Cannot thank @c0rruptedz enough for this amazing prompt!
“You must be the new neighbor.” The fatherly male filled the open doorway. “Brent, I live across the street.”
“Nice to meet you,” Soren replied, wincing a bit from the overly firm handshake. “Soren, and yeah, I just moved in a couple of days ago.”
“Has it all been going smoothly?”
Brent peered past Soren’s shoulder to the mismatched pile of boxes. It was Tuesday now, and Soren had yet to open a package that was not necessary.
“More or less," Soren replied.
Brent looked like the kind of guy who boasted about the local high school football team. He practically smelled of backyard grilling. And the more he spoke, the more a loose “champ” or “sport” threatened to escape at the end of each sentence. The decade or more between them would justify the slip-up.
“Just so you know, you’re in good hands,” Brent affirmed. “The last owner, Joe, God he was a great fella. Fixed this place up real good. Always kept the lawn mowed and had a truck or two to spare when asked. Wasn’t too sure at first–kinda flamboyant, if ya know what I mean.”
A thunderous laugh burst forth from Brent, silencing Soren. Not like he had anything to say anyway. He was hoping to replace the grass with local clover so that he would never have to maintain it. His sedan could fit four people on a good day.
“Any idea why he left?” Soren asked. “I mean, this really is a great house.”
“Got too small for him,” Brent replied. “Within the few years I’ve known Joe he’s already loaded the wife up with a couple of kids. And now he’s got more coming: twins too. That wife’s been pumping out boys for as long as I can remember!”
Brent howled again. Soren added another item to his mental list of things he would not be replacing. A wife, or any woman for that matter.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Brent finished. “If ya need anything just give me a holler. Or any of the fellas on the cul-de-sac for that matter. We’ve all kinda the same run-o’-the-mill kinda guys.”
Soren watched as the fatherly figure strolled down the driveway and across the street, his posture remaining straight the entire time. After Brent had shut his front door, Soren closed his own and returned to his previous task. Working as a remote data analyst at a high-earning company had made the process of moving a lot easier. Not only had Soren been able to occasionally unload his belongings during work, but the job had made it possible to purchase the house in the first place.
The combination of work and infrequent unpacking was monotonous, and soon the sun had fallen below the horizon. Soren began his nightly routine: brushing his teeth, night-time skincare, donning a fresh robe, and tucking himself underneath the linen covers. He read from his book a bit before turning off the lamp and settling down.
A few hours later, the corner of Soren’s bedroom began to glow a faint green. It slowly began to pulse and expand, growing larger and brighter by the second. Had Soren not been faintly snoring and buried deep within his dreams, he may have noticed the strange apparition approaching his bed. His nose however did pick up on the musky scent as the green gas grew near, perching over Soren’s bed.
“Another fairy?” The green gas was disappointed. “What are they teaching men nowadays? How to put on makeup and don a skirt?”
The green gas floated across Soren’s sleeping body, inspecting every inch.
“I shouldn’t have made the last one so obsessed with breeding, then he wouldn’t have moved away. Now I’m stuck with this colorful piece of work.”
Without wasting another second, the green gas rose up into the air and then dived down towards its latest victim. It slurped itself through Soren’s nose, crawling and squeezing through the narrow passageways. The gas then dispersed throughout Soren’s body, covering every bit of available real estate. Once all was said and done, the green gas settled into its new home, planning its next steps.
—
Soren woke up feeling tight. Everything was stiff, as if stretched to a capacity that Soren was not aware of. At first, he was worried that he had pulled something, or everything for that matter, while moving. But Soren chalked it up to stress. After all, he had just made a pretty big change in his life, so it would make sense that his body was responding to these adjustments.
Once he was ready, Soren was up and out of bed, beginning his morning routine. Typically, it consisted of a shower, morning skincare, a fiber-rich breakfast, and a light jog if he had the time. The shower started off as normal with his expensive shampoo and conditioner followed by a refreshing lather, but upon exiting, Soren found himself frozen in the mirror.
Presented before him in his reflection was none other than a light stubble. A bit more than a peach fuzz, to be exact. Since high school, every part of Soren’s body had been meticulously shaved. Luckily, hair did not grow fast on him, so typically he only had to shave his face once a week. However, before him was a mask that had appeared overnight.
Deciding not to dwell on it further, Soren wrapped himself up in his robe and approached the razor at the sink. His hand reached out to grab it but it stopped mid-air.
“I like facial hair.”
“Hello?” Soren scanned his surroundings, unsure of where the strange voice had come from. After a few moments of silence, Soren tried for the razor again.
“I like facial hair.”
“I…” Soren stuttered, his lashes fluttering slightly.
“I like facial hair. I want to try something new.”
“I…like facial hair…” The words left Soren’s mouth on their own. “I want to try something new.”
In the back of Soren’s mind, the green gas smirked as Soren’s hand moved away from the razor. Instead, it repositioned itself over the array of skin care products.
“I don’t need these.” the green gas whispered.
“I do…” Soren fought back.
“I don’t need these,” the green gas ordered again. “Men don’t need these.”
“Men don’t need these…” Soren agreed.
The green gas fed Soren the new truth. “I don’t need these because I’m a man.”
“I don’t need these…because I’m a man.”
To the green gas’s delight, this new logic delicately clicked into Soren’s mind. Testing the waters, the green gas decided to take things one step further.
“I should just throw this stuff out.”
“I should just…” Soren’s arm landed on one side of the sink. “Throw this stuff…out.”
In one grand sweeping motion, the bare arm travelled across the counter, gathering up every product before forcing them off and into the open trash bin. The green gas was impressed. Typically, its victims took weeks or even months to assimilate to its commands. Its current host however was weak, malleable and ready to be shaped. At this speed, the green gas assumed it would be back on the road by the end of the week.
Blinking, Soren slowly returned to consciousness. He found his way to the kitchen and began preparing a meal. Moving back and forth between the refrigerator and the pantry, Soren slowly grabbed his ingredients. Kale, spinach, frozen mangoes, a banana, oat milk, and protein powder. He next went for the blender, but as soon as he placed it on the counter, Soren found himself returning it to the cupboard. His hands then went for the ingredients once more. Kale, spinach, frozen mangoes, a banana, oat milk. All were moved to the garbage.
“I don’t…want these…” Soren said to no one in particular.
“You are what you eat.” The green gas joked, referring specifically to the fruit.
“You are…what you eat.” Another connection snapped into Soren’s mental place, a cancerous parasite ready to feast on his subconscious. Soren took the protein powder and, after deeming it acceptable, made himself a quick drink. He then scoured through his fridge and freezer before pulling out a log of ground chicken.
“After this…I will only eat red meat…” Soren mumbled as he lit the stove.
Once his stomach was pumped with protein, Soren moved to the final part of his routine. In his closet, he found a colorful synthetic tee, matching short shorts, and a pair of expensive running shoes.
“You gotta be kidding me!” the green gas fumed.
After grabbing his things, Soren made his way out the door. He oriented himself to his music app and located his playlist. He opened it, scrolled, and then exited. His fingers then searched for a local radio station, landing on one that boasted “retro hits.” Soren joined, a dated single instantly bombarding his ears. The green gas smiled through Soren’s lips.
Soren then broke out into a light jog. Being on the lighter side, his body rarely sweated. The sun was shining, the air outside was crisp, and Soren was confident in where he was going. Which was surprising, given he was new to the town. And yet his feet seemed to know where they were taking him. Soren followed along, unaware that the green gas was directing him to a new form pf exercise. After a couple of miles, Soren found himself in front of a gray shoebox of a building.
“This will work…for now…” The words fell out of Soren’s mouth as he approached the gym. “Until I get my…own weights.”
—
Soren quickly logged into work, surprised he had made it back in time. Somehow he had lost track of time inside the gym, his body automatically moving between every machine it could. Soren had never worked out before and yet it was like he knew every movement and every muscle that needed to be worked. By the end of it, he had had to sprint home, cursing at himself the entire way.
“I am…never doing cardio…again.” Soren had uttered between breaths. “Cardio is…for wimps. Men are not…wimps.”
His computer booted to life, and soon Soren was clicking away at the keyboard. The green gas watched from behind Soren’s eyes, curious as to why anyone would be so enthused about this dull technology. Images flashed, data was inputted, links were grabbed and moved from one spot to another. It was not long until the green gas got bored and soon had an idea.
Unexpectedly, Soren felt his fingers pause on the mouse, prevented from clicking into the next cell. It took a second for them to move again, but instead of doing as he wished, they instead opened a new tab on his work computer. Four letters were entered into the search engine; no results were revealed due to the company’s privacy software.
“Seriously?” Soren said, although the words were not his own. He tried again, and again, and again, using new terms each time until eventually he found a backdoor to open up. A porn website popped up, displaying a variety of tastes. At first, Soren’s fingers glided to the tabs he often visited, but the green gas straightened him out, sending the hand to the heterosexual menu. The mouse clicked into the “vanilla” category and landed on the first video that presented itself.
Both Soren and the green gas brought the free hand to Soren’s jeans, unzipping to reveal a hard, modestly-sized manhood. Collectively, Soren and the green gas begin to stroke together but for different reasons. Although a little too masculine for his tastes, Soren took in the stallion before him. Rippling muscles, a perfect dusting of hair, a tattoo that swirls along his side.
“Look at those tits.”
Soren flinched, his gaze shifting slightly to catch a glimpse of the large bouncing jugs. As a gay man, Soren was immediately repulsed. He had never shown any interest in women.
“Look at those tits.”
Soren tried to resist, but his eyes flash over again, this time for longer. She was busty with an hourglass frame. Eventually, his eyes moved back to the man. His spectacular shoulders, his glorious glutes. Recognizing the temporary setback, the green gas decided to switch gears.
“Watch how he straddles her. Plows into her.”
Soren hesitated, but soon his eyes were locked onto the scene, following the man’s dick sliding in and out, in and out. He was hypnotized.
“Thrusting into her cunt. Wrecking her pussy.”
Soren bit his lip, panting.
“He’s a man, right?”
Soren nodded his head.
“And you’re a man, right?”
Soren nodded even harder, scrunching his toes.
“And what do men do?”
Soren orgasmed all over the desk, getting a bit onto the screen and his clothes. The green gas casually sat back, marking this action as progress. Another connection made, another seed ready to grow.
Catching his breath, Soren quickly realized the mess he had created. He instantly cleaned himself and the surrounding area up. He then proceeded back to his computer, but found himself unable to delete the browser history. Before he could worry about it any more, he found his hand reorienting itself back to his prior task.
The green gas let Soren continue his work for a few hours, but eventually it grew bored again. It did not understand how anyone could work a computer job, let alone one hidden away in a home office. Now that it knew how easily Soren was able to give up control, the green gas was eager to test its influence again.
“I want to…continue unpacking…” Soren slowly got up and moved away from his desk, leaving his workstation unattended. He approached the first pile of boxes he saw and, zombielike, began to fumble open the cardboard flaps. Through Soren’s eyes, the green gas peered inside, investigating each item. Colorful dishware, a rice cooker, some decorative kitchen assortments, basic silverware. Soren removed the silverware and placed it aside. Then his hands retaped the box and brought it to the door.
“I won’t be needing that…ever again.”
This cycle continued for the rest of the day. Opening a box, scanning its contents, removing what the green gas deemed “acceptable,” and retaping the box to be sent away. Fancy rugs, a collector’s side table, the CD collection, pride flags, pictures with friends–barely anything survived the green gas’s harsh agenda. Only the basic necessities passed, and even they hardly made the cut.
Once everything was cleared up, Soren found himself returning to his office. His hands relogged into his work computer and opened up a new tab. Amazon appeared, and soon Soren’s fingers were filling up a cart. The green gas was running up a massive tab of new furniture and appliances to fill up the home, items it deemed appropriate for the average male. Once the credit card information was accepted and the purchase made, Soren regained full consciousness. He did not act on this opportunity however, as seeing the time and recognizing just how tired he was, he deemed it best to head to bed.
—
Soren felt even tighter the next morning, but the pressure did not bother him as much as before. Something told him this weight was normal, natural for a guy like him, especially as he was getting older and already in his early 30s-
“Wait, aren’t I only 27?” Soren questioned himself.
“I am in my early 30s.”
“I am…no I’m-”
“I am in my early 30s.”
Soren got up and stumbled to the mirror. The reflection before him appeared unfamiliar. A bit longer, a bit more muscular, and notably more worn down. The ridges against his skin were sharper, tanned and stiff. The stubble he had noted the day before had grown past the five o’clock shadow stage. His arms and legs too now had their own dustings of hair. The changes were alarming.
“I am in my early 30s…” Soren whispered.
“I have always looked like this.”
“I have…always…looked like this.”
Soren’s growing fear melted away. Instead, he found himself needing to pee. Soren paced himself over to the toilet and, after dropping his pajamas, sprung out his cock. A stream followed immediately after. Typically Soren was pretty direct, but this time he missed the bowl. A lot. His instincts lead him to the cleaning closet.
“I…don’t need to clean that up.”
A wave of relief flooded Soren, the lackadaisical reasoning removing another layer of stress from his body. Without washing his hands, Soren grabbed some clothes and made his way to the car. Once at the gym, the green gas led him through every workout he would need to know before bringing him back home. A brisk shower was taken and soon Soren was logged back into work. However, he did not stay at his home office for long–half an hour in, the green gas decided it had more work to do.
“I want to go shopping.”
Leaving his laptop open, Soren grabbed a pair of shoes, his wallet, and his keys. He made his way out the front door, hopping in his car and revving the engine. The garbageman appeared at the end of his driveway as he exited; the green gas peered through the rearview mirror, watching as Soren’s old life was literally thrown out.
The first stop Soren visited was the local car dealership. The green gas took the wheel from here, negotiating the contracts and having all the paperwork signed. By the time Soren came back to full consciousness, he was surprised to find himself seated in a giant, sparkly white pickup truck. Instantly, the panic began to set in.
“This is my truck,” the green gas whispered. “I have only ever driven trucks.”
“I have only ever…driven trucks…” Foreign memories flashed through Soren’s mind. He liked his vehicles big and American-made. “This is my truck.”
Satisfied, Soren’s hands started the ignition and brought him off to his next destination: the local thrift store. The green gas had a field day, tossing almost every article of clothing it could find into Soren’s cart. Tees, long-sleeves, and sweatshirts boasting the local and state sports teams. Athletic shorts perfect for the front yard, backyard, inside the home, and around the town. Loads of baseball caps, cheap slides, and previously used socks and boxer shorts. Anything remotely masculine was accepted, becoming property of Soren after a single swipe of his credit card.
“God, I’m hungry,” Soren grumbled, sitting in the cab with the treasure trove of new clothes stacked behind him. Typically, Soren would have just driven home to make a healthy meal, but the green gas had other plans. Before long, Soren was fishing out his wallet again, handing it to the drive-through attendant in exchange for a greasy brown bag. Its insides held a double-decker burger, a pile of fries, and the largest cup of Coca-Cola available.
Soren pulled over and as soon as the truck was parked, the green gas dove in. The wet red meat burned Soren’s tongue, the pure pleasure scalding his taste buds and igniting a craving for more. The salty fries and sugary ketchup were a perfect yin-yang relationship, followed by a heavy swig of the soda. In mere minutes the entire meal, despite having enough calories to feed two people for a day, was disposed of, gurgling in Soren’s stomach. The pressure speedily built up and made for the exit.
BURRRP!
Before Soren could be embarrassed, his other end joined in.
BRRRRRAAAAAAAAAP!
The fart was greasy and uncontrollable, sliding against the bottom of the seat and rising into the truck’s cab. There was a curdled element to the funk that caused Soren’s eyes to water. He reached for the switch to open the windows but the green gas was one step ahead of him.
“I am a man.”
Soren repeated it back.
“This is what a man smells like.”
Slowly, Soren copied the instruction, processing how every word tasted in his mouth. It was distinct, sharp, like his fart.
“I want to smell like a man…” Soren mumbled, smiling groggily.
PFFFffftttt
Another squeal of flatulence slipped out, this time higher in pitch and acidity. Soren felt his nose hairs tingle, welcoming the new, familiarizing scent. The green gas smirked from behind Soren’s consciousness.
“Next stop…groceries...”
The green gas had no issue navigating the aisles of the grocery store; it knew everything it wanted. Pounds of ground beef, potatoes, basic condiments, and hundreds of dollars worth of beer. By the time Soren made it back home late afternoon, his truck was filled to its capacity. His driveway too had some weight of its own, hosting the tens of packages the green gas had proudly ordered with expedited shipping.
“My man!” Soren was greeted by his neighbor as he hopped out of his truck. Brent surveyed the damage, taking it all in. “Bet this’ll boost the local economy. Is there anything you didn’t buy?”
“A girl for the night...” the green gas replied through Soren’s lips. The words were caustic like bile. Soren had never been degrading to women before. But he liked the way that Brent laughed at his joke. He liked the validation of his fellow man.
“Are ya free right now? I could help ya bring all this stuff in,” Brent offered.
Soren’s consciousness fluttered momentarily, being reminded of his responsibilities, but the green gas silenced him.
“Sounds…good…man!”
Brent grinned, moving towards a case of beer, opening it, and tossing a can to Soren. He then grabbed one himself and chugged half of it in one sitting. The green gas had Soren do the same, the warm, piss-like liquid mixing with his lunch and bloating his stomach.
The pair worked well together, shuffling the boxes in and out. Brent admired every new item that was unveiled. “I’m so jealous!” was his reaction to Soren’s new home gym set-up. “I oughta get myself one of these.” was his reply to Soren’s new 85” television set, complete with free subscriptions to all the major sports channels. “Nice!” to the thrift finds, “Good stuff!” to the collection of music boasting country's top hits. If it had an American flag or camouflage print on it (which most of the items did), Brent gave it a thumbs up. The giant grill though was by far Brent’s favorite new addition.
“You have to host a backyard barbecue!” Brent exclaimed. “With this thing, you could feed the whole cul-de-sac.”
“I don’t know,” Soren questioned, off put by how he was at eye level with Brent. He could have sworn he was shorter.
“The neighbors will love you. All the guys are gonna dig the whole bachelor pad mansion thing you’ve got goin’ on here.” Brent waved his arms around the yard and towards the house, as if the stereotypical, masculine suburbia was instead a form of Mecca. “Trust me Scott, you have to do it.”
Soren paused, “Actually-”
The green gas pulled back the reins, closing Soren up. It knew better than to pass up on this prime opportunity.
“I like the name Scott.”
The green gas had Soren repeat this internally.
“Scott is a manly name.”
Soren agreed with this.
“I am a man.”
The green gas waited patiently for a response. He did not believe the inkling would take, but then a foul smell greeted his senses. With a lopsided grin, the green gas took the silent toot as a sign of success.
“Actually,” Soren finally continued. “I think that would be a great idea.”
“Awesome!” Brent exclaimed, giving Soren a good slap on the back. “I’ll let the fellas know. Let’s say Saturday then. That’ll give you another day to unpack and set things straight around here. We’ll bring the food and more beer, and all you gotta do is bring yourself and that beauty of a grill there.”
Squeeeeeak
“...Sounds good, man.” Soren replied with a dopey smile.
—
Friday had arrived, and Soren was feeling the weight of the week on his shoulders. And his back. And his legs. In fact, he was feeling it a bit everywhere. In front of the mirror, he disrobed, dropping the old pajamas and robe into the trash bin. “I sleep…in boxers only…” Soren said to the mirror as he investigated his morning self. The hair across his body had thickened and spread, now covering his chest and insulating his pits.
“Men are covered in body hair.” the green gas reminded. “I am covered in body hair.”
Soren’s skin, which had tinged a shade darker since he last saw it, now showed some minor signs of aging. Small wrinkles, the tiniest crow’s feet, and even some whitened tips across the hairs of his beard. Soren did not recognize these changes however: it was the green gas who was evaluating the progress. Soren remained lifeless in front of the mirror for a few seconds longer before being moved to the garage, where his new home gym lay awaiting him. The stuffy air was choking, the potent smell of plastic pleather eroding the edges of Soren’s brain.
Just like the prior mornings, Soren got to work, shuffling between the equipment slowly but assuredly. This time however, the green gas mostly sat back, only hopping into the front seat when necessary. The green gas had spent hours picking away at Soren’s being, both during the day and night. The physical effects were already visible–very much so thanks to the green gas’s magic–but the mental effects were now evident too. Soren was carrying himself in a new way. He walked with weight, purpose, as if he owned every space he strolled into.
“Grrrrrr-!”
“Men are loud.” the green gas encouraged. “Men are strong and musky.”
“-rrRRAH!”
Pffffft
Soren dropped the final set of weights, grunting happily as he was surrounded by his own funk. Satisfied, he finished his workout and found himself in the kitchen, his hands preparing a proper breakfast of eggs, sausage, and milk with protein powder. He then went out to the lawn, the green gas teaching him how to monitor the grass, check for weeds, and maintain the shrubbery. It was then they both heard a call ringing from inside the house. It took a while however for them to figure out it was coming from Soren’s work computer.
“Look who it is.” On the screen was Soren’s boss, irritated. “Where have you been, Soren?”
Soren wanted to reply, but the green gas took charge immediately. “Doing…manly things.”
The boss blinked, not expecting that answer. He moved forward: “You haven’t been online for almost 72 hours. Do you know how many project deadlines this team has missed because of your absence?”
Again, Soren tried to think of an apology. He tried to think in general. “Why should…I care about this…stupid stuff?”
The boss’s face went red. “I don’t know, maybe because it’s your job? But instead, not only have you been missing in action, but in the rare times you have visited your computer, it’s been to go shopping and watch explicit content.”
Despite the green gas’s power, Soren’s cheeks lit up.
“Yeah, I had our IT team scan your hard drive externally. I had assumed there had been some technical error preventing you from working.”
Both the boss and Soren sat with this discovery. The green gas was enjoying every moment.
With a breath, the boss started again. “It seems to me that something is going on in your…uh…personal life, Soren. I don’t want you to lose your job, but something has to change. Right now.”
Soren gulped, understanding what he had to do.
“So Soren, what do you say?”
Without hesitation, Soren stood up and turned around. Bending into a partial squat, he ripped down his shorts and positioned his hairy buttocks directly in front of the camera.
PHHHHRRRRT
The massive fart was thunderous, ripe and rotten. It took a moment for the boss to recalibrate, his mind needing to be rebooted after what had just occurred. Once he was mentally back online, the boss shook his head, hiding his anger behind a wall of disappointment.
“I’ll have HR send over the details. We’ll have you return your computer next week by mail.”
And with that, the call ended, and so too did Soren’s career as a data analyst. Soren had worked incredibly hard for his position. He had done countless internships, slaved away at offices over pointless tasks. He had spent years at the company, building up his reputation. But now that it was all over, Soren did not feel a speck of remorse.
“Now I can…get a real job…” Soren mumbled, his face curling into a smirk. The green gas brought the work computer back to life and began typing away, Soren’s fingers switching between local postings for construction sights, plumbers, electricians, and other manual roles. The credentials needed were not an issue, and the pay would not be either. Soren felt the need for a physical job, a real man’s job. It was like this need had arisen out of nowhere.
It was almost noon by the time Soren had submitted his last application. As a reward, Soren decided to cool off.
“How do men relax?”
On his own, Soren glided over to his search history, pulling up the porn website he had visited a couple of days earlier. He was about to return to the same video, the one underneath the heterosexual side of the website, but his fingers regained control, instead pointing to a new topic. “Degradation.”
The scene booted up almost instantly. This woman had a pear-shaped body, her breasts already fully exposed. At the start, she was on her back as the brute of a man approached, hopping onto the bed and spreading her open. Soren’s eyes widened at the sight of his fat cock drooling with precum. But then, the man shouted at the woman, calling her a degrading name. Soren’s fattened hog proudly grew to full mast at this.
“You like that, you fuckin’ slut?”
“Men dominate women.”
Both Soren and the woman let out a groan, but for different reasons. After a quick dive, Soren’s hand fished out his heavy rod. Unbeknownst to Soren, the green gas had nearly doubled the size of the manhood in the time they had spent together.
“Beg and squeal for me, bitch.”
“Men own women.”
Soren’s mouth fell open slightly, his eyes fluttering back. The green gas filled his brain with new memories where he was in the same position as the man in the video. Thrusting back and forth, his heavy balls smacking the lips of her-
“Bitches like you are only good for shoving cocks into.”
“Men breed women.”
Soren’s face began to sweat. He felt his eyes growing glassy, his brain becoming foggier. It was like everything was becoming simplified, reduced to tradition norms.
“You want my thick fat cock?”
“You want my thick fat cock?” The words left Soren’s lips without hassle.
“You want to be my fuckin’ bitch?”
“You want to be…my fuckin’ bitch?” Soren felt the heat rising.
“You want my fuckin’ babies?”
Soren’s throat closed. He did not want to say it. He did not want to be this way. The green gas pushed harder.
“You want my fuckin’ babies?!”
“You…want my fuckin’...babies?!” Soren shouted. He was almost there. The pressure was becoming too intense.
Cockily, the green gas made his final move.
“Men are straight.” The green gas finally addressed him directly. “Are you a man, Scott?”
—
“I tried to warn you guys,” Brent shrugged. “This is simply the best house in the cul-de-sac.”
“I knew ole Joe made some major improvements but damn!”
“You’ve only been here a week and have practically invented paradise.”
“Kevin, anywhere that has an unlimited stock of beer is paradise for you.”
The group of men all laughed, their amusement rumbling through their stomachs. They continued to survey the interior of the home, having spent a good deal of the get-together outside around the massive grill. John was impressed by the scattered art hanging on the walls–hunting memorabilia, sports posters, and generic political imagery. Steve was a big fan of the signed football on display. Jason could not get over the bedroom.
“You can fit a California King in here?”
“I bet the ladies love it,” Kevin chimed in.
“How many do you have at once?” Steve asked jealously. “Two? Three?”
They all made eye contact with the home owner, awaiting a response.
“As many as I need.”
The men howled, and Scott cautiously joined along, becoming more comfortable by the minute. The green gas hovered above the conversation, invisible. This was Scott’s final test, to see if he could fare on his own without it. So far, Scott was doing well.
“Boys, when I first met Scott, I wasn’t so sure.” Brent led the crew back to the yard. They were greeted by the smell of grilled meats and propane. “I’m telling ya, there just wasn’t something…uh…normal about him, ya know?”
“What do ya do for work, Scott?”
“UPS driver, package delivery,” Scott gruffly replied as he took a seat. “I start Monday.”
The men nodded, impressed.
“So that means during the day I can use the set-up in your garage, right?” John asked.
The men laughed again, a boisterous chorus. Scott soaked it all in, absorbing their energy. For a man of his age–being in his later thirties–there was nothing he enjoyed more than spending an evening with the boys. Drinking beer and talking crap. The comforting cloud of musk and masculinity blanketed over them. Scott was comfortably dressed in a well-worn hoodie that disguised his furry muscle gut and a pair of beaten athletic shorts that displayed his thick, carved legs.
“Have ya got any ladies in your sights yet, Scott?”
Scott grew pale, although it was hidden behind his beard.
“Have y’all been to the dentist recently?” Kevin jumped in. “There’s this new hygienist, I think her name was Stacey? Got an awesome rack on her!”
Jason scratched at his sack before chiming in. Scott copied, lifting his leg a bit to allow out some flatulence. “Is that the chick with the blonde ponytail? I tried hitting her up but that bitch swore me off after she saw my ring.”
“What a shank,” Brent replied. “Guess our sole bachelor will have to move in for the kill. Scott, what do you say?”
All eyes turned to Scott again. The green gas held its breath.
Scott smirked, “If I’m fuckin’ this bitch, she’s gonna have to clean a lot more than just my teeth.”
Scott was met with a thunderous applause. Whoops and hollers. The green gas joined in the fanfare, even though it was unheard. Scott was filled with pride, but unfortunately, he was also now incredibly horny. All this talk about teaching that insolent twat a lesson had him boned up. But he knew that would have to wait. After all, the night was young and there were many more cans to crush. Bros before hoes, as they say.
That’s right Himbo. You’re built to please others. You are eye candy. Keep falling deeper. You will never escape the thoughts i’ve implanted into your mind.
The old you is finally awake again. It must’ve been twenty months since this self had control of your own body and mind. It felt like a never-ending bad dream as you watched yourself obey your jock roommate’s every hypnotic suggestion. You pledged a frat with him and surrounded yourself with only your—actually his frat bros, pumped iron with him every day, wore only his gymbro wardrobe, and talked like a chill bro neanderthal while the thoughts in your head felt like molasses trying to drip through cotton candy. He even made you only take classes that you could fully bullshit with the magic brain box... No, um... A large language model.
“What’s wrong, bro?” your bro captor Colton says, noticing a change in your demeanor.
“All this is wrong, bro!” Wait, why can’t you stop saying that word? You try again:
“Colton, you’re not my bro. You’re a sick bastard trying to make me into some dumb ass clone of your frat bros for brojobs and muscle worship seshes! But none of that’s me!”
“Calm down, bro,” he says. You suddenly slump a bit and lower the arm that was pointing a finger at him.
“Here, wear your chain, bro.” You feel Colton place the thick gold chain you’ve been wearing 24/7 around your neck—though you took it off this morning. And you suddenly feel a cozy warmth wash over you.
“If none of this is you, and I’m not your bro, then who are you? What is your name? If you can tell me your name, I’ll let you go back to normal and never bother you again.”
“That’s not fair! You put the dumb jock chain on me, bro! The hypnotic trigger… I… I… can’t remember shit!”
You grasp your head tightly through your BPO ball cap, in a vain attempt to keep your memories from draining away and this vestige of your old self from being suppressed once again.
“Bro, my head hurts,” you say blankly to your bro Colton.
ughhhhhh fuuuuuck bros... my head is so fuckin empty again 😵💫💦 i think i cummed my brains out for real this time... like i was jerkin it so hard last night watchin my own pump videos n i just kept goin n goin n every time i blew a huge load it felt like more of my smart stuff shot right outta my dick... now im even dumber than yesterday haha
i used to be kinda smart i think?? like maybe went to school n shit but now every time i nut my brain gets smaller n smaller. my big swollen muscles are takin over everything. i cant even remember what i ate for breakfast but i remember exactly how many times i edged my thick cock before i exploded everywhere.
look at me flexin these huge guns tho!! 💪😩 i was tryin to think of sumthin to say for this pic but nahhh... brain all drained out. just cum n protein shakes up there now. i swear my skull is hollow except for the echo of me moanin like a stupid whore while i pumped load after load. every orgasm melts another braincell n im down to like... three left tops. one for liftin, one for eatin, n one for flexin in the mirror like the brainless muscle slut i am.
i keep strokin it thinkin it'll help me get smarter but it just makes me dumber n hornier. my balls are always full n my head is always empty... perfect trade if u ask me. i try to read a text n my eyes cross n all i can think about is bustin another fat nut till my brains leak out my dick again.
so yeah this is me... big dumb cum-drained jock who just blew his iq into a sock for the 50th time this week. cant even spell "intelligence" anymore but who needs that when u got these boulder shoulders n a fat pump??
if ur readin this n ur smart... come drain the rest of my brains out for me bro. ill just sit here flexin n moanin while u empty whats left of my head.
Johnathan had enjoyed planning his class’ graduation journey very much. Even though it was solely his job as the class rep, but the whole class supported him. Everybody searched for travel destinations and after a while everybody agreed on the Big Apple. There was shopping for the girls and lots of cute girls for the guys and a travel agency named “Terrence & Ford Touristics” made a cheap offer. So when the day had come, Everybody boarded a plane in Berlin and about 3 hours later they landed in New York.
It was quite the task, holding a pack of 20 hormone charged 18-year-olds together, but he mastered the task and another 2 exhausting hours later they came to their hotel. Just like the pictures at TF Touristics had promised it was pretty fine for the price they had payed.
He confidently approached the reception desk, even though he felt oddly nervous. But the receptionist welcomed him with a warm smile and said: “If I had to guess I would say you are the class from Berlin, right? The people from Terrence & Ford told us you would arrive soon. So, are there only boys in your group or are there any girls, because of the rooms?”
Jonathan wanted to tell the guy, that they were mostly girls in class, but as he turned towards his travel group a headache ht him and then he suddenly remembered. Of course his class consisted solely of male students, they were a boys-only-school after all. Still a little puzzled he turned around again and took the keys from the receptionist, distributing them among his classmates.
After everyone was done getting their luggage in their hotel rooms, they reassembled in the hotel’s lobby. “How about we have a sightseeing tour now?”, Jonathan asked into the round, getting an agreeing murmur as reply. Armed with a map of New York, Jonathan lead his friends through the city streets.
Suddenly a guy on the far front, Erik, pointed at one of the advertising boards. It was for some Pixar movie, ‘A Giant in New York’. Then he shouted: ”Looks like anyone of us could play the main character, right boys?”, which lead to general laughter. It was true though, none of the boys was under 6′4″ and they were all only 18 years old. Jonathan was among the biggest of them, standing at an imposing height of 6′9″, standing head and shoulders over the normal sized people.
They didn’t even get around the next corner, when Frank, a guy in the back, called their attention to another billboard, this time for a line of beauty products for men. “Not like anybody needs it in this class, am I right guys?”, he asked and everybody shouting back “Damn, right!”, in unison, having people even turn their heads, because of the deep thunderous rumble. Jonathan knew everyone was kind of cocky and didn’t really care if everyone stared at them, well in fact they really enjoyed it. And why wouldn’t they be cocky, every single student had at least modeled professionally once and they had even been elected the most handsome class in all of Germany.
“Damn a coke would be nice now, don’t you agree?”, from in the middle of the crowd Anthoine, an exchange student from France, said. “Well, I’ve got something coke bottle sized right here.”, Erik replied and grabbed his packed crotch. The whole class burst out laughing. It was the usual joke around their class, since everybody was at least as hung as Erik was, some like Jonathan had even more hid in their pants. It always looked like a porno when they undressed after PE. One time their Coach burst into the room while they were all nude and half shocked, half joking commented that he felt like he was on a bull farm, seeing their oversized balls and cocks.
Not even two corners later the peaceful sightseeing tour was interrupted again, this time by a guy named Lukas, who laughed at the giant pic of a male model in an underwear commercial. “Hahahaha, what a fucking pansy, anyone of us would look better as an underwear model.” His claim was underlined by the approving murmur of the others. They seriously would be better suited for this job. They all were just plain built, but paired with their incredible leanness and their overall overwhelming handsomeness they were just walking wet dreams. No surprise though that they were only given male teachers, since there had been to many incidents with female teachers having multiple orgasms after only one lesson. And that was only from looking at them, although it would have been a lot less complicated if anyone of them ever bothered with putting on a shirt. ‘But it would be a shame to hide these masterpieces’, Jonathan thought as he looked into the other’s faces.
“Well I guess we won’t get far with sightseeing anymore, since everybody wants to read billboards. How about we return to the hotel.”, Jonathan proposed, but then he got quizzical looks from the others. “Dude did you hit your head on doorframes to much? Why would we go sightseeing in New York, we were born here after all. And did you forget we have a job to do?”, Carl, another one of the taller guys replied, waving a bunch of leaflets. “Ugh, you’re right, sorry guys. But why don’t we take a selfie, before we continue. Gotta show the followers online where we are.”, John replied.
After the picture was taken, they resumed their work. “Visit ‘Big Bro-thel’ and get a piece of us.”, John said, gesturing towards the extraordinary group of young men, he called colleagues.
Your brain has not yet registered all that has happened. The kidnapping, the waking up in a strange place, tied and naked. Being injected with some kind of liquid and feeling yourself slowly bloat, become lighter, until your captors laughingly tell you your changing into a sexdoll.
Next thing you know their dicks are in you, in turn, at the same time, in the ass, in your newly formed vagina, in you mouth, and your whole body is feeling pleasure. You wish you could feel disgusted at the taste and feel of these stranger’s dick penetrating you again and again but you can’t. You newly body screams for more and your brain follows.
Finally they retreat, and someone comes. You recognize your roommate. As he gets naked, he explains that he couldn’t deal with you any longer, that you were always riding his ass about being clean and shit and that he thought he’d give you a taste of that. He laughs, saying that it was surprisingly cheap to transform you, and that you’ll make a better sexdoll than roommate.
Deep inside you feel like you should be hurt, sadden, angry, anything. But all you feel is a deep lust for his cock, any cock. You’re truly just a sexdoll now.
Jake wasn’t sure why he agreed to attend his friend’s art opening. He usually hated having to talk to the type of people who attend those events. Lucky for Jake, he wouldn’t need to talk to anyone because he is actually part of the exhibit as a hypnotized frozen statue.
The conference room sat at the top of the building—fiftieth floor, windows blacked out, curtains sealed, lights dimmed to a corporate haze. The room was long and unusually casual, plush coaches set around circular tables carved from some endangered hardwood varnished into extinction. Twelve men sat around it, each one the kind of billionaire whose biography was always described with the phrase “controversial but effective.” Their suits were tailored, their ties crisp, and their souls collectively accrued from several centuries of monopolies, exploited workforces, and very well-hidden offshore accounts.
At the head sat Grayson Stone, founder of half the world’s largest logistics chains and owner of the other half. Thick-fingered, gray-haired, and somehow always sipping a drink that was never empty. He tapped on said glass.
“Gentlemen. Let’s begin.”
The room settled. A few of the men checked their phones. A few adjusted their watches. All of them carried the same bored, heavy certainty that nothing in the world could possibly surprise them anymore.
Slate cleared his throat.
“As you all know, the world is—pardon my language—fucked.”
Several men nodded solemnly, while others smiled in amusement.
“Economically, geopolitically, socially, ethically… pick a category. We have a crisis in every one.” Slate gestured lazily to the curtained windows. “Revolutions, pandemics, wars, the dissolution of attention spans, the collapse of traditional family structures, the rise of freelancing—” he shuddered “—and don’t get me started on democratic participation.”
A ripple of disgust moved across the table.
“Society has reached uncharted levels of ‘freedom,” added Elliot Brand, the tech mogul who’d cornered the cloud computing market. “People don’t want to follow rules. They want their own opinions. Their own facts.” He sighed heavily. “And they argue. All the time.”
“They think,” muttered Holmes Price, the pharmaceutical giant’s CEO, as if naming an unspeakable sin. “Even when we tell them not to.”
“And worst of all,” chimed in Bruce Dallow, owner of the largest construction conglomerate on the planet, “they die.”
Everyone turned to him.
“Mortality,” he explained. “Makes them unpredictable. Scared. Panicked. They do stupid things. They riot. They vote incorrectly. They write think-pieces.”
The table collectively winced at that last one.
Slate leaned back, folding his hands.
“Exactly. People are too complicated. Too varied. Too… human.”
The word hung in the air like an uncomfortable truth rather than an obvious fact.
“And men,” Slate continued, “are… well…” He made a vague motion, a half-hearted shrug. “Improvement is needed. But you know.” Another shrug. “We can work with that.”
Several of the men snorted. One of them whispered “Better than dealing with women,” and the whole table chuckled with the casual, oblivious cruelty of men who had never once been told no.
“But!” Slate lifted a finger. “We don’t have to tolerate complexity. We don’t have to tolerate intelligence. We don’t have to tolerate personalities that aren’t immediately useful.” His voice gained momentum, the tone of a man revealing the twist to a plan he’d been crafting for years.
“We can fix all of this.”
Elliot leaned forward. “With what? Psychological conditioning? Behavioral nudges? Targeted propaganda? We’ve tried and tired, it hasn’t worked since the late 90s”
Slate smiled. “More… direct methods.”
A silence swept across the table. Then:
“What, exactly, are you proposing?” Holmes demanded.
Slate pressed a button beneath the table.
The lights dimmed. A projector hummed to life. On the screen behind him, a massive slide appeared in stark white letters:
THP: THE HOMOGENIZATION PROJECT
Several of the men squinted. A few adjusted glasses. One or two nodded in premature approval, as if the name alone had sold them. Slate clasped his hands behind his back.
“Gentlemen… society has failed. Democracy has failed. Education has failed. The market,” he cast a look at Elliot, “has not entirely failed, but the customers have.”
Elliot nodded gravely.
“The problem is that people think too much, feel too much, disagree too much. They innovate incorrectly. They aspire incorrectly. They vote incorrectly. They form relationships incorrectly.”
He raised a finger.
“And some of them,” he added, “are women.”
(Nods. Several satisfied sighs. Somebody muttered: “Finally someone says it.”)
Slate continued.
“We need a society that is simple. Predictable. Obedient. Unburdened by high cognition, existential dread, or excessive personality traits.”
He clicked to the next slide:
PHASE 1: UNIVERSAL TRANSFORMATION
“And the solution,” Slate said, pacing slowly, “is to remake the world’s population into something more manageable. To eradicate variance. To standardize humanity.and to do this we must transform them.”
The room buzzed with various reactions of shock, amusement, and lots of confusion. Holmes Price gave a suspicious glance at Grayson, waiting to see where he was going with this.
“We will transform every person, across all nations, all ages, all identities, into a narrow demographic range: approximately sixteen to thirty-seven, all male, all engineered with predetermined personalities that are simple, agreeable, predictable, and entirely loyal to the new world order.”
A complete silence. Then someone asked:
“…Like… like NPCs?”
“Better,” Slate said cheerfully. “Like influencers. But stupider.”
“Whatever we tell them to,” Slate replied. “They are perfectly content doing what they are told. To be quite crude they’ll be dumb, the kind of dumb that will maximize our profits.”
Bruce let out a low whistle.
“That’s beautiful,” he murmured.
Holmes leaned forward.
“And how do you propose we accomplish this?”
“Transformation technology,” Slate said casually, like it was the kind of thing one might pick up at Target. “I’ve partnered with some specialists. Ancient biotech. Experimental materials. Nanostructural behavioral rewriting. A little alchemy. The details don’t matter.”
“So they don’t get a choice in the matter, I assume,” Holmes asked, at a confirming nod from Stone. He leapt to his feet, going off at the CEO. “This is completely unethical, Grayson. I don’t understand what’s happened to you. I don’t know about the rest of these men, but it will have no part in this.” He left out the conference room door in a huff.
Garyson tapped his foot. He said something into his ear piece. All of a sudden a scream could be heard, echoing throughout the conference room. The distinct sound of Holmes muffled curses gave the men lounging around the room a vivid picture of what had just happened in the hall. The room grew tense as Stone gave the rigid room a big grin.
“What matters,” he continued brightly, “is distribution.”
And suddenly the screen shifted again:
PHASE 2: PRODUCT-BASED DELIVERY
Elliot’s eyebrows shot up.
“You’re going to transform people with… consumer goods?”
Slate nodded. He gestured to a large screen set into the wall.
“Observe.”
File Name: SF-CR-Jeep
Manufacturing details: produced by Jeep then customized by Graystone detailing
Key transformation components: Saltwater Infusion - Vehicle’s metal frame pressure-washed internally with Pacific seawater containing dissolved surfer archetype energy signatures.
Leather Treatment - Interior leather soaked in Sex Wax–derived conditioning compounds, optimized for inducing neurological chill-out responses and cognitive downgrades.
Cabin Vapor System - Emits micro-mists of sunscreen, ocean breeze chemicals, and “perpetual vacation” pheromones.
Drive-Cycle Activation - Transformation accelerates with vehicle movement; vibration synced to mimic wave motion, inducing identity regression and brain reprogramming.
Testing: an oversized, aggressive, slate-gray Jeep—wheels raised, surfboard rack attached, smelling faintly of saltwater was parked on the side of the road.
An intern stepped towards it, you could tell he was an intern based on the way he carried himself, with meek manners and a sense of humility about him, his small body shoved in an ill fitting pair of pants and oversized blazer.
Obviously confused, rummaging around himself only to find keys that matched the unknown car in his pants pocket. Clearly exhausted, he shrugged and got in the car. As he drove, something started to happen.
The wind tossed his hair as it became sun bleached. His clothing tightened around growing muscles, before reforming entirely into a bright T-shirt and shorts. He grinned in a dopey sort of way as he cruised down a coastal highway.
“Brooo,” he said, voice cracking with surfer slang, “life is literally vibes, man.”
He didn’t even know what an accountant is anymore. Totally carefree surfer dude. His brain just… washed clean. All he cares about now is waves, suntan oil, and saying ‘heyyy brahh.’
The Jeep horn beeped with a jaunty little rhythm.
File Name: (F)JOK-SE-Football
Manufacturing details: manufactured entirely by Graystone Labs: THP division
Key transformation components: Injected Youth Hormones - Leather panels infused with proprietary AdoLEssence™ hormonal cocktail engineered to induce teenage-body regression.
Paint Mixture -
1/3 standard field paint
1/3 “biological extract” from retired NFL donors
1/3 stabilized adolescent athletic pheromonee
Contact-Triggered Hormonal Aerosolization - Heat from handling releases micro-particles targeting muscle density, aggression, and ego inflation.
Second Testing: Holmes Price sat on the metal bleachers, very angry at being forced against his will to come to such a place. The sixty-year-old CEO stood with arms folded defensively.
A football was tossed at him. He caught it reflexively, turning it over in his hands. It looked like a standard-looking varsity football. Except it wasn’t: The leather pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat.
Instantly, his wrinkles began fading. His shoulders broadened. Hair thickened, then fell into the perfect teenage-quarterback flop that was quickly covered by a hat. His suit vanished into thin air. His brain rewriting itself in real time.
He blinked, confused.
“Coach?? Practice already?? I didn’t—uh—I didn’t hear the whistle, dude.”
He jogged onto the field, shouting “LET’S GO, BABYYYY!” Not a single thought to his old life.
File Name: PR-EB-Gray Goose vodka
Manufacturing details: sponsored by Gray Goose liquor and developed in partnership
Key transformation components: Posh Chemical Additives - Infusion of investor approved synthetic preppy pheromones.
Youth Hormones - Same AdoLEssence™ base as [REDACTED], reformulated for oral absorption.
Bottle Composition - Glass blended with micro-shards from upscale Vineyard Vines store displays, containing residual “country-club brainwave patterns.”
Blood Alcohol Delivery - Alcohol carries identity-lowering compounds that target verbal processing and color preference centers through bloodstream.
Testing: The glaring, ice-filled wine chiller caught her eye. She was in her forties,a mid-level marketing executive, at a company party that she was NOT enjoying, but something on the drink cart had kept her from leaving. Inside the chiller sat a single glass bottle of vodka.
It fizzed faintly, even unopened. The woman opened the bottle and took a sip from it directly. Her eyes widened, it was delicious. She quickly moved to mix it around with some fruit juices on the bar cart.
As he did so, her hair shortened, then turned sandy-blond, then popped upward into the perfectly obnoxious swoop favored by boys named Chase. Her frame sharpened into lean teenage athleticism, her face youthful beauty Her blouse rewove itself into a colored polo layered over an expensive jacket.
His voice cracked as she stared at the party of people he no longer recognized.
“Bro… what the heck… it’s time for lacrosse practice??”
He left the party in a rush. Now a dense preppy teenage boy. The kind to grow up in a private school and never be told no. Sweater-over-shoulders energy. A bit clueless but completely harmless.
Slate walked between the presenters, hands clasped behind his back.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is only the beginning. If we can transform individuals through cars, sports equipment, beverages—imagine what we can do when we distribute these globally.”
He clicked to the final slide:
PHASE 3: MASS ADOPTION — FULL WORLD CONVERSION IN 18 MONTHS
“Automobiles. Footwear. Sodas. Toys. Gym equipment. Household appliances. Toiletries. We partner with every major manufacturer. We embed transformation catalysts into the supply chain.”
He paused.
“We don’t need to force anyone. They’ll transform themselves.”
The men around the table began whispering excitedly, the overlapping hum of eleven egos seeing their legacy written across the next century and the fear of ending up like Holmes if they declined.
Someone asked, “What about resistance?”
Slate shrugged. “They’ll be too stupid to resist.”
Elliot asked, “What about government interference?”
“Governments won’t be able to function now,” Slate said dryly. “Imagine how easy they’ll be to manage when every world leader is a twenty-year-old dude named Kyle.”
Laughter rippled, cold and certain. The businessmen leaned back, satisfied. Every one of them imagined a world shaped like a beer commercial, run by the least threatening demographic imaginable.
A world of bros. A world they could finally, perfectly control. Slate raised his glass.
“All I need from you is your funding.”
Eventually, a full scratching of pens filled the room, as every single businessman signed a contract, giving Greystone industries full access to their funding and resources. Yet as the last lines were signed, something began to happen.
Their faces began to get smoother, their appearances more youthful. A couple tried to sound the alarm, but their panicked shouts quickly turned into mindless grins. Their suits transformed into tiny shorts showing off massive legs. Their jackets becoming an assorted mix of tops: tank tops, t-shirts, one’s button down shirt melted away completely leaving behind a bare chest, showing off thick muscles.
Stone watched all this with a grin, he already had their money, he had no need for these men now. He poured himself more whisky, as he watched his old friend Elliot complete his transformation. Elliot’s gained muscle quickly becoming a sun darkened tan, his hair gaining a touch of the sun as well with streaks of blonde running through it. He lifted his tie dye shirt and grinned up at Grayson flirtatiously but without recognition. Stone looked over the rest of the men as they finished as well. Their hair styled in various trendy dos, some covered by baseball caps. Some glanced at him with dull, glazed over eyes.
He gave them all a final glance as he left the room. Knowing that his transportation department would teleport the room and the boys inside to a frat house in a coastal town. There had been many discussions on what would be the best to transform the investors to, options ranging from boy band to hockey team had been discussed before landing on the idea of a frat house. An addition that would be unnoticed wherever they relocated them, but soon people would notice the growing number of young men. Things were about to change, and Grayson Stone had many many many plans.
(New series, so excited!! wanted to do like short stories to help get my creativity pumping. This is an introduction so it’s more cohesive, but I will have more anthology kind of stuff in this series. Will probably continue this whenever I kind of just feel like making little one shots. Obviously this story is inspired by dumb and jocked’s the businessmen, all credit to them with the original idea. )
kaledo-art
stormborns
pixelskylines
titsay
areudirty
gummygunk
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
