Allen had wiped down his seat before sitting. He always did. A discreet antibacterial wipe from a tasteful leather folio tucked into his tote, one careful pass across the subway bench, then folded into thirds and pocketed until he could find a trash bin. He smoothed his tailored wool trousers beneath him as he sat, back straight, ankles crossed, iPhone held in two fingers with screen angled precisely away from strangers’ eyes.
He never touched the metal pole unless absolutely necessary. And if he did, it was pinky only. Elbow tight to the body. No contact unless contact was sanitized.
His boyfriend Evan teased him about it sometimes. "Allen," he’d say with that crooked grin, "if I died in a puddle of mustard on the subway floor, would you even touch me?"
Allen would smirk and say something like, “I’d mourn you from a safe distance.”
But there were lines. Standards. Hygiene wasn’t optional. Allen was thirty-four, gay, successful, and clean. Not just physically — aesthetically. His nails gleamed, buffed into a subtle matte finish. His skin was poreless, scrubbed each morning and night with products that cost more than most people's rent. He wore scent like punctuation: a single dab of vetiver oil behind the ears. Controlled. Masculine. Correct.
And then the boys got on the train.
He didn’t look up right away — just heard the stomp of sneakers, the damp rustle of athletic shorts, the low, drawling “Yo, yo, it’s packed in here” as one of them shoved onto the car with a duffel bag slung low. He smelled them before he saw them: a humid, sour stormcloud of gym sweat and cheap cologne. The funk of testosterone left too long in mesh laundry bags.
Allen looked up then, one eye twitching.
Five of them. Teens, maybe twenties. One shirtless. One wearing socks with slides. The largest had his cap on backwards and a slice of greasy pizza folded in one hand. Grease dribbled down his wrist as he laughed at something one of the others said.
Allen’s lip curled. He didn’t speak — not yet — but the thought formed like a poison in the center of his chest:
“Feral. Fucking animals.”
A breeze, maybe? The train moved, sure — it always did — but something about the air shifted. Not outside. Inside. Around him.
He blinked. Tilted his head. Rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He returned to his phone. Email from the agency. Concepts for the Chicago hotel redesign. He tried to focus, to dive into something familiar, clean, his world. But a pulse of nausea rose in his stomach. Like vertigo, or like something spoiled had passed beneath his nose.
No. No, couldn’t be him. He showered this morning. Twice, actually — after his jog and again before the client call. His sweater was freshly laundered. His deodorant was aluminum-free and top-rated.
Still, the edge of something acrid lingered at the edges of his awareness.
He shifted. Felt the fabric of his sweater cling strangely beneath his arm. Damp?
He rolled his shoulders and froze.
The seam of the sweater — usually soft, cashmere and pristine — scratched at him now. And… something else. His armpits. They itched.
That didn’t happen. Not to him.
Allen blinked hard, resisting the urge to dig his fingers into the crook of his arm. He flexed his hand, trying to distract himself.
That’s when he noticed it.
His cuticle. Ragged. Slightly torn.
“What the…” he whispered.
He lifted his hand into the fluorescent light and frowned.
But he always moisturized. Always filed. He kept a nail kit in his work bag — titanium, minimalist, German-made.
Allen reached for it instinctively — but paused. His fingers looked… different. Not the shape, not yet, but the surface. Dry. A little rougher.
His reflection in the window caught his eye. For a second — just a flicker — he didn’t recognize himself.
The face was his, but tired. Pallid. A little more shadow beneath the eyes. The hair at his temples slightly darker than the sandy precision he maintained with salon appointments.
No. He was spiraling. He was making this up. Psychosomatic. He closed his eyes. Breathed in.
Sweat. Not strong. Not obvious. But raw. Male. Unearned. Cheap. The kind that crawled up from under shirts that hadn't been washed right. Or bodies that hadn’t. He sniffed again, slower this time.
That wasn’t someone else. That was him.
He reached under his arm — just for a second, just to check — and felt it: dampness. Real. Wet. His pits were sweating through cashmere.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, louder than he meant to.
The girl seated across the aisle glanced up. Allen caught her eye. Her bangs were dyed blue, she had some awful anime pin on her backpack. He sneered before he could help himself.
“God, does no one care about how they present anymore?”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud.
The girl blinked. Took out one AirPod.
Allen’s ears flushed. “Nothing,” he said quickly, eyes darting away.
But now it was inside him. A sudden constriction in his lower gut, like something coiling around his pelvis. His thighs ached. He tried to adjust, but the seat felt smaller. His belt cut into his waist, his inner thighs rubbed.
Allen bit his lip and looked down.
His trousers didn’t fit right.
Not just wrinkled — stretched. The seam at the crotch was pulling. He could feel himself bulging against the zipper, not from arousal but from… mass. Something unnatural. Something swelling.
He opened his phone camera, switched it to front view. His face stared back — but it was wrong.
His jaw — was it wider? His skin — oilier? His hairline — was that a cowlick? A hint of darkness at the root?
He opened his mouth to say something. Anything.
What came out was a grunt.
He slapped a hand over his lips. Eyes wild.
It hadn’t sounded like him. It was low. Stupid.
Like an oaf trying to form a thought.
The subway squealed into the next station. The doors opened. He stood too fast and stumbled.
He smelled himself again.
Strong now. Salty. Pungent. His deodorant was gone — overpowered or burned away. His shirt was sticking to his chest.
Was that hair poking at the neckline?
Allen ran. Off the train, through the turnstile, pushing past a man in a stained hoodie who muttered something at him. Allen barely heard it — too focused on the deep itch crawling across his shoulders. He stumbled into the nearest public bathroom and locked himself in the stall.
He looked in the mirror above the cracked sink.
The face was familiar — but the eyes were bloodshot. The neck too thick. The cheeks already ruddy. A patch of hair at his clavicle peeked out from beneath his sweater, matted and damp.
A line of sweat rolled from his temple down past his cheek.
He gasped — but the gasp came out as a moan. A guttural, wet, animal noise.
He stared at his reflection, chest heaving.
There was something inside him now. Not a voice — not yet — but a pressure. A hunger. Like the shape of someone else’s thoughts were brewing behind his own.
And for a moment — just a single, flickering moment — Allen thought of the girl on the train again.
A hot, animal curiosity that disgusted him.
He had said four nasty things.
And already, he didn’t recognize himself.
He had twelve hours left.
And he couldn’t stop talking.
The bathroom stall stank of piss and ancient disinfectant, but Allen couldn’t tell anymore which part of the stench came from the room and which part came from him. His breath was hot and sour in the mirror. His pits were soaked. His forearms bristled with wiry, dark hair. His reflection blinked at him with a glint of fear — and confusion.
He opened his mouth to speak.
But the voice that came out wasn’t his.
“Yo I need… like… fuckin’ air, bruh…”
His eyes darted. His brain itched. Words were getting harder to form. He knew what he meant to say — he could feel the sentences — but the words twisted on their way out, dumbed down, slurred and swollen with ignorance.
Allen lurched out of the stall, clutching his bag. It felt heavier. Was it heavier? Or was he weaker?
No. Stronger. That was the terrifying part. His arms were thicker now, stretching the sleeves of his once-elegant sweater. His chest pushed against the V-neck, nipples poking through. His thighs had thickened — obscene slabs of meat chafing beneath his trousers, which now rode too low on his hips.
EVAN ❤️:
“Hey babe. You okay? You kinda ran off.”
Allen’s trembling fingers hovered over the screen.
He meant to type “No. Help. I think I’m cursed.”
“yo bro feelin fuuucked haha 💪💦 gonna catch u later 🏋️♂️😈”
The phone slipped from his hand. Clattered onto the dirty floor. And Allen… didn’t pick it up. He looked at it — but something inside him whispered, “Fuck it, bro, wasn’t important anyway.”
He stumbled out into the street.
His body was bulking. Each step a struggle — his shoes pinching at his feet, his calves thickening, thighs ballooning, belt pulled to its final notch and still too tight.
He caught a reflection in a store window.
At first, he didn’t recognize the man.
Big. Sweaty. Tan. Dumb, vacant face. Slumped posture. Traps bulging. Pecs pressing against a tight, sweat-dampened sweater. Hair darker now. Skin rougher. Five-o'clock shadow becoming full, lazy stubble. Even his expression was changing — no longer sharp and precise, but slack-jawed, blank, smirking.
He looked like a gym rat who worked at a vape shop.
He darted into an alley, panting.
He reached into his bag, trying to find his ID, a mirror, something — but instead, he pulled out… a protein bar? A crumpled pre-workout packet? A Monster energy drink?
Where were his wipes? His serum? His wallet?
Another wave of nausea hit — but this time, it was lust. The image of a woman walking by — nothing special, just jeans and a tight tee — ignited something in his groin.
“No. I’m gay. I’m with Evan. I don’t—”
But his cock twitched. Heavy now. Musky. A meat stick, trapped in boxers that were growing damp. He reached down in horror, felt how fat his junk had become. Hung, sweaty, dumb and primal.
And that’s when the voice fully arrived.
“Bet she got a fat fuckin' pussy, bro…”
“Yeah she want this fuckin’ dick, bro. Gotta bust it in that tight lil belly. Mmmfffuck…”
His tongue lolled. Drool slipped from his lip.
The voice was inside him now. Not a separate presence — not anymore — but his. His own.
He scratched his belly — hairy now. Stomach growled.
He pulled off his sweater. Ripped it, accidentally. Tossed it to the side. Stretched. Felt his pecs bounce. Smirked.
A loud BRAAAPPPPP of a fart escaped him.
“FUCK yeh, that one ripped, bro!”
And Allen — poor Allen — was trapped somewhere behind his own eyes, screaming.
But the voice was getting quieter.
A name floated through his head — not Allen. Not anymore.
AJ scratched his balls. Loud, ripe. He passed a glass door and winked at his own reflection — tanned, buff, hot, dumb as fuck.
He saw his old self flicker, just for a moment.
“Fag looked like he’d cry if someone farted near him.”
He had no memory of Evan.
The motel room smelled like beer sweat, weed, and sex. The kind of stale air that clung to every surface, like the scent had been pounded into the walls over generations of bad decisions and cheap orgasms. The queen bed creaked beneath AJ’s hulking weight, every sloppy thrust of his hips making the headboard slam against the drywall like a rhythm section for his grunts.
“Yeahhh fuckin’ TAKE it, bitch—shitttt,” AJ groaned, loud and brainless.
He was naked, covered in slick, glistening sweat, his hairy chest matted and stinking, gut jiggling, ass clenching with every rut. His cock, thick and veiny and leaking, slapped wetly against the plasticine skin of the girl beneath him — some trashy blonde with fake nails and a tramp stamp that said “Faith.”
She moaned something — could’ve been pain, could’ve been pleasure — but AJ didn’t care. Didn’t hear her. Didn’t think.
His brain was a soup of tits and grunts and pussy and muscle and cum.
“Fuckkk, you feel tight as shit,” he gasped, burying his face in her neck. His breath reeked of Monster, cheese fries, and a spliff he barely knew how to roll. His tongue lolled out, sloppy and wet, dragging across her sweaty skin like a dumb mutt in heat. “Gonna fill that little hole, babe… put a fuckin’ baby in that pussy... heh…”
The bed groaned under him. His massive thighs, covered in thick hair and smeared pre-cum, clenched as he picked up the pace.
His nuts slapped heavy and low, drenched in sweat, stinking of dorm-room socks and the same pair of boxers he’d worn for three days straight. He hadn’t showered since Monday. Or was it Sunday? Whatever.
“Yo… fuckin’ squirt on me, bitch,” he slurred, eyes rolling back. “Fuckkk I’m so horny all the fuckin’ time, bro… like—like my fuckin’ BALLS NEVER EMPTY—”
He collapsed forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling it so hard she gasped.
“Yeeaaahh, take it—take that fuckin’ loser seed—“
His face twisted. His neck flexed. His lips peeled back in a crooked, animalistic snarl.
“UHHHHNNNFFFFGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
He came like an animal, howling, his brain flashing white with tits and asses and stupid Snapchats and some vague memory of a dude he used to know named… something. Ethan? No. Evan?
He rolled off her, his body leaving a wet, sour print on the sheets. His cock flopped to the side, drooling cum, soft but still twitching.
He let out a gargantuan fart, laughed, then scratched his pubes lazily as he reached for his vape and a half-finished can of Natty Ice.
AJ squinted, rubbed his eyes, burped.
“nah bro jus blew sum bitch out lmao 🤙 still stinkin haha”
He chuckled at his own message, sniffed his fingers, and turned toward the girl still lying there in a daze.
“You uh… u got a sandwich or somethin?”
AJ yawned, nuts sticking to his thigh, a crust of cum drying in the tangle of his body hair.
He scratched his belly and grinned.
No job. No clue. No shame.
Just dumb, smelly, horny.
And loving every second of it.
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