motions to set, this was all supposed to be a favor for Toby. “We were in the middle of something but I suppose we could-”
“Aces. Well I’ll be backstage listening for my cue.”
He misses it. Twice. And when he at last returns it’s beyond obvious that he’s no longer the Shakespearen scholar he once was. “Good uhhhm, day t’you mister,” Puffing out his chest he gives a nod to the audience. After being reminded he can call ‘line’ if he finds himself lacking, he does so at every turn and still manages to screw up.
“Come! Where is this young Gallons- No I swear that’s what she said!”
“Toby, is this a joke to you?”
His brow twitches, “No? I’m here aren’t I?”
“I suppose you technically are.”
“You wanted me to be a wrestler dude!”
“We wanted you to play Charles. We wanted you to- Look.”
“Can you freaking chill!?” He feels his blood start to boil. He hears the sirens that resound in his head when it’s time to fight. His arms twitch as he looks through the auditorium and sees Claude standing in a crowd of other actors. Ignoring the intrusive thought about the man’s height, how he needs to be taller, Toby stills his rage and takes a deep breath. “Sorry, s- sir. I swear I’ll get my shit together. I’ll be good for the dressing rehearsal.”
Wiping his nose with his thumb, he jumps from the stage and sits in the dark auditorium. When Claude takes the stage, despite trying to read his lines, Toby’s unable to take his eyes off him. Watching as people fawn over the man returns his heart to racing. His shoes squeak on the floor as his legs slowly stretch longer.
Staring daggers at the man, he reminds himself he didn’t even want that role, but for the life of him he can’t remember who he auditioned for. What this play even is. Didn’t he like it for some reason? A character, or..? Lost in struggling thought, the auditorium chair creaks as his back stretches taller and wider. It was like Jake or something, Jock?
Putting his all into recalling this name, sweat trickles down his brow as he tries to set his mind to anything not-physical. It just makes him want to punch a wall. Bouncing his leg as his feet start to outgrow his shoes, Toby tries to cross his arms and realizes how difficult it has become with how swollen his forearms and biceps have become, opposing an equally unyielding pec shelf.
After receiving a text from Cal, he guffaws loud enough for someone to trip on stage and shouts an apology, “Sorry gotta call someone! Don’t you worry Coach, I’ll be shipshape by game day!” And with that, the cast and crew watch as his defined ass carries him out of the theater. The director’s eye twitches, what is he supposed to do with this.
Free from the humdrum boredom of a rehearsal he’s not altogether much involved with, Toby feels the clarion call of clothes he’s about to outgrow as he feels the leg holes start to ride up and sees his package getting more and more visible. Shittt- He’s not even getting hard!
Rushing home he pulls Cal into a bear hug and the pair spend the rest of the night together. They’re something of an inseparable pair these days and Coach certainly isn’t going to complain. The new Toby obviously needs all the help he can get to show up to practice on time. Beyond that Cal seems to be quite the incentive for Toby to be the best wrestler he can be.
Since both their places only have the one bed they have to share wherever they end up. Some time ago Cal invested in earplugs as Toby developed an oppressive snore once his neck grew in. Less manageable is the sweaty furnace of man’s body heat as his sleeping self always ends up snatching Cal to use as a pillow to hug. Even more of a problem are nights where his bro gets riled up, you wouldn’t believe the number of times Cal’s already woken up to the hulking man dry humping him in his sleep.
Not that he minds, shit really they should start burning off some of that energy before bed. Certainly easier to clean if they get ahead of it. Sleeping through Cal’s alarm the next morning, when Toby eventually falls back to consciousness he’s happy to not feel any telltale stain besides the hefty pool of pre safely contained to his jock from the day before.
Drinking two protein shakes before heading out for his morning jog, Toby’s surprised to get such an early call from Coach. He takes it in stride as his heavy footfalls pound onward. “Yo Coach, wazzup?”
Already in his office, the Coach smirks at how nonchalant his newest wrestler has grown as he bulked up. “Nothing, nothing. I know your dress rehearsal is today so I just wanted to say ‘break a leg.’”
Toby trips up in shock, thick brows furrowing in concern, “B- But Coach? I thought you wanted me to stick in the play? Said it was good for me?”
Fighting back a smirk at just how effective a wrestler he’s made if Toby can’t remember even the most common of theatrical terms, he apologizes, “Come now Tobe, you know that means good luck. It’s a switch-em-up. Them actor-folks think it’s bad luck to say good luck, y’know that.”
Laughing at forgetting that, “Ahh like MacDuff!”
Toby is a success beyond measure. “Right, just like that, boy. So, I’ve been thinkin’ about your place on the team. Gonna have the boys vote on it ‘course, but how’d you like to be Team Co-Captain.”
Having only just returned to his jog, Toby stops dead in his tracks once more, heart racing. Team Captain. His biceps pulse larger to his sleeves limit. His underwear would tear to shreds if he wasn’t already commando. Instead his athletic shorts reveal his instant hardon themselves. The cleft of his pecs are as clear as his nipples as his breathing stretches the fabric of his shirt enough to make it sheer.
Then he realizes, when did he even join the team, “B- But coach? I’m not even..?” No, he for sure is? What is he if not a wrestler?
“Don’t worry too much ‘bout it Tobe. You just focus on rehearsal and we’ll talk after. Callin’ a special training at about 7 PM. Remember, break a leg.”
With that, Toby jogs at an even better pace down the road, buff chest held higher from pride if not from his spine creaking longer and his shoulders spreading wider. There’s certainly a skip in his step as he rounds the block back to his apartment complex before bolting up the stairs back to his place. Meaty fists cutting through the air of a stairwell only he and Cal use, he yanks open his usually unlocked front door and shouts for his bro.
“Caaaaaaaaal!”
“Bro shhh! You know the neighbors asked us to chill a little!”
Before Cal can get another word in, Toby throws his sweaty arms around a waist thin perhaps to him alone. A waist that not a month ago would have had him drooling for its overwhelming size and muscular density. Now the brute lifts him in the air with ease and spins with excitement.
“Dude! Coach just said they wanna make me Co-Cap!”
Grinning, Cal feigns surprise, “Y’don’t say? Any idea who suggested it, Big-T?”
Staring blankly, mouth hanging ajar, it takes a few moments for the idea to spark and his eyes light up. “Bro?” His dumbfounded confusion turns into a grin.
“Bro.”
Spinning once more as his chest widens enough to finally ruin one of his few remaining shirts, Toby squeezes Cal even tighter. “God I can’t wait to captain alongside my best bro.” Vibrating with excitement, Cal grappled against him, his heart racing like it’s life and death. Just like in the ring. His eyes fall on his best bros lips, “Fuck dude. I could kiss you!”
With a sharp gasp as Toby squeezes him tighter than life, the wrestler looks up to find Toby’s eyes hungrily staring. Hazy with need as his own eyelids droop, Cal meets him with a question, “Why stop there bro?”
Before a second passes Toby’s mouth is on his neck, tasting his sweat, feeling the sharp curve of his carved jawline as his tongue feels the scritch of his sandpapery cheeks. And then his lips find purchase, and as they do his face begins its final changes. His already impressive beard thickens as it scratches against Cal’s face.
His nose cracks bent before reshaping a couple times over as his skin loses whatever softness remained from a regimen from a life now forgotten. Scars scratch into his face from victories he can almost remember as he feels the shocking sensation of one of his ears puffing up from a far more recent injury. Whatever style remains in his once-deliberately coiffed hair dissipates as it flops onto his head lifelessly and perpetually greasy.
All the while he keeps breathily grunting and moaning as he leads Cal to their couch and falls onto his back. Cal giggles as much as a baritone’s able in between pecks as the sofa creaks and starts to give, unable to bear their overwhelming load. Feeling the lightning rod of Toby’s need poking into his abs, Cal steals a beat to sit up and once more take in the intense hazy need filling every inch of his soon to be co-captain’s face. No thought in his head besides ‘why Cal stop?’
Apparently coquettish despite his otherwise masculine demeanor, Cal puts his hand under Toby’s jaw and clenches slightly, grinning at the massive man moaning with need at the action. “Bro I think we should bone later, you don’t wanna be spent addressing the boys for the first time!”
Groaning as he doesn’t hear anything but Cal saying not now, the ‘actor’ throws his head back in annoyance and frowns. Struggling to cross his arms yet again, he gives up and instead reaches towards Cal and rubs his calloused hands up and down the wrestler’s thighs. Biting his scarred lip as he feels his cock edge close to coming hands free, Toby whines as Cal straddles his waist, “Fuck bro you got me all riled up on purpose…”
Pushing up off Toby’s chest, happy to get a handful of his meaty pecs, Cal dismounts and adjusts his own visibly tighter shorts. “Look at you! And you say you’re not that smart dude,” turning back with a wink he heads off to the gym and leaves Toby to attempt to study his script before a rapidly approaching dress rehearsal.
It takes a full hour for the man to think about anything but sex with his bro, but after at last doing so he pulls out a script stained with sweaty handprints and food. Overnight his theater coach emailed him to say not to worry about all the word parts, apparently he’s just gonna focus on the wrestling part.
This, he’s more than happy to hear. No sense in him worrying to remember dumb fake words like morrow or acquit. He’s no acquitter, that’s for sure. Instead he focuses on the match he’s got with Claude. Sure, it’s just a practice today, but he wants to go all out. His theater coach was pissed at him for whatever reason last time and Toby needs to prove him wrong.
Struggling into his latest singlet, Toby makes his way to the Fine Arts Building with haste that has been quite lacking for his previous sojourns to the school. Thinking of this rehearsal as a match rather than some laborious play has done wonders for the man. And a match it certainly is to be.
Handled with the care of an explosive, fair given the power within those biceps, there’s a tech stationed at the entrance to lead him backstage. Everyone gives him a wide berth and a kind smile as he’s led, perhaps concerned that one of their department’s stars has had some kind of a mental break. Their shy grins are often replaced by a tight grimace when he gets near enough to sniff.
Led to a changing room where he stews in his still pent-up state from not getting some earlier, Toby watches Scene I with disinterest. Impatiently bouncing his meaty leg as he sees some tiny man in a singlet that must be the chump he’s going to be wrestling for, Toby frowns.
“That fucker’s tiny!” Are they treating him like some kind of joke? Eye twitching, his ire changes targets and he clenches his jaw when he sees Claude saunter onto the stage with his own petty irritation. That’s his challenger. Quickly busting through a few stretches to prepare for the match, he starts hopping to raise his heart rate. Doesn’t need to be on his A-game to beat that little nerd but he’s not going to leave anything out of the ring.
Hearing the scene end, Toby’s poor stagehand leads him to the wings to await his cue. Slightly distracted from breathing in his musk even before Toby started deliberately working up a sweat, the tech is struck woozy as they get in position backstage. Too confused to question the stance that makes it certainly seem like Toby’s about to pounce, when the new comedically twinkish Charles rushes off stage with a “break a leg!” to Toby, the stage hand barely remembers to tell him that’s his cue.
In the end it wasn’t strictly needed as Claude’s nervous eye-contact was more than enough to call the match to order. Toby charges the man who is already cowering in place “You’re supposed to lose you fucking animal!” He whisper-whines as Toby’s meaty fists find purchase.
As fuckin’ if he’s gonna choose to lose. He’s the best wrestler this stage has ever seen. If he’s alive it is to win. To dominate. And so he does with ease and aplomb. If Toby himself was handled like a ragdoll in his bygone first spar with Cal, Claude is thrashed like a plushie.
Legs flung through the air with a single one of Toby’s arms, he is then yanked back towards the stage floor with an unpleasantly loud boom. Pinning the moaning actor to the stage warmed by spotlights, Toby waits for a count that never comes. Hearing nothing but stunned silence, he starts doing it himself.
Slamming his padded fist into the stage he shounts a countdown, “One!” his chest heaves with excitement, pushing his singlet to new extremes as he weighs heavier on Claude’s crumpled form. “Two!” He feels his cock twitch against the lycra, not an infrequent occurrence when he’s on the precipice of victory, but this one feels special as a pre stain seeps visible. “Three!” He takes in the reeling face of his defeated foe with a wide grin before pushing himself to standing with impossible ease, raising his arms in victory.
The handful of actors and extras that were supposed to share the stage with him cower in the wings. Still they’re hesitant to return to the stage where the wild man who charged their lead still stands. Claude continues whining on the ground and Toby starts to feel a little confused. “What’s the problem? You guys wanted me to wrestle, yeah? Y’all’re looking at me like I just said Mac-” everyone gasps in fear, “guffin or whatever.”
Tremors of cast and crew saying ‘Jesus Christ, he almost named The Scottish Play’ in the audience sends Toby’s single remaining thespian neuron firing. Eyes light with the now infrequent feeling of him remembering something, he can’t help but speak it aloud, “Ohhh! Wait! I got it!” His innocent grin grows wider, “It’s MacBeth! Right?!”
Someone cries in agony as the wrestler is expedited from the stage. He doesn’t know why, nor does he really care anymore. Shoot he’s already forgetting whatever bizarre situation just happened. Weirdest wrestling ring he’s ever been in, that’s for sure.
Final growth spurt oncoming, Toby shrugs with a grunt as some nasally dweeb shouts “And don’t come back!” as he scratches his sore chest and begins his way to the gym for wrestling practice.
The final walk away from a building that’s apparently for art or something is a blur. His mind is instead focused on recalling the years and years of memories of doing what he actually does best washing over him. Wrestling and winning. Muscle groups surge even further with strength as he recalls countless victories, months spent in the gym bulking up, cutting to stay in his weight class, and sparring with Cal until it devolves into fucking.
That’s what bros are for.
By the time he arrives at the gym the vote is obviously a formality. The only reason he wasn’t captain the previous years was simply a matter of interest, Cal barely got him to sleep with how focused he was on the olympic trials. These days he’s only sticking around on the college team to help out with Cal and to otherwise hang with his best bro.
Sauntering up on stage next to Coach, only taking a moment to slap Cal’s ass as he walks by, Toby smirks as he looks out across his team. Can’t wait to whip them into shape and make this program a powerhouse now that he’s already proven himself the greatest at every turn.
Cal goes up to perform a speech for the pair of them about the year that is to come and the effort it is going to take to be the best. Toby tunes it out as Coach instead whispers in his ear. “Glad to have ya Tobias. Don’t know what you were ever thinkin’ struttin’ on a stage. Look what puttin’ all that effort into your body- into your sport led to.”
Having absolutely no idea what Coach’s referring to, Toby just turns with a confused look to his superior. Coach just smirks and ruffles his hair, feeling as it retracts into a short buzz cut, delighting as Toby finishes hardening into the greatest wrestler he’s ever trained. “Don’t you worry ‘bout it kid. You just focus on the gold.”
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Jim or as his mother would call him little Jimmy was begrudgingly AVERAGE at anything and everything and at the age of twenty five it was starting to get on his nerves. Not because it was causing him problems directly or that it was mentally taxing. It was bothering him because at this point all of his peers from high school and college had already moved out, moved on from the small town life. Whereas he was stuck with a simple office job, no relationship and a hell of a lot of self esteem issues. Not to mention living at home with his mom who insisted it was all fine, hell even encouraged it. With no one to push Jim out the nest, of course he would never try or learn to fly. He just moped about what it could have been, stashing back some money here and there just in case though.
(Jim)
He had just gotten home from work! Another droll day at the office, where he accomplished nothing but busy work and kept doing the same routine. He couldn’t even explain it to you if he tried what he did, he needed adventure, something, anything to change but he didn’t want to be the one to do it. He wanted someone to do it for him.
That's just what was getting ready to happen, it was late, he had to stay longer to organize some different files. His mom was out for some wine and book club and he had a microwave dinner calling to him. His clothes, disheveled and slightly unbuttoned, belt taken off and he was ready for the rest of it to be gone but food called his name. Just as finished starting the microwave he heard a loud knock on the door. Firm, sturdy, and from what he heard sounded like authority, it was enough to make him jump.
“Coming, who's there?" It was late but Jim was still a white man, he had no understanding or concept of fear beyond the sudden noise. No one would be coming to do untoward harm or with malicious intent. Not here, not to him, why would they? He walked to the door, not even waiting for them to reply or answer him. He didn’t even look through their peephole. As the door swung open a man spoke.
“Hey, Its Marshall, town sheriff, was doin neighbor check ins, you were on our list to hit tonight!” His voice was deep, southern. Not stupid but definitely slow. Sheriff Marshall was a silver fox daddy. A built body held back by a tan uniform that begged for release. A beard that would put any man's head of hair to shame with how full it was. His voice, his eyes were all deep with authority, holding attention until you were dismissed in some manner. There was also this scent, this smell, this MUSK that started to slowly waft, piercing any barriers, and every sense inside and out of Jimmy.
It was heavy, earthy, drawing the office worker in, making him more susceptible to the upcoming plans of the Sheriff. He couldn’t stop himself from taking another deep whiff, his face scrunching up, because it was almost foul with how overpowering it was, sweat from a hard day's work mixed with natural BO, but the more he breathed in, the more addictive it got. The more agreeable, and open he became, saturating his mind, his body. Becoming a plaything for someone else…. The Officer.
“Oh sheriff, please come in? What has got you goin door to door checking in on us? Something happen?” The way he spoke sounded slightly cautious, maybe Jim actually was nervous, or more likely, he wanted to seem innocent even though he had no crime other than jaywalking that he had committed.
“Suspicious activity, something about strangers being spotted lurking around peoples houses, just coming by, asking what everyone has seen or heard. If they have seen or heard anything?” he walks in, moving right into the living room. He looks out the windows, pulling the blinds apart like he's looking for something, or someone. Jim is offset by all of this, maybe he should be more cautious, maybe he should be worried about something. Why would the sheriff be looking around like that?
The Sheriff quickly scratched the back of his neck, exposing his underarm, releasing a quick, strong blast of his musk discombobulating Jim. His mind is unable to focus, still nervous. He would just put that energy elsewhere, ramble, yes he would ramble!
“Not able to say much, I mean I feel like if there was someone skulking around Ruth or Gladys, our lesbian old lady neighbors would have brought it up to us,or said something. I mean you know how nosey old women are right? They watch from their windows and porches, like to talk gossip . I mean maybe they even called you?” he was word vomiting, Marshall took this time to find the recliner, one that Jim’s dad used to sit in. His legs spreading wide apart, Crotch on full display, bulging out of his tight uniform. His arms rested easily.
Jim wasn’t expecting that, he was taken aback, his word vomit caught in his throat as something he wouldn’t touch was commandeered by basically a stranger… Not a stranger, it was the sheriff, maybe he was tired and he just needed a rest…. Maybe? That was out of nowhere for the young man to think. Why would he argue with himself?
“It wasn’t a call from them, several other residents I’m not able to reveal or identify made the complaints and comments, I'm just here doing my job, come sit, lets talk this through!” His voice lies so easily, like second nature and as Marshall points to the floor beneath him when he says sit. His finger feels just as authoritative as his voice, his eyes, his entire demeanor. More so with everything added together but Jim wasn’t some dog, he wasn’t a kid, he definitely wasn’t the sheriff’s kid. This was all just a little bit weird. No matter how aggressively heavy the musk in the area was, or how … intriguing he found the attractive man… attractive where did that come from.
“I’m fine standing Marshal, can we make this brief, I'm starving!” It's not a question, he is trying to make this more informal, offset this status quo that was just created. Rushing him out, calling him by his name, not officier, not sir.
That upsets the sheriff, “it all started so smoothly” he thinks “I mean the idiot freely welcomed him in, none of the neighbors were watching, his family wouldn’t be home anytime soon. Hell the slight push in his mind, and the deep heavy thick musk didn’t cause any fuss, he was already so openly pliable, did the officer misstep? Was sitting in something that boy defined as his fathers too much and made him start questioning everything?” All of these thoughts were popping in the Transformers mind. Would his time of prepping and planning for this be a waste and he’d have to discard this boy and erase his memory of his encounter?
Sheriff Marshall was special, he and his family for generations have held not just political or social power. No, they held magical power, influence over the ancient horny magics that make up our world. Primordial, lustful and unstoppable especially in the hands of an experienced caster, and the sheriff was experienced, he held this town in a firm grip, morphing and changing its people into his perfect playthings. Sometimes just a slight adjustment to the criminals, of course if he wanted to change them for the better…. But that change had to come with something sexual otherwise the magic wouldn’t do it. It’s why the town they all lived in had such a high density of queer people.
Whether it was attaching manners, proper ways of speaking and attitude to amazing blowjobs and an addiction to cocks, or with keeping their hands only to themselves unless they were pleasing a man who demanded respect. They were all sexual, its the only way his magic could function or work, trust him he tried at first to do without. But at the end of the day the changes worked how they worked, and it was lonely doing it on his own, Samuel Marshall needed help, he needed a son and that's exactly what he was going to get today! By pure unadulterated horny force.
“Brief? There's nothing brief about this! Now be a GOOD BOY and SIT!” The words echo in the air, a strange heat, a PULSE rakes through Jim’s body, his mind shuddering as he feels the need to listen, to obey! The word GOOD BOY banging around in his head, making it feel good to do that, he should always listen to those in charge, and who was more in charge then a sheriff? He goes to do what the officer said, but he doesn’t follow where the man's meaty hand is pointing, he sits down on the couch. This makes the Sheriff mad, his face fully grimacing, disappointment clear, his fingers snap before Jim has a chance to speak, to ask what’s going on.
“I said BE A GOOD BOY AND SIT!” As he yells this, his pointing finger glows and so does Jim’s forehead, that heat from before rises, becoming unbearable. His mind aching and burning as he feels his body, not in his own control, slump to the floor, landing him right at the officer’s boot! Musk flowing through the air encouraging this obedience, fueling this pulsing burning. His face right next to it, it feels so much better to listen, Jim’s cock starts to get hard just doing that but his mind, his face, all say a different story. Wide eyes, staring up at the man commanding him in fear and worry. Those words now loudly echo in his brain, bouncing around in his mind and where they land they plant roots that slowly take over. His cock now leaking precum in his slacks as he feels both terrified and aroused.
“What… how? Why can’t I move?” He manages to ask but The Sheriff just shooshes him, the silence settles over his lips before he knows it. His body, his lips listening, obeying LIKE A GOOD BOY. it makes him grind his hips against the floor, moaning and humming in pleasure. He was acting like some horny dog humping the floor in heat, unable to stop himself from getting off on this insane situation. He needed to remember who he was, what he was attracted to, big, massive MUSCLES AND HAIR.
“Don’t worry about that little head of yours, it won't matter to you in a bit! I want to thank you for COMING OVER TO MY PLACE. It has EVERYTHING WE NEED FOR A GOOD TIME!” As he says the words the townhouse they're in starts to melt away, quickly rebuilding itself into the officer’s manor. His family’s generational home, seeped in magic and horny debauchery. No longer a middle class homey living room, now in the middle of a robust study, with books lining the walls, a fireplace waiting to roar with flames and Jim's face deep in an ornate rug with the cops boot right above his face. This was much more private, with how much moaning and groaning Jimmy would be doing they needed it, now the fun could really begin.
“Now hand me your ID. I wanna make sure we're getting this right!” His hands move on their own, going into his back pocket, taking his wallet out and holding it up for the gruffer man to grab. Again obeying sent a thrill through his body, a deep heat pulsing making his grinding get faster. It makes Sheriff Marshallsmirk as he sees it take root. He snatches the wallet, pulling the ID unceremoniously and discarding the rest of the contents to the floor. He looks at it over hemming and hawing, the entire time jim is unable to look away. The longer he stares at this man, this pinnacle of masculinity, of authority. The harder he finds it to look away.
He has always been straight, never even once questioning it in his mind. Sure he could tell guys were attractive or physically intriguing but he would never give them a second glance. But his eyes stuck on Samuel Marshall, the boner that refused to go down while he listened and obeyed him AND the drool falling from his lips made it clear something was different. There was something about the broad beefy shoulders, the deliciously big, bulging slabs of pectorals and strapping biceps that made the fabric of his uniform stretch that made the formerly straight office worker…. Horny.
Then you take in the exposed body and facial hair. Jimmy had never been into hair on women, it was gross, too masculine. But the idea of it rubbing against him, scratching his skin as the Sheriff grabbed him by the sides of his head and pulled him into a deep all consuming kiss… WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE THINKING..... His massive forearms and meaty hands held him just right, pressing deeply against his body as he fully surrendered and melted into the stronger, better man. THE IDEA OF HIS HANDS MOVING LOWER DOWN HIS BACK, LIGHTLY PALMING HIS ASS BEFORE GRIPPING BOTH CHEEKS! That thought alone snaps some sense into Jim… his ass? He had never even thought of it in a sexual way. He tried to beg the man to stop, plead with the handsome gruff DADDY but all his words came out as a muffled mumble or moan.
“Oh dear, Jim Henderson, age 26, only five foot six, seems like you were made to be a runt!” His voice sounds so disappointed, that hurts more then the things he said, you don’t want to disappoint him.
“No worries though, we're gonna fix you right up SON!” The word hits you like a brick through a window. Your mind breaking in fractal patterns as his musk, so much stronger down at his feet, overwhelms you. SON? SON? But Jim had a dad, this man couldn’t be his DADDY. No matter how much he wanted to submit to him. To feel him explore every aspect of his body, his beard tickling his face, neck and all the way down to his ass as this DADDY peppers his body in kisses. The thought alone is crazy but Jim’s mind latches onto it.
“There’s that light struggle, let's fix that first. SON, LICK MY BOOTS CLEAN! Each lap of that tongue is going to cause that pathetic resilience to slip away till nothing is left!” His body moved on its own, his pants and underwear absolutely already ruined from the amount of precum he was leaking, the weird gay fantasies he was having and all the obeying, now… now it was like he was right on the edge as he moved his face to start licking the Sheriff’s boots. They weren’t filthy, but after a long day on patrol they had dirt, dust and grime. He tried to hold himself back. His neck and shoulders were tight, tense but eventually that familiar MUSK and PULSE overwhelmed his will.
The way he was nose and mouth first to Marshall's shoe made the cop laugh. Jim's face had the look of disgust as he took long licks across the leather, his mind numbing with each one, throat wanting to gag as he did it. It made Samuel frown, a bit of anger rising, I guess his boy would need more initial changes then he thought. The taste of his hard work should get the boy going, not gagging.
“That's it Son, keep licking, every speck you clean off my boot with your tongue, the hornier it makes you. The hornier you are, the more eager you are to clean my boots with your tongue, it’s YOUR FAVORITE THING!” The words echo and bounce, Jimmy’s licking becomes feverish, his hands moving on their own accord grabbing onto one of marshall’s legs to pull the boot closer. The small parts of him that remain, the parts that are shrinking and breaking rapidly try to pull away but its no use. After his left boots clean he dives into the right, mouth gently kissing the boot before making out with it.
With the resilience gone, the next thing to naturally go was Jimmy's overly complicated, boring life. Unfulfilled relationships, boring sex with women and a terrible job. Replaced now with deep seated daddy issues, a need to please and serve his father. The idea of older hotter men dominating him and a deep addiction to musk that would never leave him. But so much had to be connected together, so many empty voided spots in his mind demanded to be filled and magic had a way of doing it.
It's crazy how the mind, when something gets lodged into it, will suddenly start making new connections. Little Jimmy here was told he would LOVE cleaning the boots, every speck making him horny, that it be his favorite thing. But kinks, obsessions, really anything SPREADS once its lodged deep into the psyche. Now Jimmy can’t help but wonder if worshipping his new Daddy’s feet will feel just as good if not better then the shoes. If the musk, this naturally masculine, heavenly odor coming from his true superior will always taste this good, and what every part of him will taste like. Images of his face being shoved into the boots, forced to take in that ripe scent till its all he can smell inside and out, the socks being shoved into his open mouth to silence him when they’re fucking in public.
“God you really are meant to be my boy” Marshall snaps his fingers and suddenly Jimmy stops his worship, mind and body waiting for his new instructions.
“Here comes my favorite part, see if you're going to be my son, you gotta look and act the part, so lets change these details here BOY!” Marshall pokes at the ID repeatedly before throwing it on the ground. He stands up, picking his prize right off the floor after, his arms underneath his boys. A small pulse emanating from them, the clothes Jim was wearing slowly turned to ash leaving him in nothing. The sheriff looks him up and down, taking as he does, circling him like a shark does prey.
He already knows he wants him taller, a loud snap is heard as suddenly Jimmy’s legs elongate, his arms become more gangly, his torso stretches higher. His spine snaps and pops till he’s at a solid six foot. His weight makes him look like a tall skinny nerd, something that would have to be remedied very soon.
The boy's ramrod cock is nice, just about six inches hard but it could be bigger. But the rest of him is average or below. Skinny fat, average height and average face. Jimmy wasn’t someone people could pick out in a crowd, or remember in the back of their mind. This would all change, no one would be able to forget who he was. The boys eyes tried to follow his daddy, mouth openly drooling as he looked the sheriff up and down waiting for his next order. Waiting for the final parts of himself to be consumed, to be recreated into his daddy’s perfect son.
The sheriff moves in, his hands go to the boy's torso, rubbing up and down the sides of Jimmy. As his hands trail past where his love handles were, they were still there somewhat, just less obvious. Jimmy can’t help but moan as his body pulses and the fat on his mid section starts to melt off of him. As his mouth opens, the sheriff moves his own onto his son, claiming his mouth. It's passionate, it's fiery, it's all consuming, taking the leftover parts of the old him, making more room for changes and filling him with a new need, an addiction for his new father.
As the younger Jimmy slowly starts to give up, give in his body starts to age, slight wrinkles appear on the skin as he goes from 26, to 27. Then at 28 his hair starts to thin a little, The Sheriff’s hands briefly make their way up and with a quick comb of his fingers it shortens further into a military crop. At 29 as they pull a way to breathe, both men panting, strings of saliva still connecting their lips, Jim's lips plump up, his face restructuring, his jaw line becoming sharper, more angular like some comic book super hero. His nose went from button like to incredibly strong, wider. His eyes became this perfect green and his brow bone extended giving him the final touches to make him look like a dumb ex jock turned cop! When he finally hit 30 Jimmy lunged his own mouth at his new fathers, his hands grabbing the sides of his dad's face to pull him in for a kiss. So eager to feel his lips, his tongue again.
Samuel pushes more magic into his son, his hands trailing his body leaving a smattering of hair, his chest exploding with muscles becoming perfect slabs of meat. His shoulders broadening, back tensing as they become over developed. His biceps bulge, arms getting stronger and more vascular as the kiss heats up. His new meaty hands unbuckling his fathers belt in a frenzy, eyes closed totally lost to lust. His son's new torso firm's up, a six pack of abs cobbling themselves together before leading down to cum gutters that make any faggot swoon looking at him. He was incredibly top heavy now, barely standing up straight, Officer Marshall would have to remedy this next with his favorite part.
It's when it gets to his son's cock and ass that Samuel Marshall breaks the kiss, one hand grabbing at his ass the other gripping his cock. He looks at this younger version of himself he has started to create, a hungry wolf's grin, he already gave him a kink for worshipping his boots, accidentally created one for worshipping his feet and musk. Now he has made him addicted to him and older, it was time to tie arousal to his father, pleasing and worshipping him and of changing the people of this town. He would be just like his new father, dedicated to protecting and serving… just not the community. Serving their kinkiest, horniest fantasies. To make him more similar he’d have to give jimmy a new name
“That's it boy, whimper moan and beg, you can feel it LITTLE SAMMY!, that need in those thick delicious deputy cheeks of yours. A need, a hunger for me and my cock!” The new name hits him hard and fast. If he really was going to be Samuel Marshall’s son, his mini me,then they should share a name right? It's a piece of information that completes the fantasy. Then his father’s fingers dig into his son’s tight ass. Magic pulsing through it making what little fat and muscle the previous office worker had jiggle. Pounds of muscles and fat pour into him, nerve endings get incredibly sensitive, and his once virgin hole starts to wink and become uncontrollably hungry. Until nothing but a hungry irresistible bubble butt.
Officer Marshall moves behind his son, quickly snapping his fingers and his own clothing dematerializing. A heavy twelve inch cock springs free leaking pre, slapping against the newly minted ass. Wedging itself against the cleft of his son’s cheek, grinding in seesaw motions as both hands grip the above average penis on Sammy Jr. The boy cant help but whine and moan, thrusting and grinding back causing his cock to fuck his dad’s hands.
“Oh you're almost there, you're almost perfect, those thighs are catching up to your ass quick, must be all those squats I made you do!” He can’t help but laugh and tease, Sammy’s whining and moaning getting more animalistic, his thighs packing on muscle, his thrusting getting stronger as it does, his calves are next as they carved themselves into perfect diamonds and then his feet become insanely wide size 13’s. It only hits The Master Transformer Sammuel Marshall now that he made his boy shut up and never let go of it, he lets go of that command and immediately his son is a moaning mess.
“PLEASE, DADDY… DADDY MAKE ME PERFECT, MAKE ME JUST LIKE… fuck your hands feel so good! IM SO CLOSE… MAKE ME LIKE YOU!” His voice is panting and yelling as he keeps fucking himself stupid, his hole being teased, unable to get the head of his fathers cock in there yet.
“All you had to do was ask son!” Sheriff Marshall pulses his son’s cock, with each gliding, pre covered stroke it begins to lengthen from six inches till its a massive 12, his balls, so tight so heavy are begging for release as they drop down to heavy bull nuts, filled with literally all of Jim’s previous life, the memory of him across the universe. It was all ready and waiting to be spewed out in load after load of cum but his father wanted the moment to be big. His son’s eyes go rolling back, on the verge, the edge, he steps back, leaving his son’s cock hands free before positioning his own.
His massive flared head slowly, effortlessly pushes into his son’s eager waiting hole. His eyes somehow going further back as the biggest, bestest (only) dick he has ever had slowly glides into him. Samuel Marshall Seniors hands are no longer stroking the dripping, drooling cock of his son, no they are firmly wrapped around his waist so he can control this. So he can control him. As each inch painstakingly glides into his son parts of his magic start to solidify. An entire life built around debauchery, sex and twisted love blossoms. As he gets to the halfway point, six inches he can’t help but stop, his son tries to thrust back but he won’t let him. He’s begging pleading
“Is this the point of no return, are you ready son? To be mine forever?” The questions are redundant, it's not his choice, not anymore. His mind has been scrambled beyond repair, forever craving his new dad’s cock, his cum, his musk and muscles. But he wanted to hear his boy say it, for him to give in to the horny, musky magic that had corrupted him. All of that affects the words that manage to make it out from his perfect dick sucking lips (Officer Marshall would have to use those later).
“Fuck me, please, yes, yes I’m yours… yours forever and ever!” In that moment of release, of giving up ever going back, The Sheriff releases his son's waist and feels him slam himself all the way back into his crotch. Taking his massive girthy dick like it was a sword going into a sheath. His son’s bubble butt recoiling from the force as they both let out moans. But Sammy junior is far from done, he slowly, gripping the closest thing to balance himself starts to pull off before slamming back again. Screaming yes daddy over and over again as he starts to jack hammer up and down on his father’s cock.
This was getting Sheriff close, he probably only had a minute before his sons tight, warm boy pussy milked him of all his cum he quickly made it so his son went to the academy, that he was his deputy, that they were inseparable.
“Fuck I love riding you, love sucking you… god I lOvE YOUU Daddy!” Sammy jr’s voice is hysterical as his brain is flooded with so many chemicals and magic. Both men are thrusting now, meeting each other in perfect rhythm. Breathless as they lose track of themselves, of time. It all comes to a head when The sheriff’s hands move from his son’s waist, one hand spanking his beautiful muscular ass shouting fuck your mine, your all mine, the other grabbing onto his shoulder.
Neither of them can hold it in, The sheriff shoots first, with one final thrust load after load fills his son’s tight warm hole. He loses count at six, his son isn’t far behind, his eyes fully glazed over, dumb dopey look pl;aster on his face as he shoots all of his prior existence onto the floor. His orgasm makes his hole squeeze around his daddy’s massive fuckstick, milking more and more from him toll both men fall down on the closest piece of furniture, exhausted, Sammy junior easily falling asleep whimpering as his father slowly pulls out.
Sheriff Marshall stands up, looking at his above average, thirty year old, six foot son. The perfect specimen, a younger him who shared his name, his views and most importantly his appetite. Tonight was successful, filled to the brim with fun, but there would be so much more for them to do together later. With a wave of his hands their bodies are cleaned up, so is the study, a tight fitting police uniform appears neatly folded on the desk for his son to find in the morning.
(Samuel Jr)
The rest of the night he would spend in his room, away from temptation, to recoup his energy and make sure he had enough tomorrow to teach Samuel Marshall Jr how to properly use his new lineage’s power. There’s very little the two of them would be stumped by in the future, and if things go really well, maybe the marshall family could expand outside their small town and into the city nearby. That could use plenty of cleaning up, so many young men misbehaving, needing to be CORRECTED by their strong musk and ancient horny magics.
Look, I get the importance of having a car in the suburbs. People need to get around, especially teens, they just feel trapped. And trust me I would have bought my son Kellan a car if I could have afforded it. I tried. I really did, overtime, extra shifts, but the money just didn’t come together. So, color me surprised when I wake up to Kellan screaming for joy on our front lawn. A green Jeep was just out there waiting for him. My son wrapped me in a hug, thanking me. I was too caught off guard to explain, a car that hadn’t existed the night prior was just there and attributed to me. My son was so happy I didn’t want to take his smile away, I played into it, as if I had put the car there.
He asked me if he could take it for a spin, just around the block a few times.
“Sure, I relented.” and that was my biggest mistake. I didn't know what people said about cars in the suburbs at that time: They were important, but they could also be traps. People's lives could become entangled in them.
I remember that first night, my son and I were sitting in the living room watching a movie, while my eyes drifted to our window. In the dark of night, the car sat there. Felt like it was watching us. I got up and closed the shades.
A week later, was when I first noticed that Kellan’s clothes were tight on him. He was passing me by in the hall and I stopped him. “Got you a new shirt,” I pulled on the hem. It looked like he had been going to a gym, it made me look like I needed to get to the gym.
Three weeks in, I was chilling with my neighbor Jan, sipping homemade mimosas in her backyard. A hot spring day that two single parents off work could enjoy by drinking the afternoon away.
“It’s great you brought Kellan a car. Here you had me thinking you weren’t going to make it.” She hit me softly on my thigh.
“Actually,” I reclined in my chair, “I didn’t buy that car, it just showed up.”
“Haha, stop joking. Tell me how you got it,” she asked.
“I’m serious,” I shrugged while taking a sip of my drink. The look she gave me. It was like the world froze. All I could hear were the birds in the distance and her sprinklers going off. She began to stand up, clearing off her table.
“You need to go.” She turned to me. No humor or merriment in her voice from our previous fun.
“What, why?” I asked and sat up.
“Cars don’t just come from nowhere. You need to get rid of that thing before it’s too late! Cars are parasites if you're not ready for them.”
And then she kicked me out, ending our fun times there. I walked back home and I thought about what she said. I got the overall point that cars were money sinks, gas, insurance etc. but wasn’t her reaction a bit over the top?
I was on the porch drinking the rest of my mimosa, when Kellan pulled up back from school. He hopped out of the car. I nearly did a spit take; my son was standing taller than when he had left. I wasn’t even discussing the few inches people claimed to grow a day. I mean he grew INCHES. He slung his backpack across his shoulder, locking his car, and strolling up to me real casually. It would have looked cool if his body wasn’t attempting an escape on his clothes. Kellan looked like he had been dieting on nothing but protein for years, though he’d only been gone for school hours.
“Sorry, I’m late. Graduation practice ran over time.”
“Graduation practice? Oh, were you asked to help with that?”
Kellan looked at me like I’d grown a second head, “Uh Dad, I’m in it. I graduate this year. Stop playing around.” His face turned into a smile as he clearly believed I had been passing off a joke. He made his way inside, putting his keys in the house key bowl. I got up and walked to the car, his keys in hand. Sure enough, a graduation gown was hanging inside.
I unlocked his car and got the gown out the back. Stopping for a moment, I looked over the interior of his car. New car smell, clean floors. The car looked like a car to me. Jan had really lost it over nothing. Heading back inside, I shouted up to my son, “Don’t leave this gown in the back!” I don’t know how he had it, as it was another thing I hadn't paid for, but I assumed it was for a prank. Kellan didn’t respond so I headed upstairs and knocked on his door. Still no answer. I turned the knob and walked inside. Kellan was gaming and had his big headphones on. Walking over I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hang on guys,” He turned to me, spinning his chair. That’s when I registered, he had changed his clothes. Nothing on but a loose tank top and sweats. More clothes that I hadn’t bought, but his arms were out on display and looked ready for action. “What’s up, dad?”
My attention drifted back, “You can’t leave this outside. I don’t know what you’re planning but someone could break into your car to get it.” I walked over to his closet to hang it up and to my shock, there was nothing but new clothes hanging in there. Shifting through, I couldn't recall a single piece he had ever worn, and they were all larger than his normal size. I placed the clothes in and got out of there.
The joke was on me. One week later, I was attending a graduation with parents I’d never met before coming up to congratulate me as if we’d been friends for years. Kellan taking photos and laughing with a bunch of guys I’d never seen at our house before. All sort of cut from the same cloth of athletic, gym going types.
Jan came around to the house again, but she didn't recall our last conversation at all. No fear, no anger, when I brought up her statement last time. She simply laughed it off and said I must have been drunk. Though when I mentioned again, I hadn’t bought the car and how it showed up her body tensed as she turned to peer out my window at the car. She then relaxed, but there was something unnatural about it. No sigh of relief or dropping of the shoulders. Rather the tension in her muscles let go, like a prey being forced to ignore its instincts. It unsettled me.
So much so, I decided it was time to get rid of the car. One weird coincidence was fine, multiple in succession was a pattern. I figured the best course of action was one of least resistance from Kellan, so I told him we could trade his car in. He told me he loved his car, BUT what freshly graduated young man was going to turn down the opportunity to get an even better car?
We got in his car and pulled out our driveway. Hard to recall what happened next. I think it was the radio playing Burn Baby Burn that started it all. My son reached over so casually to flick it off, but I noticed he was sweating. I told him to put down the windows. He tried, but they didn’t budge. Next, he tried to blast the A/C: nothing. Then I had a random thought to try and open the door. They locked. I heard faint sounds like pop rocks going or tiny crackles. Looking over, my son’s hands were growing on the steering wheel, flesh remolding, bones shifting. Kellan was in a full-on sweat. It wasn’t just his hands, his whole body was changing, muscles growing. The car began to smell like iron, as the temperature climbed, all pouring off Kellan’s body soaking into the vehicle.
“Pull over, Kellan!” I started. He couldn't respond, only looked at me as I saw his neck dancing, shifting muscles around, changes climbing into his face. I grabbed the wheel, but couldn’t move it, though the wheel turned regardless: The car was driving itself. It moves at a leisurely pace as my son’s growth went into overtime. His clothes split as his body busted out everywhere making every showing of skin more visible as the time went on. The car seat rocketed back as Kellan legs stretched out, feet splitting his shoes. The width of his shoulders spilled over the edges of his seats.
Then heat got to me and I passed out.
—
When I came too, I was standing outside, phone in hand. I was in the middle of a large park.
“Dad, take the shot,” a deep voice shouted to me. I looked through it and saw a young man sitting in front of his jeep. My memory came back to me. We were celebrating Kellan’s 26th birthday and graduation from his master’s program. How had I forgotten that? I snapped the photo, Kellan looked bigger than I remember, he must have been horking those post-grad college meals down. Strangely, I couldn’t recall how we had got out there.
After getting a few pics, I looked down at my shirt. There was a picture of a Jeep on it. I never fancied myself as a car guy, but it was there all the same. Maybe I was a car guy. I mean, what was life in the suburbs without a car? Cars were the life blood that kept our suburban living alive. No one understood that more than my son. Kellan’s car was his life; it took him everywhere he needed to go, college, home, the gym. It was like an extra part of him, and it wasn’t going anywhere.
His hardened statue form was now flesh. His petrified posture with his hand outstretched, regained feeling.
Only he would be unfortunate enough to be stuck in the same museum as Ares. He could feel the war god’s rage even on a higher floor. Ares had no god damn tack, letting his divinity run amuck. They each saw the same humans. Apollo didn’t see any viable candidates for Ares or himself. So, he was surprised, when he felt an insane burst of energy, then Ares’ presence vanished from the museum entirely.
Apollo, god of light, purity, and prophecy couldn’t divine himself out of a situation before Ares, out of all the gods? Kind of insulting, but at least the museum was peaceful. Days ticked on as Apollo waited for a movie star, or the dreamboat jock, or cool surfer to present as his body and spirit and free him. Handsome people passed by, but none gave his statue figure more than a glance. He wondered if his divinity had perhaps blinded them in some way to his presence because there was no reason for them not to stare at him. He was Apollo after all!
Then one day a family came strolling, and Apollo was uninterested. A husband and wife with their son trailing behind them. The boy was practically attached to his father’s hip as they strolled around the artifacts. There’s nothing bad about the family man. He was just so average. The way he stood and walked through the room reeked of unimpressive behavior. The T-shirt, the cargo shorts, the sunglasses raised on top of the man’s head. The father and son then stood before Apollo, gazing at his glory. Then the man yawned.
Apollo fumed quietly.
A tug on the dad’s shorts was all it took for him to understand his son wanted his sunglasses. With one swift motion the man had the glasses on the boy. Turning away, the father and son walked out, following the female. Apollo thought that’d be it of the annoying family, but soon he heard the pitter patter of footsteps heading back his way. The boy had returned, sunglasses on, poking his head into the room, before walking in and staring Apollo down. The god of light watched the tiny human wander closer, no doubt in awe of his beauty. Curious, as perhaps all humans were, the mortal got close to the display. He reached up putting his hand on Apollo’s outstretched one. The connection was instant. Body, soul, and divinity all reunited. As the god prepared to transfer his divine self, the boy disappeared. He didn’t run out or walk away. He was there one minute, gone the next. His clothes crumpled to the ground, as Apollo watched his salvation disappear.
A deep emptiness filled Apollo that immediately dispersed inside him and hollowed him out. It wasn’t metaphorical, Apollo sensed the inner makings of his marble vanish. There was then a voice.
“Uh, dad?” it asked. Freighted. Afraid.
The voice came from Apollo, not his mouth, or his head, but rather actually within him. Where the inner stone had been scooped out a mortal now filled him. Apollo’s body and soul were encased in his divinity. The mortal's name was Valentin López, his thoughts were fully accessible to the god now. There was no time for either to panic as the mortal began to change. The god could feel his power seeping to fill the body within him. Hidden from the world, the mortal grew within Apollo. The god could sense his limbs growing heavier as warm flesh filled him. There was no logical sense to what was happening other than divine power. Apollo’s divinity had been degraded to nothing more than a cocoon for his body and soul as it reshaped itself. He began to breathe as his chest moved and his nose drew in air after ages.
Cracks began to form over his smooth form as his divinity was continuously drained to a deeper part of himself. His chest slotted into place as his pecs filled up, with his abs matching the chiseled cuts. Glutes popped into bubbled perfection as the bulge filled in the front. Apollo not only felt it in his interior, but he also sensed his seed weighing heavy in his balls. There was motion and blood flowing to his cock once again. Rubble fell away, disappearing before hitting the floor. Skin was revealed, pristine and flawless as the statue it replaced. The carefully crafted and detailed clothing became as true as his flesh. Apollo emerged whole once again. The mortal’s body that had been trapped within Apollo had merged with the god’s handsomeness.
Reunited he enjoyed the embrace of the world again. Tragic for the museum to lose such a center piece of its Greek art. But the god of light had his soul and body once more and all had been restored to a state befitting a god. He hopped off the pedestal stretching, whirring back to life as a god as a security guard strolled it.
“Who are you?” The man jumped, eyes scanning the half-naked body before him, confused.
The god looked back, his glorious backside and behind on display. He could trace the guard’s attention as the man got lost on the rump ahead of him.
“Blinded by my ass?” A smirk twitched at the edges of his mouth. Good to be back, and to show people the light. “You’re going to walk out of here and forget you ever saw me.”
The guard nodded and walked out, his mind dazzled by divinity. Always a risk when encountering the god of light.
Apollo recognized in the new era his clothes were out of touch. He needed a new wardrobe or else more humans would clock him. His eyes flew to where Valentin’s clothes lay. A temporary fix. He removed his clothes, electing not to let them fade into light, and placed them on the abandoned pedestal. The museum deserved something to remember him by. Then he got dressed in Valentin’s clothes, the first thing the god wanted were the sunglasses. A lingering desire from the boy he once was…also they were cool. Then came the clothes. The shirt was a non-starter, but the briefs went back on. Unfortunately, they couldn’t slide up the entirety of the ass Valentin’s body now had. No worries there, mortals deserved a show. When Apollo tried for the jeans, with a bit of magic they conformed but also found a struggle with his ass.
“Valentin, you in here? You’re mom’s ready to…” Mr. López’s voice trailed off seeing Apollo get dressed. Took him a moment to register, Apollo was wearing Valentin’s outfit, except for the shirt left on the ground. The father pointed at it, then to the stranger that looked like a muscular version of his son.
“Oh, hey dad.” Apollo waved, nonchalant. The temporary magic in Valentin’s pants dispersed as if fell below his thighs, smaller once more. Apollo looked down disgruntled at his lower half and snapped his fingers to at least have his underwear fit. The white briefs morphed into boxer-briefs. Good enough. Apollo looked over at his body’s father. “Mind helping me get dress? There’s a whole world out there that needs some light.”
Mr. Lopez took a step forward, the protrusion from his crotch leading the way. He was going to dress the god and anything else Apollo desired.
My new hands. Thick, calloused, powerful. Gliding down this temple… his temple. This chest. I stared at it every meeting, always straining those tight shirts. My palm presses in and the pecs twitch back instantly, like they're learning who owns them now. I squeeze harder and the pecs flex hotter, denser, flooding heat straight down. Thick cock pulses heavy against my thigh, ready and leaking. Wait for your moment, boy.
His voice... No- my voice moans out, deeper every second. That same rumble that once commanded entire rooms now spills out filthy for its new master. It vibrates through this chest, spreading heat into every muscle. Fuck. My skin turns clammy, slick under my palms.
The thick, familiar man smell I used to steal secret sniffs of in the elevator… it’s pouring off me now. It fills my lungs, his lungs, and my head spins. Addictive. Mine. I drag my hands lower, pressing harder, smearing the slickness over every ridge.
Finally my cock. Pre was leaking everywhere. It had been charging up from all the smells, the twitches… powerful. As hard as it'll ever be. My hand remembers all the ridges, the veins. My mind will soon too.
I squeeze the base and it throbs back angrily, leaking more. Stroke. Another deep moan rips out. Louder, filthier. The body is mine to use now. Faster. The musk gets stronger, sweat dripping down the abs as I pump this c-suite cock like it’s always belonged to me.
Then-
The phone rings on the desk. Her name lights up the screen. Wife.
The old instinct kicks in hard — a reflex buried in these muscles, this voice. My hand freezes mid-stroke. The moan dies in my throat. For a split second the body tries to approach like it always did. Professional. Controlled. Straight.
Yuck
I fight it, breathing heavy, cock still twitching in my fist.
“Not anymore,” I growl in that deep voice.
The call keeps ringing.
Fuck it. I reach over, swipe ignore… then open the phone. Grindr. New profile. Already half-hard pics of this body, still glistening. Hunting for the first eager twink who wants to get ruined in the boss’s office.
It must've been the 10th day from when Rob and his boy first hit the road. Rob told Quinn that it was just a roadtrip, but the move from motel to motel chiseled even the always-happy Quinn. The good boy kept quiet about it, but Rob knew his son more than anyone. That look under the smile told Rob that Quinn was done. Rob was too…. but he doesn't even know if their home still exist anymore
Rob was, in his heart, a gay man. It was just a stupid drunken night 11 years ago. Then, nine months later, Quinn was dropped onto his arms as his mother quickly disappeared forever. Tough as it was, Rob raised Quinn well for a while. Then, the pandemic hit, and Rob was fired. Losing his job with two mouths to feed pushed him into desperation. The kind that made a man do things he couldn’t take back.
Now the mob was hunting him. They’d already asked around about his whereabouts. That was why they were holed up in another nameless motel a hundred miles from home — and why a kicked-in door and pistol whip to the head had dragged them back towards their old town.
=================
Rob woke up to thick rope biting into his wrists, surrounded by hulking goons in the dim warehouse light. Across from him, Quinn sat small in a metal chair, clutching his old stuffed bear like it could still protect him. The boy’s eyes were wide, trying so hard to be brave.
“Y-you don't have to do this. I can find a way to pay it all back!”
A heavy footstep thudded behind him. A massive hand engulfed his shoulder. The familiar deep voice sent ice down his spine. When the mob sent Marco, they weren’t looking for money.
They were there to punish.
“No. You tried. You failed.”
Authoritative. Dominant. The final word.
“M-marco, please. I-i-i could work. I-i can be a mule! Anything!”
The man behind Rob stopped for a moment. Pondering.
“Anything, huh?” The enforcer’s voice was a low, mocking rumble. “Two choices. I either do this to you, or your boy gets it.”
Rob froze. He looked straight at Quinn. He was gripping his toy; scared, intimidated. It should be an easy answer, but he knew what would happen to him. He heard the stories.
“One”
Rob's heart raced even faster.
Why am I even thinking about this? What kind of a father fucks up and then—
“Two”
No. No. No. No. It shouldn't end like this. They wouldn't do anything bad to Quinn, right?
You could just make another son
“Thre-”
“Quinn.”
The words threw out of Rob’s throat before he could choke it back.
“L-let Quinn take it.”
================
“Daddy, what do you mean?”
Rob was grief stricken already. He was faced with the choice all dads dread about…. and he chose the cowards route. The words were already spoken. He couldn’t force his mouth to take them back…. he couldn’t even look his son in the eye.
Marco chuckled, low and cruel.
“Pathetic.” The enforcer’s grip tightened on Rob’s shoulder. “I’ve known men who died for me.” He let the silence stretch, driving the knife deeper.
“And you wouldn’t even die for your own blood.”
Tears burned down Rob’s face. Quinn looked between them, confused and terrified, yet still trying so hard to be brave.
“I-it’s okay, Daddy,” Quinn said, voice small but steady, still clutching the worn stuffed bear. “I’ll be okay… right?”
Marco stepped forward, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. In his massive palm he held an enormous silver ring — far too big for any normal finger, thick and heavy-looking.
“If there’s anything the old Quinn needs to know,” Marco said, voice thick with mockery, “it’s that his daddy is a coward.”
He roughly grabbed Quinn’s small hand and forced the oversized ring toward his ring finger. For a split second it looked ridiculous — the band dangling loosely. Then, with a sickening warmth, Quinn’s finger began to swell. The flesh pulsed and expanded, bones subtly shifting as the ring slid down and settled perfectly against his skin, as if the finger had grown to fit it.
Quinn’s eyes widened in shock. “W-what…?”
A sickening heat bloomed from the ring. His ring finger throbbed, bones cracking and lengthening as the oversized band tightened perfectly into place. The digit thickened, veins rising like ropes under the skin. Quinn gasped, trying to yank his hand away, but Marco held it firm.
“It’s starting,” Marco growled with dark satisfaction. “Watch closely, coward.”
The heat surged upward.
Quinn’s forearm swelled next. The slender limb ballooned outward, muscles twitching and inflating with grotesque speed. Thin cords of muscle thickened into dense, vascular ropes. His wrist thickened, then the forearm itself — veins pulsing, skin stretching taut over rapidly growing mass. Quinn whimpered as the growth hit his elbow, then exploded into his bicep.
“Oh—oh god—!”
The bicep surged, peaking higher and higher, splitting into a thick, striated mound. The muscle kept swelling, forcing his sleeve to ride up and tear at the seams. What had once been a soft, boyish arm was now a powerful, veined pillar of meat — easily twice its original size and still growing. Quinn’s shoulder followed, deltoid flaring out like a boulder, ripping the fabric further as his traps began to rise toward his neck.
“Dad—Daddy it hurts— it feels—” His voice cracked midway through the sentence.
The growth spread across his chest. Pecs ballooned forward, heavy and thick, stretching his shirt until buttons pinged off one by one. His ribcage widened with audible pops, shoulders broadening dramatically as the transformation claimed more of him. Quinn’s back muscles flared out into thick wings of latissimus dorsi, forcing him to sit straighter, taller in the chair.
A warm, masculine musk began rising from his expanding body — clean at first, then richer, deeper, virile. It filled the air around him like raw power waking up.
He was already noticeably bigger — easily pushing six feet now and climbing.
His legs were next. Thighs thickened explosively, seams splitting along his pants as quad muscles surged outward. Calves ballooned into diamond shapes. His feet lengthened and widened, shoes groaning before the toes burst through the front. Quinn’s height shot up another few inches in a sudden spurt, the metal chair creaking dangerously beneath his increasing weight.
All the while, his mind was under assault.
Flashes slammed into Quinn’s brain — dark warehouses, the crack of guns, men kneeling in fear, stacks of cash, the taste of power. Ruthless orders barked in his own future voice. A deep, commanding presence that wasn’t his… yet felt intoxicatingly right.
No… I don’t want this… Daddy needs me… I’m a good boy—
But the new knowledge kept pouring in: family codes, betrayals, how to break a man, how to own one. A cold, dominant hunger began coiling in his chest. His free hand — now massive — clenched into his chair, crumpling its metal rest.
Quinn’s face was changing too. His jaw squared off, becoming heavier and more angular. Cheekbones sharpened. Stubble darkened across his cheeks and chin, thickening into a short, masculine shadow. His neck thickened into a powerful column, Adam’s apple prominent as his voice dropped mid-groan into a deep, resonant timbre.
“F-fuck… what’s happening to me…?” The words came out gravelly and authoritative, sending a shiver through the watching goons.
His eyes — still the same soft color at their core — now burned with a sharper, more dangerous intelligence. Old memories of bedtime stories and road-trip smiles flickered, fighting against the flood of mob violence and ambition. The two sides warred inside him, not fully merged yet.
By the end, Quinn rose from the broken chair at well over 6’7”, 280+ pounds of dense, hulking muscle. The shredded remains of his clothes hung off his massive frame like rags. The ring now looked perfectly proportionate on his huge finger — a symbol of his new station.
He rolled his enormous shoulders, cracking his neck with a sound like gunfire. His gaze slowly turned toward Rob.
For a moment, pure old-Quinn shone through — scared, betrayed, loving.
“Daddy…?”
Then the new presence surged again. A cruel, possessive smirk tugged at his thicker lips.
Marco laughed. “Welcome to the family, Enzo.”
The new presence surged forward. He stepped toward Rob, each footfall heavy enough to make the warehouse floor tremble. One massive hand grabbed Rob by the throat, effortlessly lifting him — chair and all — until his feet dangled off the ground.
“You sacrificed me,” Enzo growled, voice a deep, commanding baritone. “Your own blood. For what? To save your pathetic skin?”
He slammed Rob back down, the chair cracking under the impact. Enzo’s huge fist drove into Rob’s gut — not full force, but enough to knock the wind out of him and leave a deep, throbbing bruise. Another backhand across the face split Rob’s lip.
Rob gasped, tears streaming. The guilt was unbearable.
“I-i-i…” Rob tried stuttering out, but Enzo finished his sentence for him.
“I think you're a pathetic coward. A faggot that doesn't deserve to live.”
Enzo's huge mitts suddenly envelop Rob's throat. Yet it didn't crush Rob's windpipe like the crumpled metal chair promised. It was like the Quinn inside was waiting for Enzo's reply. A slow countdown where the final second meant death
“I’m sorry—” Rob choked out, voice reedy. Enzo still looked at him sternly.
Enzo dropped Rob onto the chair with a thud as Rob gasped for air.
Enzo's massive fist trembled. Old memories flooded back hard: bedtime stories, cheap motel smiles, that stupid stuffed bear.
“D-Daddy…?” The word slipped out in a softer tone, old Quinn bleeding through the deep voice. Tears pricked at the corners of his hardened eyes. The hand dropped away completely. “You… you gave me to them…”
Marco’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, voice low and goading. “Look at that. The old weakling is still there. Hesitating.” Marco smirked. “But you feel it, don’t you? That power. That hunger. Your cock’s already hard as steel. Godly needs.” Marco says as his hands palm Enzo's powerful cock. “This coward owes you everything. If you won't finish him, make him yours.”
Enzo’s breathing grew heavier. The massive bulge in his ruined pants throbbed visibly, thick and heavy. The war inside him raged — sweet, protective Quinn versus the ruthless Enzo. Truthfully there was one thing both sides agreed on… Rob needs to be punished — and punishment was Enzo's specialty.
A cruel, possessive grin spread across his thick lips.
“You’re right,” Enzo rumbled. “He’s been a bad boy.”
In one brutal motion, Enzo ripped away the remains of his own pants. His cock sprang free — enormous, veined, thicker than Rob’s wrist and already leaking. He tore Rob’s clothes off with zero effort, exposing him completely. Rob's small, hard cock sprung up already.
“Fucking faggot.”
Rob barely had time to whimper before Enzo spun him around, bending him brutally over the broken chair. The huge man’s weight pinned him down as Enzo lined up and thrust in raw.
“F-fuck!” Rob cried out, stretched wide by the scepter of his atonement.
Enzo didn’t go slow. He fucked like the boss he was becoming — deep, punishing strokes that made Rob’s body jolt. Each slam of those powerful hips sent shockwaves through both of them. Enzo’s huge hands gripped Rob’s waist hard enough to bruise, holding him in place like a toy.
As he fucked, the merge deepened.
He’s still Dad… still mine to protect…
But he betrayed me. He’s mine to own.
Old innocence cracked and burned away with every brutal thrust. Quinn’s gentle memories twisted into something darker, stronger — love fused with total dominance. Enzo’s pace grew even more savage, one hand reaching around to stroke Rob’s cock roughly, forcing pleasure through the pain. The rich, virile musk poured off Enzo’s heaving muscles, thick and intoxicating, marking Rob with every thrust.
“You’re going to take every inch, boy,” Enzo snarled, voice pure authority now. “No more running. No more cowardice. You belong to Enzo.”
Rob came first, sobbing and shaking. Enzo followed with a deep, animalistic roar, flooding him with thick, endless spurts as the final pieces of the old Quinn dissolved.
When Enzo finally pulled out, he turned Rob around and lifted his chin with surprising gentleness — a hint of the protector already woven in. The man staring down at Rob was fully merged now: brutally dominant, deeply possessive, and fiercely protective.
Rob, broken, used, and strangely relieved, could only nod.
Epilogue – Three Months Later
Enzo had risen fast.
The family whispered about the new underboss — young, ruthless, unnaturally strong. Deals closed without resistance. Rivals folded or disappeared. Marco now answered to him. No one outside the inner circle knew where Enzo had come from. And Rob was never allowed to see that side.
To the outside world, Rob was simply “Enzo’s boy.” Kept in a luxurious penthouse the family provided, never left alone, never allowed to want for anything. But in private, behind soundproofed doors, the lines blurred in ways only the two of them understood.
=================
The big flat-screen glowed with an old cartoon, colorful characters bouncing around with cheerful music and silly sound effects. Enzo lounged like a king on the oversized couch, his massive 6’7”, heavily muscled body sprawled comfortably in nothing but gray sweatpants. The faded stuffed bear sat tucked against his side.
Rob knelt between the thick pillars of Enzo’s thighs, head bobbing slowly as he sucked his son’s heavy cock with devoted, practiced care.
“Dad, look! This is the funny part,” Enzo said in that bright, boyish tone, eyes fixed on the screen even as his huge hand rested gently on the back of Rob’s head.
He let out a soft, genuine giggle — pure Quinn — as the cartoon played on. At the same time, his fingers guided Rob a little deeper. The warm, masculine musk of Enzo’s groin — clean but rich and heady from the day — filled Rob’s senses with every breath.
“Mmm… yeah, just like that,” Enzo murmured, voice warm and affectionate with a low dominant edge. “Keep on it, Dad. You’re doing such a good job.”
Rob moaned around the massive cock filling his mouth, saliva dripping as he worked the length with slow, worshipful strokes. The bright cartoon music mixed with the wet sounds of his sucking.
A boyish chuckle escaped him during a funny scene, but his next words carried heavier dominance. “Deeper, Dad. All the way. Breathe me in while you do it.” His hand pressed Rob down gently but firmly, letting the warm, potent musk surround him as the thick cock slid into his throat.
Rob’s eyes watered but he obeyed, taking Enzo as far as he could while the cartoon characters laughed onscreen.
As Enzo’s breathing grew heavier. He gently pushed Rob down further, holding him there for long moments during a quiet cartoon scene, then let him up for air only to guide him back again. The contrast was constant — innocent nostalgia mixed with raw, godly ownership.
When Enzo finally came, it was with a deep, rumbling groan that vibrated through his massive chest. Thick, heavy loads pulsed down Rob’s throat as the cartoon reached its happy ending. Enzo held him in place gently until every drop was swallowed, then carefully pulled him up into his lap.
He wiped Rob’s chin with his thumb, kissed his forehead sweetly, and tucked the stuffed bear between them.
“You did so good, Daddy,” Enzo whispered, voice soft and loving again. “My favorite toy.” Rob could only mutter out as he swallowed the tasty God-cum. “T-t-thank you Quinn — sir.’
Then the dominant side pressed close, lips brushing Rob’s ear with possessive finality.
“Keep being a good boy for your God every night. Because you're mine… and I use what’s mine.”
Enzo wrapped his enormous arms around Rob, cradling him protectively against his warm musky chest as another episode started. The cartoons played on while the hulking man held his father close — innocent boy and ruthless owner perfectly merged.
Do-yun Choi was squatting, adjusting his bulge ready to get to work as he watched people pass by the restaurant. He hadn’t walked into this place the stud he was now, but curiosity and all that.
Just an average college student trying to make the most out of the one day he could afford to get away from his studies. Not like he had any friends to spend it with. One of the annoying things about going to a small community college in your hometown was no chance to reinvent yourself. The local jocks had destroyed his reputation and others by deeming them as losers. Once you were an outcast in a small town, life was over, but the others were lucky to get away. Do-yun had to stay and deal with the ramifications, even going to school with some of those very same jocks.
Like the brunette and blonde terrors, Daniel Gibbons and Greg McFielder. A footballer and wrestler who tag teamed on their bullying growing up. All their dads hung out together doing stuff at golf courses or whatever. Both bulky boys who would sequester Do-yun by brawn alone, trap him in between their bodies, sometimes even crush him, and never in a fun way. On campus these days, they had outgrown the physical violence, and preferred to just talk shit, or shoot Do-yun annoyed looks if they passed by him.
Going to eat was more of a treat to himself, in spite of them. Do-yun would bite the bullet and risk passing by those lingering jocks or even their parents, hearing snickers or being eyed at. To put it in laymen’s terms, Do-yun had a sneaking suspicion when it came to him what people really didn’t like was…his ‘culture’. Yeah, that was the nice way to say it. The town itself was plain and boring. The status quo was king here. Never two prom kings, definitely not prom queens. It didn't matter if the best hometown players were black or brown they were never the captains and certainly not winning MVP when the season was over. Hegemony swallowed everything and forced people to conform and never question it.
Do-yun only allowed those reflective thoughts to pass his mind when he walked down the food strip, eyes scanning the typical McDonalds, Burger King, quick runs. Better than thinking about Marine biology. He may have loved it, but he refused to let his major have his free time as well. Besides, the collection of fast-food chains hammered home how samey the town was becoming. Do-yun’s stomach grumbled. He really didn’t want to do another late-night golden arches meal. He needed to actually sit down and get something good in his system. He deserved that much. For some reason he continued walking. Lord knows why. He already knew the chains in town; they had barely changed since he was little. This was the town and would always be the town.
The wind blew past his ear, as he heard a jingle. A wind chime. Do-yun turned on his feet, there were no wind chimes on the block. 19 years of his life in the town no freaking way. The old people were allergic to whimsical and fun things. Turned in a new direction, Do-yun spotted a place he hadn’t seen before. A restaurant nestled into the strip he had walked by. Blink and miss it spot. Do-yun walked up to posters on the windows with food items, but more importantly cheap prices. The lights were on, so he wasted no time stepping in.
“Hello?” He walked in not hearing anyone, the place was quiet and spotless. Looked as brand new as it smelt. He worried if he had walked in on someone forgetting to lock the door. There was no ‘Grand opening’ sign but nothing else could really explain that amazing condition. As for the sudden appearance, the place hadn’t been here last month when Do-yun treated himself to a meal.
There was a sign that read: Sit and Order. You will be served.
Do-yun found his feet walking to a booth to sit down, before he even registered it. Then he sat opening up a menu. One page, one item on the menu.
Do-yun Choi $28.99
5’7”, black hair, baby face, average to thin body.
This college student offers a fresh taste of a pure love for sea life and ocean exploring alongside his studious nature. A quick appetizer. Food, but make it nerdy!
“Huh?” Do-yun read the menu again. That was his name printed there with his physical traits and a description. No matter how long he stared, it didn’t change, he was really seeing it. He looked around wondering if anyone was secretly watching his reaction. Sorta sucked that he had such a stupid description.
Standing up he walked to the counter and slammed the menu down “Real funny guys. And I could be more than an appetizer!" He waited for someone to emerge out the back. Nothing but the register, utensils, and pens. Pissed off he reached over and grabbed one writing on the menu. If someone went through the trouble to mess with him, he was going to ruin their prop.
So, he rewrote it.
Do-yun Choi $48.99
6’3”, black hair, handsome face, beefy built body.
This college student offers a bulky fresh taste of a pure love for sea life and ocean exploring alongside his studious and muscular nature. A full meal. Group meal even. food, but make it a stud!
He laughed to himself, setting the pen down, satisfied. “That’s more like it.” He tucked the pen back into its holder. His written blue scribble on the page glowed as the fresh ink flowed upwards, latching onto the printed text and changing it. Soon Do-yun’s description became the new printed text. Do-yun jolted away seeing the new state of the menu. As he did, a heat thudded his body. He broke out in a sweat. His heart was working like crazy. There was a fierce pump within his body, his chest exploded out of his shirt. Two pecs ripped through his T-shirt just to sit pretty.
Over his left pec was a nautical tattoo, fresh ink seared into his skin as blue as the ink he had used on the menu. There was a pop as his knees and back cracked growing upwards. His back broadened shoulders being forced further apart as muscle poured into his frame. There were tears and rips across his jeans as his thighs got massive, entering skull crushing territory. Abs appeared on his body and deleted his flat stomach forever more. There was no one and done, his muscles kept expanding, drinking in power from no discernible source. Do-yun went beyond looking like a fit guy into a new territory. His body wanted to get bigger.
One minute his shoes were there the next, they were smashed into the ground, feet popping out of them. Large. Extended. Masculine. Even his socks were ruined. His glutes inflated, pushing against the seat of his pants. As for the front his balls swelled, his own seed beginning an insane production as his cock rudely took up more space.
“Ah!” he let out a yelp as a nipple piercing claimed his right areola.
The consistency of his face transformed, or rather matured. His eyebrows grew thicker, while his cheeks shredded fat. A face that naturally found its place on the neck thickening to support it and the new body taking shape. The change was overwhelming to Do-yun firing off all pleasure centers as he passed out. The last thing he heard was his clothes continuing to tear as his body broke free.
When Do-yun Choi awoke he was naked. Night was over and a new day had begun. His heavy body pressed to the cold floor. Slowly he stood up, muscles easily supporting him. The clothes his body had shredded were gone, not a trace anywhere. As he got up, his cock didn’t dangle, it flopped about, smacking his thighs with weight. Precum spilt from the tip onto the floor. “Unsanitary,” Do-yun muttered to himself. But as he watched that clear liquid puddle, he noticed the restaurant's floors were different. His gaze shifted. The entire place was different. It had gone from a generic western dining to a more Korean experience.
There was a white fundoshi. waiting to be worn: Do-yun’s uniform. The answer was already in his head. Though he wasn’t sure why he found himself slipping them on, making sure his package sat just right to help sell the merchandise. As he did, he perched himself into a squatting position, watching people walk by. He didn’t try to leave. He didn’t have the desire to. The restaurant was his. He belonged there. No time to process that information as the wind chime jingled and two people walked into the store.
Familiar voices. Boisterous and loud. Jocks through and through. Daniel Gibbons and Greg McFielder. Both dressed in workout clothes. Daniel’s arms were out, wearing teal tank top biceps showing off. Greg had on a white muscle shirt, but his chest looked ripe, nipples poking through. Their shorts were both black and mid-thigh, showing off the great quality of their thighs and legs.
“What’s the deal with this place?” Daniel turned around and Greg smacked his arm, both spotting Do-yun watching them.
“Hey, uh, we’d like to eat here?” Greg asked. His typical cocky voice sounded unsure, eyes darting around. The space was devoid of people, save for the three of them. They looked directly at Do-yun bulging in his undergarment and made no note of it. Do-yun cautiously nodded to a table with menus’. The two young men sat down.
A sobering reality to have his personal antagonists step through the door. Do-yun stood up. He became hyper-aware of his near nudity. Logically, his heart should have been pounding for multiple reasons, but he was entirely calm. Ass swaying, he walked over to them, crotch eye level with their faces.
“What will you two be having?” Do-yun asked, hands behind his back posture straight.
“Is this a joke, there’s only one thing on the menu?” Daniel flipped the book over searching for more pages. “What kind of cheap ass place is this?”
“I assure you, that’s correct.” Do-yun stated. “We only offer one thing, but you're sure to enjoy it.”
Daniel rolled his eyes closing the book, “You seem pretty confident.”’
“Oh, come on man, I’ve never had Do-yun Choi either, but it sounds pretty good. Say a group meal. We could split it!” Greg petitioned his buddy.
Do-yun peered over and the only thing written down in the menu book was his stolen description. If the place was his now, what exactly was he expected to make?
“Ugh! Fine.” Daniel sighed.
Greg pumped his fist, “We’ll have Do-yun Choi then!”
“A fine choice.” Do-yun bowed.
“It was the only choice,” Daniel sniped.
Ignoring him, Do-yun put the menus away, then as if second nature, climbed up onto the table in front of Greg, his side to Daniel.
“Enjoy your meal.” Do-yun said.
The two jocks stared dumbly at what had been ‘served’ in front of them.
“The hell is—
Daniel’s words were cut off by the sound of Greg standing up to nurse on one of Do-yun’s pert nipples. The compass tattoo moved under order of the pec’s gyrations. Greg pushed his face in deeper, nuzzling both bodacious man-tiddies. He popped his head out, “You got to try some of this man.” Then he was back on a nipple suckling, hand fiddling with Do-yun’s piercing.
Do-yun and Daniel exchanged looks. Do-yun extended his hand. Daniel grabbed it and struggled bringing it closer to him. His eyes seemed frightened, but his mouth was wanting, a strand of drool escaping. Do-yun watched the jock’s willpower collapse in real time, as Daniel shoved Do-yun’s thick index finger into his mouth, moaning, body shaking in pleasure. Kisses and licks over his arm across his torso. Greg was lapping up the pecs watching them jiggle back into place. Daniel’s kisses, morphed into full out make out with Do-yun’s biceps and forearms. The two were going to Do-yun like he was their favorite ice cream flavor.
Do-yun had one thought: This was just foreplay. Despite that, neither jock had his realization. Daniel licked and traced a protruding vein up Do-yun’s neck. Greg couldn’t peel himself from Do-yun’s chest, humping the table as Do-yun cradled the back of his head, teasing the blond’s hair.
“Taste so fucking good!” Greg whined, backing up face cover in slobber
“Yeah, where fuck has this place been all my life?” Daniel stopped kissing, chest moving heavily attempting to catch its breath. They put Do-yun on all fours on top of the table, as Greg crawled under him in a 69 position. Daniel slapped both of Do-yun’s cheeks, testing its firmness before leaning in and kissing each. He pulled the thin undergarment strand aside, exposing Do-yun’s pretty hole. Then he dove in, eating Do-yun’s ass, tongue diving deep, Fat cheeks smothering his face’s cheeks. Meanwhile, Greg fished out Do-yun’s cock, letting it snap out of the pouch and slip right into his mouth. He had an insane neck game, born out of pure eagerness.
A wave of pleasure washed over Do-yun as he was assaulted from the front and back. Never in his life would he have believed those straight guys could go so hard sexually on another dude's body. There was no faking it or hesitation. They were going for gold. Greg’s boner was a big fucking indicator for their enthusiasm. Ecstatic himself, Do-yun retrieved Greg’s eager cock and plopped it in his mouth.
“MMffhpphh.” Greg moaned, legs shaking unable to speak with the sausage clogging his throat.
“What was—Mmffhpph!” Daniel’s face was shoved back into Do-yun’s ass by a massive hand and held there. Do-yun thrusted his hips deeper down in Greg’s throat.
“Don’t talk with your mouths full at a restaurant, boys.” Do-yun corrected.
The ass eating and cock sucking lasted for a while. Daniel started to sneak his lips down to Do-yun’s bloated balls and kissing and sucking them, his face near Greg’s. At one point, Do-yun felt his cock miss a throat but brush against Greg's face nuzzling his crotch. Greg’s cock twitched in Do-yun’s throat as fresh jock cum spewed forth, before being swallowed down. Do-yun sucked it all out, feeling each slurp make the tingle in his own balls get even stronger. Luckily, he wouldn’t be without a throat as Greg got full deep throat and Do-yun unloaded right into it. Took Do-yun longer to drain his balls into the jock. As he did Greg’s abs extended out ever so slightly, taking on a pudgier quality.
Once it was over Do-yun pulled his cock up and Greg stumbled off the table into a chair.
“I’m fucking stuffed.” Greg rubbed his gurgling gut.
Daniel pulled his head out of Do-yun's ass, “I could actually go for dessert!”
Do-yun smirked, patting his lap and Daniel understood right away. The jock flicked off his pants and underwear climbing into Do-yun’s lap. A wiser person may have asked how had a virgin’s oversized cock breached a jock’s untouched hole so easily? Well, a wiser person wasn’t there, and it happened with no fanfare. Do-yun simply positioned himself and thrusted in. Daniel opened up immediately, ass gripping Do-yun’s dick. Greg sat in his chair watching as his best friend got fucked in front of him.
“This is sex? We’re like fucking right now, right? I’m not going crazy?” Do-yun asked, body pummeling into his partner. His body was doing things and making itself available in a way Do-yun didn’t even know where possible. Daniel asked for dessert and got a dick up his ass. How did that correlate?
“Yeah, best dessert ever man!” Daniel shouted. It didn't engage with Do-yun’s question at all. The footballer’s cock slapped against Do-yun’s abs, battering them. A strong hip thrust and Do-yun flooded Daniel’s gut. Daniel’s cock fired the moment he felt the warmth enter him, blasting long ropes over him and his host. By the time he got up, assisted by Do-yun, Daniel also sported a little food pouch. “Fuck, that tasted so good!”
Do-yun got up caked in cum, completely naked, looking over his satisfied customers. Their stomachs were loud with the digestion process but Do-yun wasn't even sure why. They hadn’t actually eaten anything. Putting his undergarments back on, he watched as their stomachs shrank pulling back into abs, even larger than before. Their chests pushed forward, arms out. Even the cushion of their asses inflated. The real shock however was the black that erupted from their hair. All traces of brown and yellow vanished. Thicker eyebrows. Plumper lips. Suddenly, they looked a whole less like themselves and more like…Do-yun.
“Fuckin hell that was great!” Daniel stood up and gave Do-yun a celebratory handshake. Still naked from below he pulled Do-yun into a hug, his own cum seeping into his shrunken tank top.
“We gotta come back here again!” Greg gently pushed Daniel away so he could lap up his best friend’s cum off Do-yun’s giant milkers. The wrestler took his sweet time, and no one was in a rush to remove him. By the time they left they were raving how they were going to tell everyone, even their dads.
Do-yun took a long sigh of relief once they were gone. He had just had sex with his childhood bullies and enjoyed it. Those two had a hankering for cock that even Do-yun couldn't compete with them. And the way Greg came when Daniel kissed him? What was going on there? Alone again, he looked around the restaurant, realizing he had been made the owner and all he served was himself. Definitely, a strange place. He could have left and never looked back. Maybe Do-yun should have left. But in all honesty, he was looking forward to when they'd bring more of their jock friends along.
No one asked why there was a sudden explosive growth of the Asian population in their county. Do-yun Choi’s signature dish was lauded by word of mouth as a cultural touch stone needed to bring some diversity of flavor back into a stagnant town.
Even the men at the country club couldn’t resist to call in a reservation, determined to appraise the place. Do-yun would listen, cock already stretching, thinking about how to best feed the fathers of the jocks who bullied him. The men who hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it. They needed the splash of cultural taste more than anyone.
They’d come in, wandering about, appraising the place, and unexpectedly find their meal ready and waiting. Do-yun couldn’t wait to share dessert with them.
Warning: I guess some slight body horror but other than that no AI in writting so if I make a mistake plz dont look too much into it.
The life of an office worker was not the most eventful thing in life, Dave knew that as much. Even his name seemed to confirm it—Dave, short, plain, and painfully ordinary, the sort of name that belonged to a hundred middle-aged men in identical shirts sitting beneath identical fluorescent lights. It was safe, familiar, and insignificant, much like the life he had been pushed into. Still, being an engineer was not all bad. His days were steady, filled with difficult problems that eventually gave way to patience and logic, and there was a quiet satisfaction in watching something he had designed finally work. The pay was decent, his colleagues were kind, and his family was supportive - well mostly since he came out as Bi, they still held on to the hope he would swing “the right way”.
Yet already in his forties, and when he looked at himself honestly, he could not help feeling that life had passed him by. He was not particularly handsome, with thinning hair, tired eyes, and a face made dull by years beneath fluorescent office lights. He was still single, lived alone, and had little waiting for him at home beyond reheated dinners and the low murmur of the television. Sometimes, he would notice the younger men passing through the office or laughing together outside—confident, sharply dressed, and effortlessly handsome—and feel a quiet ache of envy. Looking at them, Dave often wondered whether he might once have become someone like that, had he not been pushed so early into a safe and ordinary life chosen more by expectation than desire. He did not hate what he had, but he could not stop mourning the person he might have been. Whenever he looked through the window at the city moving beyond the glass, he felt that his real life was happening somewhere just out of reach. Dave wanted more—a little adventure, a stronger sense of confidence, and perhaps a chance for a prettier view..
And then, at last, the prettier view arrived.
Her name was Sadaki, and Dave noticed her the moment she entered the office. She was strikingly beautiful, polished and graceful enough to draw attention without asking for it. Unfortunately, beauty was almost all there was to her. She was vain, dismissive, and casually cruel, ignoring Dave unless she needed something from him and speaking to him as though even that brief attention were a favor.
Though she joined the company as an intern, Sadaki climbed into junior management with suspicious speed. The reason was obvious. She had quickly attached herself to the company’s newest rising star: Hernando Saionji, the CEO’s son, recently returned from studying overseas. He was young, broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, and effortlessly handsome, but beauty was almost all there was to him as well. Like Sadaki, he was arrogant, shallow, and cold, treating anyone beneath him as though they were hardly worth noticing.
Sadaki followed Hernando everywhere, laughing at his jokes, praising his ideas, and making herself impossible for him to overlook. He accepted her admiration as naturally as he accepted every other advantage in his life. Together, they made a beautiful pair, and beauty seemed to be the only worthwhile thing either of them possessed. Watching them, Dave felt the old bitterness return. Some people were born with the right face and the right connections, while others spent their lives working for people who would never bother to remember their names.
So Dave began to wonder: if beauty truly was only skin-deep, and if the right appearance was all a person needed to move through life with ease, then what would happen if he could wear Hernando’s skin? He imagined it like slipping into a cold, wet skinsuit—first sliding his hands and feet into it, then slowly pulling the smooth, elastic body over his own until every inch clung tightly around him. The handsome face would come last, hanging loose and empty before he stretched it over his head, drawing Hernando’s sharp features across his own and aligning the eyes and mouth until the disguise settled perfectly into place. Would people finally look at Dave instead of through him? Would doors open, voices soften, and admiration come without effort? The thought was absurd, impossible—and yet once the idea entered his mind, he could not force it out.
So..
A dark reckoning began to take shape in Dave’s mind. This was not some story from one of those strange sites he visited late at night—there would be no enchanted needle to hollow him out, no magical dagger that conveniently opened a seam along Hernando’s back. No miracle would simply hand him another man’s life.
This would require planning, patience, and calculation..
If Dave truly meant to become Hernando Saionji, then wearing his face would never be enough. He would have to study the way Hernando walked, the way he spoke, the careless tilt of his smile, the names he remembered and the people he ignored. Every habit, every secret, every private detail would have to become Dave’s as well. The disguise could not merely look flawless from the outside; it had to survive every glance, every conversation, every moment when someone expected Hernando to be standing before them. Dave would need to become him completely—inside and out.
For two years, Dave stayed close to Hernando and learned from him in silence. He swallowed every insult, smiled when he wanted to sneer, and let Hernando mistake obedience for devotion. He studied the effortless charm that made people lean toward him—the warm flash of his smile, the lazy confidence in his voice, and the way he always left the top two buttons of his dark shirts undone, the fabric pulling tight across his broad chest as though barely resisting the strain. Dave memorized the rhythm of his laugh, the way he entered a room as though it already belonged to him, and every small, practiced gesture that turned beauty into influence. Hernando never noticed that Dave was not merely admiring him. Piece by piece, he was learning how to wear everything that made Hernando irresistibly charming.
Then the time to reap his reward finally came..
Hernando was attending another of those glittering parties held high above the city, surrounded by champagne, tailored suits, and people who laughed too eagerly whenever he spoke. Dave moved among them disguised as one of the serving staff, his posture lowered and his expression arranged into the blank politeness expected of someone meant to remain invisible. After two years of watching Hernando, slipping unnoticed into the background had become second nature.
“Another drink, sir?” Dave asked, offering him the tray.
Hernando took a glass without properly looking at him. “Obviously. And make sure it’s cold this time.”
“Of course, Mr. Saionji.”
Dave watched him drink before disappearing into the crowd. It was not long before Hernando’s easy smile began to slip. His fingers tightened around the edge of a table, and he blinked repeatedly as the lights above him blurred.
“What the hell was in that?” he muttered.
Dave appeared beside him just as his balance failed.
Hernando tried to shove him away, but there was little strength behind it. Dave caught him beneath the arm and guided him toward the private elevator, calmly explaining to anyone who noticed that the CEO’s son had simply drunk too much. No one questioned him. Men like Hernando were always being carried, protected, and quietly excused.
Dave took him to one of the penthouse rooms above the party and lowered him onto the bed. By then, Hernando was drenched in sweat. His breathing came in short, uneven bursts, and an unnatural heat had spread through his body as though he were burning from somewhere deep inside. The fine clothes clung to his skin, outlining the powerful frame beneath them.
Then Hernando finally opened his eyes, confusion lasted only until he recognized the man standing over him.
“You?” he rasped, struggling to rise before another wave of heat forced him back down. “What did you do to me?”
Dave remained silent.
Hernando’s face twisted with disgust. “You disgusting faggot. Do you have any idea who I am? You’re finished!”
Dave sighed, almost as though the insult had merely confirmed what he already knew about him. Then a slow smile appeared on his face.
“Well,” he said, “I’m not finished with you yet.”
“The solution in your drink was designed to loosen the skin from your form,” Dave continued, his voice unnervingly calm.
Hernando watched in horror as Dave reached beneath the waiter’s coat and drew out a knife, turning it casually in his hand until the blade caught the light.
“And this,” Dave said, watching the fear finally enter Hernando’s eyes, “is for the separation.”
…
Whatever horror followed was lost beneath the music below. Hernando’s screams rose only briefly before the party swallowed them whole—buried beneath laughter, bass, and the clinking of champagne glasses. By the time the last guests began to leave, Dave had already cleaned the penthouse with methodical care, wiping away every trace that anything had happened there. Only the bathroom remained untouched. In the center of the vast marble room, the king-sized tub had been filled with a pale, chemical solution. Floating within it was the translucent shape that had once belonged to Hernando, emptied and strangely delicate, its handsome features drifting just beneath the surface. The liquid slowly thickened around it, preserving every curve and detail as it solidified. Dave stood beside the tub in silence, watching the skin become firm enough to wear.
Dave undressed and stood before the bathroom mirror. Under the harsh white light, every disappointment seemed sharper: thinning hair, tired eyes, sloping shoulders, a soft middle, and pale skin marked by age and years spent beneath office lights. His body looked small and ordinary, worn down by a life that had demanded everything from him while offering little in return. His gaze travelled downward, lingering on the intimate imperfections - his small dark manhood he had always tried not to think about, before shifting toward the bath. Hernando’s translucent skin floated beneath the thickening solution, broad shoulders and sculpted proportions preserved with almost insulting perfection. Even emptied, it appeared younger, stronger, and more complete than Dave had ever felt. Every detail remained intact, waiting to be inhabited. Dave looked between his reflection and the shape in the tub, then smiled faintly. Soon, he would never have to see the man in the mirror again.
Dave lifted the preserved skin from the bath. It hung from his hands like a translucent imitation of a man, cold and heavy with solution, its features slack except for the mouth, which gaped far wider than any human mouth should. There was no seam along the back, no convenient opening hidden beneath the hair. Hernando’s mouth was the only entrance. Dave placed both hands between the soft lips and pulled. The jaw stretched soundlessly, widening until the handsome face became a grotesque ring of skin and teethless darkness. He pushed one foot through, then the other, forcing his legs down into the hollow body. The material clung to him at once, slick and resistant, as though it resented being filled by someone so different from the shape it remembered.
The sight in the mirror was unbearable. Dave’s thick, aging body writhed beneath Hernando’s flawless exterior, creating a distorted parody of both men. His stomach bulged beneath the narrow waist; his knees bent in the wrong places inside the longer legs; sculpted muscles twisted and swelled as he searched for their proper spaces. Hernando’s empty arms flailed while Dave struggled to reach the waiting hands, and the beautiful face stretched around his waist like some monstrous collar.
He kept pushing. His torso disappeared through the distended mouth, forcing Hernando’s face wider until the cheeks and jaw lost all recognizable shape. For several moments, it looked as though the perfect young man had swallowed something too large and was choking upon it, his body bucking and rippling around the heavier figure trapped inside. Then Dave found the arms. He drove his hands through the narrow sleeves until his fingers filled Hernando’s, and the warped shoulders snapped gradually into place. The borrowed skin tightened around him, compressing his softer shape and drawing it into the proportions it had once possessed. The swollen abdomen flattened. The uneven limbs lengthened. Smooth muscle re-formed over the body as each distortion vanished beneath the settling surface.
Only the head remained.
Dave pushed upward through the throat until his skull entered the hollow face. Hernando’s mouth stretched over his chin, then slid downward into position as Dave pressed his nose and eyes against their waiting places. The loose features shifted over him, first grotesque and crooked, then slowly aligning. The lips contracted around his own. The jaw regained its sharp shape. Dark hair settled across his scalp as the last traces of translucence faded.
Dave stood motionless before the mirror while the surface finished tightening.
A moment earlier, it had resembled a malformed creature struggling beneath a beautiful man’s skin.
Now there was no sign of Dave at all.
Hernando Saionji stared back at him.
He trailed his hands over his newly acquired body, tracing line and vein over the flawless skin that is now his. Drowning in the bliss and pleasure, Dave trailed his hands downward to his stolen cock, his breathing fastened, … and all came to a complete stop. Instead of getting to hold his new fresh pale clean meat, he was rewarded with an unworn empty sack. Confusion washed over him until he noticed..
Beneath the smooth skin of Hernando’s abdomen, instead of perfectly defined muscle, an unnatural ridge pressed upward, trapped awkwardly between his old body and the new shape surrounding it. looked warped there, twitching faintly as the borrowed skin struggled to draw everything into its proper place. Dave pressed his index finger on the tip of the stretching shaft and a violent shock tore through him, buckling his knees and sending him crashing against the counter. His borrowed body convulsed, every muscle tightening at once as heat surged beneath the skin like fire.
The fever climbed rapidly. Hernando’s skin rippled over him, tightening in some places and peeling away in others, as though it had finally recognized the stranger trapped inside. Dark veins briefly surfaced across the flawless chest before vanishing again. Dave clawed at the marble, struggling to remain upright while the face in the mirror twisted between his own features and Hernando’s.
The skin was rejecting him.
Carefully, Dave dragged himself out of the bathroom and onto a couch, getting himself into his most comfortable position when he needed to pleasure himself. In a haze, with hands oiled with his sweat, he pushed his own thick cock under the skin towards the empty hollowed cock. A condom, Dave thought, was what it looked like without anything to fill it, so it should act the same way. So he pushed hard, as his old cock slid behind the surface of the skin, till it plopped itself behind the hole. As Dave traced the skin of the hollow shaft from Hernando’s cock over his own, he realized with horror that even though the cock sleeve was at its end, the old cock had not even finished going in yet. With nothing else he could do, Dave let go of his hand and surrendered to fate.
The more his own cock slid in, it gave him an equal part and pain and pleasure: Hernando’s shaft rose above its own size, and the skin stretched thin to its limit, till it thinned out and he could see his old cock silhouette, twitching and squirming underneath. Dark and horrible fantasy plundered his own mind.
“Oh hahhhhh, please, my body was invaded by Dave and my skin was being worn by him. Now my skin and seeds are all his..!” Hernando’s voice squealed and moaned echoed across the room.
There was pain and pleasure, then there came darkness and bliss. The cock sleeve and his own warped itself and bonded as one, and as his tips finally lined up in sync with Hernando’s, he could feel a twitching wave crashing from the back of his mind, ripped through his whole being and flushed out through his cock. Mouth- opening, breath-heaving, hand-gripping tightly onto the couch, the fluid came out unnaturally dense, stretching in pale, sticky strands that clung to the skin instead of running, as though it had already begun to set.
Under the bliss and sound of this bustling city, a new life was born, not from love, but from ambition and twisted fascination.
“Hernando, Hernando, Hernando,..” Dave chanted his name, as though it was a spell, bounding his soul to this husk till the end of day. As he traced skin and drew marks across the sweat, cum and blood, Dave scooped up a little residue left on his foreskin and brought it to his lips. It was bitter at first then changed over the new taste of mildly salty and wood, as though the life of an underappreciated engineer is slipping away and replaced by royalty and lavish lifestyle. “I will take good care of your life, Hernando. I will wear your skin, smile your smile, command the attention and no one will know!”
________________________
Afterward, “Hernando” showered, cleaned away the last traces of the night, and stretched out naked on the couch with a cold beer in hand. The air-conditioning cooled the fever still lingering beneath his skin, and in the dark reflection of the penthouse windows, he looked exactly as Hernando should have looked—young, powerful, and perfectly at home.
The doorbell rang.
“Hernando?” Sadaki called from the hallway. “Are you in there?”
Before he could answer, the lock turned and she hurried inside, still dressed from the party.
“There you are,” she said, relief softening her face. “You disappeared without saying anything. I’ve been calling you all night.”
She rushed over and knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his forehead.
“God, you’re still burning up. What happened?”
“Hernando” took a slow drink and looked down at her with quiet disgust. This woman never cared about me this much in my old life, he thought. She barely noticed I existed. Now she was staring at him as though his slightest discomfort mattered more than anything else.
Sadaki hesitated beside the couch, still studying him with concern.
“I saw that older engineer near you earlier,” she said. “Dave. It looked like he handed you something. I thought he might have done something, and then you disappeared. I was worried sick.”
“Hernando” smiled faintly. So she had noticed Dave after all—only when he stood close enough to threaten someone she actually valued.
“Dave is gone,” he said calmly. “You won’t have to worry about him again.”
Something in his tone made Sadaki pause, but he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“You were worried about me?” he asked.
“Of course I was.”
“And if I asked you to do something for me,” he continued, his smile sharpening, “you would do it, wouldn’t you?”
Sadaki beamed, then nodded.
“Hernando” leaned back against the couch, satisfied. For years she had treated Dave as though he were beneath notice. Now, wearing a handsome face, he barely had to ask before she offered him everything.
Sadaki stayed, and the night blurred into heat, tangled sheets, and breathless movement. “Hernando” held her close, but his attention kept drifting away from her and back toward himself. Each time her fingers dug too firmly into his back, the not-yet-settled skin shifted beneath them, pulling strangely across his shoulders and tugging at the edges of his face. He would pause, press his features back into place, and smile as though nothing had happened.
Sadaki seemed too overwhelmed to notice.
In the mirror beyond the bed, “Hernando” watched the borrowed body move—broad shoulders flexing, chest tightening, dark hair falling across that perfect face. As he planted a hand on top of his head and pulled the scalp backward as though adjusting a loose hood. The motion stretched his forehead smooth, drew the cheeks tight, and briefly widened the eyes into an unnatural stare and for a brief moment, he was Dave again. He held it there until the face settled properly over the shape beneath, then released it with a faint, wet snap and “Hernando” returned, pristine as ever. All the while running his hands possessively across the broad chest and sharp jaw, occasionally tugging the face loose simply to watch it distort before smoothing it back into perfection.
She believed his attention was fixed on her. In truth, he was barely aware she was there.
With the stamina of a stallion, “Hernando” went for quite a few rounds till he finally released his seeds inside Sadaki’s hungry hole. As he pulled his cock shaft out, he noticed that what remained carried the same unnatural thickness as the bonding compound from earlier—pale, heavy, and slow to separate, as though something of both men had been fused together within it. The thought of invading a noble bloodline brought him so much satisfaction that he ever thought it would.
Sadaki curled contentedly against his chest, tracing one finger across the smooth skin she believed she knew.
“Maybe this could finally become something real,” she murmured. “You and me. A future.”
“Hernando” wrapped an arm around her and smiled into the darkness. Beneath his palm, the borrowed chest rose and fell with perfect calm.
“Oh, you’ll have a future with me,” he whispered too softly for her to hear. “Just not the one you imagined.”
Sadaki soon fell asleep against him, trusting and content, while “Hernando” remained awake. He listened to her breathing and studied his reflection in the dark window. The face looking back was calm, handsome, and still faintly unreal—yet with every passing minute, it felt more like his own.
He touched the corner of his mouth, remembering how he had forced his entire body through that impossible opening. There had never been a seam to close. Hernando’s lips had simply contracted around his own once he was fully inside, restoring the sharp jaw and flawless face as though nothing had entered it at all. “Hernando” hooked a finger to his cheek and pulled experimentally. The skin stretched farther than it should have, briefly revealing the older shape hidden beneath, before snapping back into perfect alignment.
Better than before.
The fever was gone. The borrowed skin had stopped shifting, and even Hernando’s scent now seemed to rise naturally from him.
Sadaki stirred against his chest.
For the first time since the fever broke, “Hernando” felt cold. A thin line of sweat gathered at his temple as he looked down at her, searching her face for suspicion. Had his voice slipped? Had she noticed the way his skin moved, or how often he had stared at himself instead of her?
“Different how?” he asked, forcing Hernando’s usual lazy confidence into the words.
Sadaki opened her eyes just enough to smile. “Less distant. Like you finally know what you want.”
He held her gaze for another second before letting himself breathe again.
“Maybe I do,” he said softly.
She settled back against him, unaware of how tightly his hand had closed around the beer bottle.
By dawn, “Hernando” had made his decision. He would burn every bridge leading back to that tired engineer and settle completely into this new life—the penthouse, the company, the attention, the face people trusted before he even opened his mouth.
Yet he had not forgotten the older men from his department, the ones who had spent years being ignored just as he had. Perhaps, once his own position was secure, he could offer a few of them the same kind of rebirth: younger faces, stronger bodies, and a place among the beautiful people who had once looked through them. A new circle could be built inside the old one, populated by familiar minds hidden beneath flawless appearances.
Ryu was riding in a taxi from the train station to his parents' house. Moments earlier, he had received a text informing him that he had been rejected for yet another job. Even though the position had been well below what someone with his master's degree should have aimed for, the world had proven itself merciless once again. His thoughts spiraled. What exactly was he missing? The list grew longer and longer. A lack of work experience. A degree in a field with little practical demand. Then his thoughts turned inward—to his short stature, his unimpressive physique softened by more body fat than muscle, his poor eyesight, and even his timid personality.
The taxi driver suddenly spoke.
"Looks like you've had a rough day."
Ryu sighed.
"Today's just one of those days."
The driver smiled in a way that Ryu couldn't quite decipher.
"Well, good days always come eventually. Human potential is limitless, isn't it?"
Ryu let out a cynical chuckle.
"Apparently not mine."
The driver asked an odd question.
"Life is all about give and take. If you paid with everything you've accomplished so far... don't you think you might receive what you've always wanted?"
Ryu shrugged bitterly.
"I don't even know what I have anymore. But if someone could give me what I want in exchange... I'd gladly hand over everything."
At that moment, the world turned upside down.
The taxi was still moving. A strange sensation swept over him before an unbearable agony exploded throughout his body. His head felt as though it were splitting apart, while every muscle and bone seemed ready to burst.
He screamed.
"Can you... please take me to the nearest hospital?!"
Without saying a word, the driver quietly changed course. Ryu continued screaming—until darkness swallowed his consciousness.
Yet, from the outside, he didn't appear unconscious. Instead, something new was awakening within him.
His body began to change. Muscles swelled beneath his skin as excess body fat melted away. His dress shirt stretched to its limits, threatening to tear apart. His glasses vanished. His eyes grew larger. His brow ridge became more pronounced, reshaping his face into something sharper and more sculpted. His jaw broadened into a firm, masculine line, while both his hair and beard grew rapidly. Then his own hands roughly tore open the buttons of his shirt. Powerful pectoral muscles and a sharply defined six-pack emerged into view. Somewhere, a voice echoed through the void. "Look at that, finally mine." And with those words, another consciousness began dissolving into his own.
Ryu opened his eyes. Chaos erupted inside his mind. One set of memories belonged to the frail, nerdy graduate student who had spent countless sleepless nights earning his degree and desperately trying to transform his body through relentless workouts. The other belonged to a man blessed with extraordinary looks and overwhelming charisma—a natural leader who had always stood at the center of attention throughout university, climbing effortlessly toward success and power. The two identities collided. The charismatic one prevailed. The nerd's memories shattered into countless fragments before fading into nothingness. Eventually, the taxi came to a stop.
The driver spoke.
"We've arrived home, Mr. CEO."
Without a word, Ryu stepped out of the vehicle. He strode through the luxurious lobby and entered the elevator. When it reached the penthouse floor, he walked confidently into his residence as though he had done so every day of his life. He roughly stripped off his clothes and slipped into a comfortable robe before standing silently. Confidence. Authority. An overwhelming presence radiated from him. For just a fleeting moment, an immense sense of loss and loneliness passed through his mind. Then he cast it aside. Instead, he embraced the weight of responsibility that came with leading one of the nation's most successful unicorn companies, while feeling the strength and solidity of the body he had built into something extraordinary.
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