“Don’t get me wrong, I’m cool with gay dudes and gay chicks but I just don’t understand why you guys need a whole month? What’s there to celebrate? It’s not like we have a pride month for straight people.” Kyle mused as he scuffed his trainer against the floor.
Garrett had to do his best not to immediately roll his eyes at his clueless roommate. “It’s not just about being part of the LGBTQ. It’s about celebrating how far we’ve and everyone that came before us have come. And how far we still need to go until we get real equality. It’s not just about celebrating how much we like being gay. Come on Kyle…” Garrett did his best to explain things to Kyle but it was clear most of what he was saying went right over the straight skater bro’s head.
“I dunno brah. I feel like you guys have it pretty equal nowadays. I see gay dudes, like, everywhere.” Kyle retorted, his obliviousness somehow making him sound dumber than he already was. It was clear he didn’t mean anything he was saying in a hateful or derogatory way. It was just the ignorance of a straight man shining bright.
“Not in the slightest. I wish that were true but we’re still a ways off equal rights.” Garrett insisted. “I get it’s probably hard to grasp if you’re not actually gay but please just trust me.”
Kyle shrugged. “Whatever you say man. I still think it’s a bit over the top. You do you though I guess.”
Garrett watched as Kyle sauntered off towards his bedroom. He couldn’t help but sigh a little. He could swear they’d had this exact same debate last year during Pride month. And the year before that. Yet every time, no matter how well Garrett explained it, the reason as to why it was so important always seemed to fly over Kyle’s head. Garrett liked the guy but Kyle really could be dense sometimes.
Unbeknownst to them both, a great and powerful warlock had been spying on them. Mr Wavell. Invisible as he usually was. He’d been in search of his next experiment and he couldn’t help but think he’d found just the right guy in Kyle. He was cute for sure. Lean but very hairy from head to toe with some nice facial hair that really got Wavell’s cock pumping. Not to mention that dumb skater bro attitude was enough to make Wavell want to bend him over the side of his bed right here and now before fucking him until the sun comes up.
Immediately Wavell began to think of all the things he could possibly do to Kyle. He could force him to swap bodies with Garrett. He could get him to hulk out of his baggy clothes. Perhaps even add some fat to go with all that hair and make him into a proper bear of a man. Or what if he aged Kyle up to his mid forties just to see how much of a daddy he’d become in years to come. Kyle seemed like the type to age like fine wine after all. However, after the conversation he’d just witnessed, Wavell soon landed on the perfect change for a man like this.
As Kyle laid on his bed scrolling through his phone, Wavell held out a hand towards him. Purple magic began to sparkle around his fingertips before shooting out towards the oblivious dolt before him. Kyle was none the wiser, his mortal eyes unable to see or detect the magic without Wavell’s say so. Before long Kyle’s entire body was wrapped in a soft purple glow as he continued to mindlessly scroll past images of half naked women mixed into his feed. The magic pulsed a few times around his figure before focusing down to concentrate on three precise points on his body.
His brain, his cock and his ass.
Kyle couldn’t help but shift around awkwardly on the bed as his ass began to transform first. It was the most subtle of the three but still necessary in Wavell’s eyes. Those unremarkable fuzzy cheeks he had hidden away in his baggy shorts started to swell and perk up. Soon gaining a bubblier shape that would jiggle modestly with any step he took. Soon becoming a shapely and supple ass, the likes of which anyone would be tempted to smack just for the sake of watching it ripple.
The 27 year old was none the wiser to his first change. However he couldn’t help but grunt a little when the magic pulsing around his crotch began to morph his cock. All his life, Kyle had been blessed with a horse cock. It was part of the reason he always wore such baggy clothes. Anything too tight would run the risk of looking obscene with how large his manhood was. But that was about to change.
9 hefty inches. That’s how big Kyle’s dick was when he got excited. Even still a staggering 6 inches while soft. Enough to give any man all the confidence he needs in life. But now as Wavell’s magic works its was in and around Kyle’s prised male organ, that intimidating size began to slip away. Slowly losing inch after inch alongside some of its formerly impressive girth. Kyle barely noticed. Only scratching his groin in oblivious confusion while continuing to scroll his phone.
Before long Kyle’s once mighty cock had shrunken down to about half of its former greatness. 5 inches hard and 3 inches soft. Much more modest. It was generous considering Wavell had all the power to give Kyle a tiny little micro dick but he decided not to be quite so cruel. Still it was a far cry from the cock Kyle had once had. It doesn't matter though. Soon enough Kyle wouldn't need a large impressive cock anyway.
With Kyle’s cock and ass now changed, his brain was last on the chopping block. The magic swirling around the dome of his head began to intensify as it reached inside of his mind and wormed around until it found what it was looking for. Kyle’s sexuality. The previous two changes had just been for Wavell’s enjoyment. This one was what he was really in it for.
Kyle found himself feeling oddly faint and lightheaded and Wavell’s magic systematically removed any attraction Kyle once had towards women. Draining him of any kind of sexual magnetism for the opposite sex until he was nothing more than a blank slate in that regard. Ready to be remodeled as the warlock saw fit.
Then came the fun part. Wavell had the pleasure of refilling Kyle’s sexuality with a pure unbridled lust for cock. Before long his brain had become completely fogged over with thoughts and images of handsome men, both young and old. His heart raced as he failed to stop himself from feeling hot and flushed at the idea of touching another man’s hairy chest or kissing his biceps. And of course sucking dick. Wavell would make sure to plant these desires so deep inside Kyle’s brain that soon the mere idea of getting fucked by another man would feel like a necessity to him. Like it was something he simply couldn’t live without.
Kyle had become a writhing horny mess on the bed. His phone discarded to one side as he reached a hand down towards his crotch. His diminished cock was as stiff as could be and sensitive to the touch. He reached underneath the waist band to grip it gently. He should’ve noticed how much smaller it was now but somehow as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, it felt normal…
There was part of his mind that was trying to tell him that something was very wrong. Trying to remind him that he was a straight man despite how much he wanted to bust a nut at the thought of swallowing another dude's cum. Trying to remind him that he liked women as he arched his back at the idea of being speared up the ass by an enormous cock. His mortal brain did everything it could to warn him. But it wasn’t nearly enough to stand against the might of Mr Wavell’s potent magic.
Soon enough Kyle’s shorts were down around his ankles as he found himself jerking off furiously to the onslaught of hot men that now plagued his mind. He’d turned over on the bed so that his face was on the pillow with his ass up in the air while he reached underneath to touch himself. He envisioned some kind of hunk or daddy coming up behind him and rubbing their dick in between his thick hairy ass cheeks. Teasing his hole gently before finally sliding in and giving him the pounding of a lifetime. It was all he could think about as his former life as a straight man seemed to slip through his fingers.
Wavell nodded to himself as he watched, pleased with his handiwork as always. He absolutely could’ve left it there and moved on after taking some time to enjoy the sight. But when he thought of a way to make this even better, he just couldn’t help himself.
He left Kyle where he was in the bedroom before phasing through the walls and into the living room where Garrett was sat. He was flipping through the TV looking for something to watch, completely unaware of what’d happened to his roommate. The unsuspecting man was equally unaware of how the warlock was about to change him as well.
Mr Wavell’s magic reached out towards Garrett similar to how it’d reached Kyle. Coiling gently around Garrett’s lean but fit frame until he was completely submerged in the warmth of Wavell’s sparkling purple magic. Though, just like Kyle, he couldn’t see it. What he would see however was the transformation it was about to bestow upon him.
Garrett’s change was no doubt going to be much more physical than Kyle’s had been, evident by how the magic seemed to spread itself evenly across his entire body rather than focusing on any specific spots. Then, with a smirk, Wavell used his power to begin aging Garrett up.
Prior to this Garrett had always been just a couple years younger than Kyle, having turned 25 a few months back. But not anymore as Garrett found himself growing older by the second. Quickly rising up through his twenties and into his thirties. He had no idea what was happening to him at first. Only that he felt this bizarre build up of energy pulsing around his body in an oddly pleasurable reverberating wave. Hardly even noticing the way his skin began to look more weathered or the feeling of wrinkles starting to form around his eyes and forehead. Or even how his hairline started to recede more noticeably as he started to approach his forties.
Garrett let out a low and satisfied grumble as he allowed his head to fall back against the couch. He should’ve questioned this weird and unnatural sensation but it felt too damn good. So much so that his eyes fluttered shut just dark brown hair began to see wisps of silver that didn’t waste any time multiplying as he continued along his forties. Even the mild hair on his chest and face started to gain a salt and pepper touch.
And finally Garrett reached his early fifties. Luckily for him, the rapid aging came to a screeching halt soon after. He was left looking like a delicious dad who most would agree was a dilf that could absolutely get it. Still lean and fit but now with a bit more mature edge. It was immediately clear that Garrett was just one of those men that age like fine wine. Only looking better as they look older. Wavell had just helped him skip to the good part. But he wasn’t finished.
“There’s still room to dad-ify you a little more I think…” Wavell muttered to himself. So he urged his magic on just a little bit further to keep moulding Garrett’s body.
The result of this was for Garrett’s stomach to rumble loudly. It was an omen for what was to come as seconds later, his once slender physique swiftly began to swell with fat. His lean muscle softening slightly under layers of string capable flesh. His growing arms filled out the sleeves of his shirt slightly. Those ballooning thighs strained the seams of his pants. His once hard chest couldn’t help but sag ever so slightly. But most notably of all, his belly started to expand until he was left with a nice hefty dad gut.
Wavell made sure to add a few final touches like making sure to fill out Garrett’s face with a little bit of chub as well as granting him a nice dad butt to match his belly. But even after adding all that sexy new weight to Garrett’s frame, Wavell was still hungry for more dadification.
“Hmmmm… How about some extra fur.” Wavell shrugged before snapping his fingers.
The magic around Garrett glowed brightly again. Then in an instant, newfound body hair began to sprout around his chubby new dad bod. Swirling around his chest and stomach the most but also giving his legs, ass and arms a good helping too. He still wasn’t quite as hairy as Kyle but he wasn’t far off. Especially as his beard grew fuller than ever before.
“Almost perfect. Just one last thing…”
The purple glow moved now and concentrated only on Garrett’s groin. Swirling desperately around his bulge as it began to flood his dick with transformative energy similar to what’d happened to Kyle. Only Garret’s cock didn’t get smaller. Quite the opposite. It started to grow rapidly. Getting longer and girthier while his balls get fatter and fuller. Not stopping until Garrett was carrying an enormous drooling daddy cock between his legs.
Wavell grinned. “There. Now that’s a daddy.”
As the magic finally began to dissipate, so did the warm pleasurable sensation that’d been keeping Garrett distracted. As such he found himself opening his eyes again slowly only to look wide eyed down at his new form.
“W-w-w-what the f-FUCK!” He roared in a panic. Even his voice was different. More gravely and aged. His hands flew to his midsection, grabbing his belly in disbelief. He was lost for words with no idea how to react beyond simply squeezing his gut a few times to confirm it was real. Every instinct was screaming at him that it was impossible. And yet… he couldn’t even remember what his body was supposed to look like? Wavell had already taken the step of removing most of Garrett’s knowledge of his younger self. Before long he’ll believe he’s always been this thick older daddy. But a little extra push to help get his mind off things couldn’t hurt right?
At last Wavell undid the invisibility shimmer on himself, allowing Garrett to see the warlock standing before him.
“Whoa!? W-where did you come from?!? Who are you?!?!” Garrett shouted in a panic, understandably so. Unfortunately he wouldn’t get an answer to his question.
Before he had a chance to wrap his mind around what the hell was happening, the suited stranger before him reached out and grabbed either side of Garrett’s head. Mr Wavell’s eyes began to glow a deep violet as he cradled Garrett’s head in his hands. Garrett sank under his control in a matter of seconds. Nobody could resist his gaze.
“You love being a daddy. Ultimately it’s your life's purpose, isn’t it?” Wavell told Garrett like it was a fact.
“I love being… a daddy. It’s my purpose…” Garrett repeated back to Wavell
“And right now your boy is sitting all alone in his room, begging for someone to go and satisfy his hole. He needs your cock Garrett. He needs daddy’s cock.” Wavell’s words sunk in nice and deep.
“My boy… he needs my cock…” Garrett repeated again, dick hardening slightly against his pants in response.
“You want to be a good daddy don’t you?” The warlock asked.
Garrett nodded slowly but surely.
“Then get in there and fill your boy with a nice fat load to show him just how much he matters to you. Understand?” Wavell smiled.
“Yes… sir.” Garrett confirmed.
Wavell leaned in and kissed Garrett on the forehead “Good man. I know you’ll do well.” He said before slowly pulling his hands back and releasing Garrett from his gaze. “Now get in there.”
Garrett didn’t waste a second. He practically leapt up from the couch before making his way down the hallway towards Kyle’s room. Wavell followed behind him, watching as Garrett opened the door only to be greeted by a glorious sight. Kyle’s ass was still up in there air, waving side to side as he jerked himself off. Who could possibly resist an invitation like that. Garrett couldn’t stop himself from pouncing on Kyle’s furry ass. The first thing he did was stuff his face nice and deep before eating out his hole like a pro.
At first Kyle was a little confused as to what was happening. The hot daddy that’d just walked into his room looked weirdly like his roommate, only older and fatter. Was it Garrett’s dad he wondered? He was too honey to keep questioning it though. All he knew was that the universe had blessed him with a hot daddy who was eager to fulfil his need for cock. And he welcomed it readily.
After recasting the invisibility shimmer on himself, Wavell took a seat on a nearby chair next to the bed. Watching tentatively as Garrett worked his way to finally plunging his huge dad cock inside Kyle’s hole. The sensation of which caused Kyle’s much smaller dick to pulse harder than it ever could’ve from masturbation. Before long Kyle’s face was buried deep into his pillow while Garrett made sure to drive his cock down to the hilt with every mighty thrust. More than eager to breed and claim his new boy.
Wavell smiled. He couldn’t help but feel like these two were going to enjoy their lives a hell of a lot more now. And as for Kyle and his attitude towards pride month, it’s probably safe to say that he might have a change of tone by next year when he’s going to parades and celebrating with his new daddy.
“Mate, you’ve got to get out of the water – the beach’s closed off!”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter – at least there’s nothing lying about here, and the water’s so beautifully clear!” Chris called out to his friends, who had been waiting at the top of the cliff overlooking the beach. Ever since the bike ride had started, Chris had needed to cool off. He’d already run out of water; it had evaporated on his skin after he’d poured it over himself.
No sooner had he spotted the beach than he’d set off running – and hopped into the cool waves in his full cycling gear.
But he didn’t know what lurked in the waves. An ancient water god, longing to return to the world, to slip into a fresh body, to wreak havoc amongst mortals. For no sooner had Chris stood in the cool waves than the god’s ghostly arms wrapped around him and his essence penetrated Chris’s body.
With a sharp tearing sound, the expensive cycling kit ripped apart – the god didn’t need a skinny cyclist; he needed physical strength. Muscles filled Chris’s swaying body; bones bent and broke and fused back together. His chest bulged forward, his skin stretching, his arms swelling, hanging further and further away from his ribcage as the space between the two parts of his body widened. His shoulders cracked as Chris stared, as if in a daze, at his swelling arms.
The god was far from finished with him. His voice grew ever louder in Chris’s head, like a mighty roar of crashing waves that seemed to wash away Chris’s own thoughts. It was the sprouting on his skin that threw Chris completely off balance and allowed the god to gain power over the hands of his new body. With no control over his own limbs, Chris’s hands massaged his chest, where a dense jungle of dark hair was sprouting. Chris gasped, unable to defend himself – unwilling and yet willing at the same time to let this treatment of his body happen. Long, dark brown strands curled across his upper body, filling the space beneath his arms, wandering down to his groin. Chris felt… as if something within him was becoming complete. “That’s right,” it whispered in the back of his mind, like the gentle murmur of the surf. “This is what I look like.”
“I…,” Chris whispered, his voice breaking as he spoke. His sense of self shifted as his vocal cords lengthened and his Adam’s apple grew larger, before disappearing beneath a thick beard. “That’s me,” rumbled a voice from Chris’s throat, his hands all over his body. The dark brown hair on his chin was now several inches long, thick and full, not a patch of skin to be seen within.
Chris no longer noticed how a pair of blue swimming trunks materialised from the tatters of his neon-yellow cycling outfit, stretching tight across his thighs, the hairs on which danced in the gentle waves of the water. He was no longer Chris. No, that pathetic little boy vanished, as if into a deep cave on the seabed several thousand metres below.
Pride and self-confidence simply oozed from the pores of the man the water was shaping there. Phorkys now closed his eyes as his hands glided over his hairy body. One last time, his hands buried themselves in his chest hair, then he snapped his eyes open. They glowed blue. In a booming voice that made the waves tremble, he roared his name. Then he spun round abruptly and turned to the horrified mortals on the cliff who had witnessed his return.
With his hand on his crotch and a lascivious gleam in his eyes, he pointed at them. “Come on over; my companions are looking for their return... – or the sea will come… to take you away.”
He bought the bottle of Hair Tonic on purpose and planned to use it with intention.
Most people digging through the back shelves of a nearly abandoned barber supply store would have looked for something sealed, unexpired, and safe. Owen did the opposite. He crouched in the dusty corner until he found the old brown bottle with the plain cream label: HAIR TONIC. No flashy promises, no modern branding. Just a faded list of directions, a date long expired, and one warning printed near the bottom: Store in a cool, dry place.
He smiled when he read that. That was exactly why he wanted it. Owen had read stories about men using expired tonic. He knew it could cause male-pattern baldness and grey your hair - but he was hoping to push it to the limit.
Owen had spent too long pretending he only admired older men from a distance or, preferably, from underneath them during one-night stands; taking in the smell of their sweaty hairy bodies as they plowed his tight twink college frat boy hole. The rugged ones - the men in their forties with thicker necks, weathered smiles, graying beards, and heavy hair curling out of open collars drove him insane. Men who looked settled into themselves. Men who didn’t seem boyish or polished, but solid. Masculine. Hairy. He wanted that look with a private, aching intensity he’d never said out loud but burned to his core. He was willing to give up everything to pursue that ideal image.
So when Owen found an expired bottle of Hair Tonic, he didn’t just buy it - he took it home, set it on the windowsill of his apartment, and left it there for three full days, baking in the hot afternoon sun until the liquid inside turned darker, thicker and slightly cloudy.
On the fourth night, he uncapped it in his bathroom. The tonic smelled sharp and old-fashioned, herbal and medicinal with something almost metallic underneath. Owen rubbed the first splash into his scalp, especially at the temples and crown, then worked more over his cheeks, jaw, and upper lip. He hesitated only a second before pouring some into his palm again and dragging it down the center of his chest, across his stomach, over his shoulders, and along his arms, legs and back. He thought for a brief second before deciding to apply the tonic to his pubes, cock and balls as well. “In for a penny in for a pound” he thought to himself as his dick chubbed at the thought of the daddy he might become - if all went to plan.
His skin tingled instantly. By the time he rinsed his hands, the tingling had deepened into heat - a steady, invasive warmth that seemed to seep down into the roots of every soft, nearly invisible hair on his body.
It was a couple of hours before he saw the first changes, while preparing for bed. The faint scruff on his face thickened visibly as he watched, turning from a dusty shadow into real growth: coarse, dense, dark at first, then already streaked with silver around the chin and along the sides. He touched his cheeks with a longing fascination as he felt the beard pushing out fast, filling in until it framed his jaw in a broad salt-and-pepper shape. His mustache thickened too, heavier and darker through the middle, silvering at the edges. He reached a hand to his face to admire the beginning of his journey to real manhood.
Before long his attention shifted to the top of his head. His scalp tightened. He watched, wide-eyed, as his hairline began to creep back from his forehead. Not dramatically all at once, but decisively - his temples drawing back, the hair above them shortening and refining itself into something more mature, touched with gray. He looked older within minutes. Not sick older - not ruined. Just undeniably more grown, more masculine, the youth draining out of his face and leaving behind stronger lines, faint crow’s feet, a rougher, handsomer structure.
Then his body hair began to grow in. It spread in rippling waves. Soft brown fuzz across his chest thickened and darkened, then turned coarse and dense, covering him in a heavy pelt that matched the collection of photos he had in his liked images folder on his TUMBLR page. Hair crowded across his pecs first, curling thickly and high, then met in the center and poured downward in a dark trail over his sternum and stomach. More kept coming—across his ribs, around his navel, down his abdomen, along his shoulders and upper arms. He gasped in delight as he watched the color shift: mostly dark brown, but feathered through with gray, less silver than his beard yet unmistakably mature. His forearms grew shaggy. Fine hair climbed the backs of his hands. He stared, breathing hard, as his body took on that older, masculine density he’d always wanted— thick, textured, unapologetically leaping towards middle age.
Owen reached a newly hairy hand down to his dick. It too had started to change. Hi pubic hair was increasing in density and coarseness at the base, with a couple flecks of grey in the mix. His nut sack was now coated in thick dark hair. He gave his cock a little tug, noticing it felt less sensitive, more mature, than his 23 years of actual age should suggest.
Owen was so overwhelmed by the start of his transformation into a daddy that he couldn’t hold back. He grabbed his dick and began to masturbate while watching his beard hair continue to lengthen, new lines form on his face and hair continue to spread across his chest, arms, and up on his shoulders.
His pace quickened as his breathing grew deeper. Images of what he would look like by morning flooding his mind. Thoughts about the man he would become and how he’d use his new body to dominate younger, smaller, less masculine men - men like he used to be. As he approached climax, imagining his conquests to come, he began to talk to himself in his new gruffer voice: "You like daddy's cock, don't you boy?! Daddy worked real hard for this body for you, so be a good son and take it deep inside your twink hole." Just as he finished the thought he felt his entire body tingle and tense up at the moment of orgasm - shooting cum all over the bathroom vanity. After glowing in the afterlight of his virtual conquest for a few minutes, he cleaned up the mess, gave himself one last once over, and turned in for the night - drifting to sleep with his entire body lightly tingling as the Hair Tonic continued to reconfigure him.
By morning, the transformation had settled completely. Owen woke heavier through the chest and shoulders, his features subtly matured into the kind of handsome that didn’t belong to a man in his twenties anymore. In the bathroom mirror, the young fresh-faced guy he’d been was gone. Looking back at him was a man in his forties - a true daddy: shorter, receded hair brushed neatly back; gray at the temples; a full salt-and-pepper beard shaping his face; stronger smile lines; a calmer, steadier gaze.
His torso was lavish with hair — dense over the chest, tapering down the stomach, thick at the shoulders and arms, exactly as he’d imagined but somehow better because it was his. The beard had gone grayer than the rest, giving his face the distinguished look he’d secretly craved, while the body hair stayed darker, richer, and more virile.
He stood there for a long time, palm spread over the new weight of hair on his chest, thumb brushing through the beard at his jaw.
The bottle sat on the sink in front of him, half-empty, its faded label curling at the edges. HAIR TONIC. Innocent words for something that had known exactly what to do with him. Owen smiled at his reflection - not embarrassed, not startled now, but quietly thrilled. He hadn’t ruined himself. He hadn’t made a mistake. He had made himself into the man he’d been longing to become - the perfect daddy.
As he updated his dating profile apps the messages started pouring in. Owen had worked hard and gambled big - and now it was daddy’s time to play with all of the young eager twinks in the greater Atlanta area.
By the time Connor found the aprons again, he’d already forgotten ever seeing them before. Well, some version of Connor had seen them before…even if not this one.
They were in the back seat of Mason’s car in a crinkled costume-shop bag, wedged between a half-empty case of hard seltzer and a book bag. Connor dragged the bag out by one handle while they were parked in front of the Delta-Alpha-Delta house, both of them half-dressed and already late for the brothers annual costume bash.
“Dude, you promised to get us real costumes!” Mason huffed. “Tell me these aprons aren’t our costumes!”
Connor reached into the bag and pulled out the red one first. It unfolded in a bright square of cotton and cheap black lettering:
KING OF THE GRILL
He laughed immediately. “Oh, absolutely these are our costumes.”
Mason took the second apron and held it up by the neck loop. Dark blue denim, big stitched pocket, silver letters across the chest:
ASK ME ABOUT MY MARINADE
Mason stared at it, then at Connor, and started laughing too. “This is so bad.”
“Exactly! It’s perfect.” Connor draped the red apron over his bare chest. “We go as two dads!”
Mason slipped the blue one over his head and started creating a back-story to help his general disappointment in his friend’s decision in costumes subside. “Two divorced dads, specifically.”
“Two hot divorced dads” Connor retorted before Mason could even finish.
“From a cul-de-sac in Ohio!”
Both men laughed for a few seconds - proud of their addenda to the underwhelming presentation of the aprons. Connor adjusted the neck strap and frowned for a second. “Do these feel… weird to you?”
“Weird how?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know.” He tugged at the apron front. “Familiar? Maybe?”
Mason looked down at his own apron and shrugged. “Probably because they’re the most spiritually correct costumes we’ve ever had.”
That felt like enough of an answer. Connor snorted, grabbed a backwards baseball cap from the dash, and slapped it onto Mason’s head. Mason retaliated by swiping Connor’s plastic sunglasses from the cupholder and shoving them at him.
Two minutes later, they walked into the ΔΑΔ house with a swagger and the undeserved confidence of two young men who had planned their costumes well in advance.
The party was already in full swing. Music thumped through the floorboards. The downstairs smelled like beer, sweat, and whatever someone had burned in the kitchen an hour ago. Brothers were everywhere - Roman togas, cowboy hats, football pads, fake mustaches, jerseys, nothing coherent or cerebral. A few shouted as soon as Connor and Mason came through the front room.
“Holy hell,” someone yelled from the couch. “It’s the grill masters!”
“Delta Alpha Delta!” another brother shouted. “More like DAD!” That got a bigger cheer than it deserved.
Connor spread his arms theatrically, red apron on full display. “Gentlemen, I’m here to discuss propane and propane accessories!”
Mason patted the pocket on his blue apron and said, dead seriously, “Don’t ask me what’s in the marinade if you’re not prepared for the answer!”
Someone, probably already wasted, nearly fell off a barstool laughing. For the first half hour, that was all it was: a dumb bit, a good bit, the kind of costume that got funnier the drunker everyone got - and you can be sure people were plenty drunk. Connor and Mason played into it shamelessly. Connor stood in the kitchen with one hand on his hip telling a pledge made up stories about the tragedy of overdone burgers. Mason accepted a beer and immediately started lecturing nobody about optimal meat refrigeration times.
Every now and then, though, one of them would glance down at the apron he was wearing and feel a tiny useless twinge, like when you heard part of a song you almost knew. Something about the fabric. Something about the cut. Something hovering just out of reach.
Then Tyler and Eli cornered them by the stairs. Tyler was in a pale blue polo and backward white cap, already flushed from drinking, carrying a giant foam cup like it was part of his costume - which otherwise seemed non-existant. Eli stood next to him in jeans and an old fraternity T-shirt, glasses slipping down his nose.
“You guys have to let us try those on,” Tyler said, pointing between them. “Just for a minute.”
“For what?” Mason asked.
Tyler grinned. “Because I want to see if we can pull off "Father of the Year" energy! I have dad jokes for days!”
“And I want to see if this one,” Eli said, flicking the blue apron, “can make me look like I refinance boats for a living. And besides - our non-existent costumes are lame and you guys have had enough attention already! Spread the love!”
Connor looked at Mason. Mason looked at Connor. Both shrugged.
“Fine,” Connor said. “But if you spill anything on King of the Grill, I swear to God…”
Tyler saluted and snatched the red apron. Eli took the blue one more carefully.
“There’s a mirror upstairs, let's use it to take some selfies” Tyler said. “We’ll be back in two minutes.”
Connor watched them head up the stairs shoulder to shoulder, aprons hanging from their hands. He felt that odd twinge again, stronger this time, and rubbed the back of his neck.
“What?” Mason asked.
“Nothing,” Connor said. “I just had the strangest feeling.”
“About?”
He watched Tyler and Eli disappear down the upstairs hall. “No clue.”
⸻
The upstairs half-bathroom at the ΔΑΔ house was barely big enough for two men to stand in shoulder to shoulder without elbowing each other, which made it exactly the kind of place Tyler and Eli would choose for a joke selfie.
Tyler put the red apron on first, still laughing. “Tell me honestly,” he said, turning toward the mirror. “Am I giving neighborhood cookout dad?”
Eli, already looping the denim apron over his head, smirked. “You’re giving ‘asks if the beer in the fridge is for everybody.’”
Tyler barked a laugh. “That’s the same thing!”
Then he stopped. His smile lingered a second too long on his face before slipping. He tugged at the neck strap. “Dude.”
Eli was staring at himself now too. “Why does this suddenly feel tight?”
The room seemed to shrink around them. Tyler’s shoulders jerked first, broadening under the red apron not with youthful gym definition but with the heavier, denser width of an older man. His chest thickened. His waist pushed outward, not soft exactly, but settling into a substantial, middle-aged solidity. The pale blue polo beneath the apron tightened, then changed with him, seams stretching and reshaping into an older cut that fit a thicker torso.
“Connor got the wrong size or something,” Tyler started to joke, but his voice snagged halfway down into something deeper, rougher. He grabbed the sink.
In the mirror, a dark blur spread over his jaw. Beard stubble pushed through smooth skin all at once, not in patches but in a fast, bristling wave, thickening up his cheeks, darkening his chin, filling into a full beard that framed a face broadening by the second. His cheeks got heavier. The easy, loose planes of a college kid’s face settled into the lined, lived-in structure of a man around fifty. His nose looked more pronounced. Crow’s feet pinched into the corners of his eyes. Beneath the backward cap, the front of his hairline crept backward, temples clearing, then the crown thinning until the cap sat oddly over less hair than it had a second ago.
“Eli!” Tyler said, and the name came out in the voice and tone of his father.
Eli lurched back against the towel rack. “No, no, no.”
His own change was racing him. The glasses on his face shifted as his features thickened underneath them. His jaw got broader. His cheeks filled. The bridge of his nose hardened into a stronger line. Beneath the blue apron, his slim torso filled out, shoulders becoming denser, chest fuller, stomach firmer and thicker. Dark chest hair pushed up under the collar of his T-shirt and spilled higher as if it had always been there. His hairline retreated in a smooth, merciless line at the temples, leaving the front slightly higher, more mature, more undeniably his father’s.
Across his upper lip, a thick dark mustache grew in dense and fast, heavy enough to change his whole expression. His forearms roughened. Hair spread darker over them. Even his posture changed, settling lower and sturdier.
Tyler stared at him in horror. “You look like—”
“Don’t say it,” Eli snapped, except it didn’t come out like Eli anymore. It came out like a man in his early forties who had spent years answering work calls on speakerphone. He clutched the sink next to Tyler, the mustache on his face making the motion look absurdly natural. “You look like your—”
Tyler’s cap no longer fit right. He pulled it off and stared at the thinning hair beneath it, then at the beard shadow swallowing the lower half of his face. Hair had started creeping out at the open neck of his shirt. His arms were thicker, dusted with more hair. His stomach pressed solidly against the apron front.
For one brief, impossible instant, both men understood exactly what was happening. Tyler saw his own father in the mirror wearing his expression and Eli saw his father’s mustache settle onto his own face.
Then the understanding loosened. The panic didn’t vanish so much as slide sideways, becoming confusion with nowhere to land.
Tyler blinked at the mirror. “Why am I…” He frowned. “Whose house is this?”
Eli touched his mustache, puzzled but no longer terrified. “I was looking for a bathroom, I think?”
Tyler peeled the red apron off automatically, as if it were the least important part of the situation, and dropped it on the sink. Eli unlooped the blue one and hung it on a hook near the sink. Then they looked at each other.
“Do I know you?” Tyler asked.
Eli squinted. “Maybe? Why are we in the bathroom together?”
After a few seconds the two middle-aged men walked back into the party like they had taken a wrong turn at a neighborhood cookout.
⸻
Connor noticed Tyler first. Or the man who had been Tyler first anyway. There was a thick-built, bearded man standing by the chips in a better-fitting version of Tyler’s polo, turning slowly in place like he had entered the wrong address. He looked about fifty, broad through the chest and waist, hairline receded, beard neat but full. He had Tyler’s eyes.
Connor laughed out loud before he could stop himself. “Okay, who invited somebody’s dad?”
Mason, coming out of the kitchen, followed his gaze - and then froze. At the far end of the room, another older man had just emerged from the hall. Early forties maybe. Glasses. Receding brown hair. Thick mustache. Sturdier build than Eli had had by a wide margin. He looked around with calm, low-grade confusion and accepted a beer from a passing brother without asking questions.
“That’s not funny,” Mason said quietly.
Connor turned. “What?”
Mason looked from one man to the other. “Where are Tyler and Eli?” Connor’s grin faltered.
The red apron was back downstairs twenty minutes later, crumpled on the arm of a couch. Nobody knew how it got there. The blue one turned up in the upstairs hall, then vanished again.
At first, Connor and Mason tried to find some rational explanation, mostly because the irrational one would have required saying sentences neither of them wanted to say out loud.
Maybe Tyler and Eli had gone home and someone’s actual dads had shown up. Maybe alumni were invited. Maybe the whole house had gotten more drunk than either of them realized.
Then Brandon disappeared into the downstairs laundry room with the red apron over one shoulder, shouting to somebody that he was going to “see if the dad energy hits different.”
He had already been one of the hairier brothers in the house - shirtless under an open flannel, dark chest hair, thick legs, built like he spent more time squatting than he did studying - which he did by a wide margin. Connor almost called after him. Mason actually started to. But by the time they got to the laundry room door, it was shut.
From inside came a muffled curse, then a heavy thump.
Connor knocked once. “Brandon?”
A long pause. Then a gruff: “One second.”
The voice that answered was not Brandon’s voice. Connor and Mason looked at each other. The door opened a crack first, then wider.
Then out popped a man with Brandon’s dark eyes and hairy torso but absolutely nothing else in common. He was broader, thicker, built like the older version of Brandon had been buried inside him all along and had finally gotten his turn to break free. Hair covered his chest in a dense dark spread that disappeared down over a full, powerful belly - more muscle than softness beneath it, but unmistakably a dad gut now. His scalp was mostly bald, the top cleared out and shiny under the overhead light, with only heavier hair around the sides. A thick mustache dominated his face, dark and blunt over his mouth. His forearms were huge and shaggy. He held the red apron in one hand like he had forgotten why.
He blinked at them. “You boys in line for the washer?”
Connor’s mouth fell open. The man frowned, looked at the apron, shrugged, and draped it over a chair before lumbering past them into the party.
Mason grabbed Connor’s forearm. “It’s the aprons!”
Connor shook him off automatically, still staring after Brandon’s father. “No shit, Sherlock!"
By then the party had started to tilt. Not all at once, not with a scream or a flash of lightning. It tilted the way a room tilts in a dream - so gradually that you only noticed once your drink slid off the table.
A skinny sophomore Connor barely knew went upstairs in the blue apron and came back as a narrow, graying man in the frat t-shirt, patting his pockets for car keys and asking if anyone had seen a Honda double-parked on their way in.
A broad-shouldered lacrosse bro vanished into the bathroom with the red apron and emerged later as a ruddy, barrel-chested father with a salt-and-pepper goatee, immediately complaining that the music was too loud.
Another brother came out of the downstairs bathroom older, balder, and deeply offended by the quality of the paper towels.
Some of the transformed men clustered automatically in the kitchen. One found the thermostat and turned it down. Another stood by the snack table talking to no one in particular about propane tanks. A third ended up out back examining the house grill with the solemn concentration of a monk.
Every so often one of them would stop, look around, and ask a question in complete sincerity.
“Is this a fundraiser?”
“Whose basement is this?”
“Why is everybody wearing costumes?”
“What's the password for my phone, my son always tells me...”
They were confused, yes - but not enough to panic. Their minds kept smoothing over the inconsistencies in their existence. A fraternity house party became, in their heads, some hazy event they had probably meant to attend at their son's request. Something odd, but survivable.
Connor and Mason tried to keep track of who was still themselves and failed almost immediately. Faces got slippery. Names blurred. Someone Connor swore had been on the couch earlier was now a bald man in orthopedic sneakers talking about mulch. Mason started a list in his phone, but the names stopped meaning anything halfway down.
Around one in the morning they finally found both aprons together again, abandoned in the upstairs bathroom where Tyler and Eli had changed. Connor picked up the red one. Mason took the blue. The mirror above the sink showed two flushed young men in a tiny fraternity bathroom, scared enough now to be quiet.
“Do it,” Mason said.
Connor nodded. They pulled the aprons back on. Nothing happened. They waited. Still nothing - but they somehow knew nothing would happen and not just because they wore the aprons to the party.
The silence in the room deepened. Mason stared at himself in the mirror, blue apron against his chest. “Why doesn’t it work on us?”
Connor gave the kind of laugh people used when they wanted it to cover everything else. “Maybe we’re just imagining everything and we attended a party that was always full of middle-aged dads?”
Mason turned and looked at him. “Connor.”
There was something in his face then that made Connor look back at the mirror. For one impossible second, the reflection changed. Not fully. Not like the others. Just a flicker.
The young blond guy in the red apron was gone, and in his place stood a middle-aged man with a thicker chest, stronger hands, rougher face - someone older, heavier, deeply familiar. Beside him, Mason flickered too: not brown-haired and twenty, but older, broader, with a more mature face and a darker apron stretched over a much larger body. A costume shop mirror. Narrow changing rooms. Fluorescent light.
A shopping bag. Laughter in voices that were not these voices. Driving home with the aprons. Connor jerked backward so hard he hit the toilet. The image vanished.
Mason grabbed the sink with both hands, breathing hard. “You saw that.”
Connor swallowed. “Yeah.”
Neither of them said what it meant. They didn’t need to.
⸻
By the time dawn started whitening the windows, the ΔΑΔ house no longer felt like a fraternity house. It felt like the after-hours lounge of a suburban rec center that had somehow swallowed a keg party.
Middle-aged men sat on couches rubbing their temples. One of them had started wiping down the kitchen counters. Two others were on the back deck beside the grill, speaking to each other with intense concern about whether the propane line was secure. Somewhere upstairs, a man with a thick mustache was asking if anyone had aspirin and why his son wasn't at the party.
Connor and Mason slipped outside with the aprons folded between them. They sat side by side on the curb in front of the house, the sky just beginning to brighten over the roofs. Empty cups littered the lawn. From inside came the muffled sound of dads talking over one another in confused, practical tones. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Mason looked down at the blue apron beside him.
“If it turned all of them into their dads…” he said slowly, “why didn’t it turn us into ours?”
Connor stared at the red apron. The flash from the bathroom had already started to fade, slipping away like a dream right after waking. But the feeling of it remained - older hands, a different body, the terrible certainty that the aprons had recognized them once already. He rubbed his thumb over the word GRILL.
“Maybe,” he said, and had to clear his throat before trying again, “maybe it did...and we have to tell our dads!”
Morris needs a job, Byron Industries needs an lab rat perfect for their new trial to make a mindless (read: horny) grunt. Paging through his favorite book while he waits, for such a reader he surely didn't read any fine print.
Wrote this one for a GSS challenge a bit ago! Here it is ever so slightly touched up with a few images added. This one's for all you real Melville heads out there. -Occam
“Call me Morris!”
The literature grad surely expected at least some reaction to his smallest of Moby Dick references. It’s not the first time he’s met with silence at the playfully pitiful introduction, but usually there’s at least confusion. This receptionist simply stares blankly. Perhaps there was a perfunctory smile under the facemask, but it certainly didn’t reach his eyes.
“Morris Baker, yes? For the interview?”
Still recoiling from his scuffed opening Morris is hesitant to speak up. All the well as the receptionist takes his silent quibbling as confirmation.
“Sir Byron will be with you shortly, please have a seat and enjoy our lobby’s amenities.”
Clutching his shoulder bag tightly as he sort of bows before stepping away from the front desk, Morris realizes that he’s not just working himself up. It’s not in his head, something is off about that receptionist. Sneaking a quick glance back, he sees the clerk is still staring at him. No? Staring through him.
To his credit, Morris stills the shiver that runs up his spine at the realization. Focusing on what matters, Morris convinces himself that between the two of them the secretary’s the weird one. That’s why the man didn’t react to his solid Moby Dick reference! Turning with a cocksure grin to take in the amenities the strange receptionist spoke of he wonders what he’ll find. It’s not every day someone like him gets to wander into Byron Roman’s business, after all.
Local celebrity doesn’t begin to cover what the titan of industry has become, but it’s certainly where he started. Morris remembers him being the talk of their provincial Texan hometown, nothing exciting ever happened around here so why not discuss the now-billionaire who escaped.
No one ever expected for him to return to their suburban ghost town to set up shop. Apparently disaffected with the West Coast preoccupation with burning money in pursuit of LLM’s and other digital faux progress, he felt a dire need to take his money elsewhere. For he is concerned with the world material.
Staring up at a painting of the great man adorning the wall above an elegant single-cup coffee machine, Morris can hardly believe they’re from the same ZIP code. That they walked the same high school corridors. Thick silver-speckled beard hiding a jawline everyone knows is as sharp as his mind, Byron seems like a man from a different age. One to be found amongst the pages of Morris’ classic literature more so than as the chief executive of an R&D company HQ’d in bumfuck nowhere.
And to think, Morris is here to work under him. Far, far, far under him presumably. The email didn’t say who he was meeting with, or really what he was interviewing for, but it must be for a low level clerk position. At least he told himself this as he signed an ‘interview contract’ that he had barely read.
Obviously said document could have held these answers and more but Morris was too excited at the opportunity to work for Byron Roman to even glance at the thing before signing. And now it’s almost as if it’s been washed from his mind. Perhaps that would be concerning if he were able to really recall it at all. But right now Morris has bigger fish to fry, sure of his intelligence at least, there is little else about himself he is confident about.
Too gaunt to be considered pudgy, too average to be dubbed attractive. Morris, like the CEO, seems to be pulled from the world of fiction, though one rather distinct from the epic Sir Byron Roman is cut from. No, Morris is more akin to a street urchin busking to sell matchsticks. Some Dickensian side-character that would be left on the chopping room floor.
Stealing another glance at the portrait wondering if he should hazard another cup of coffee, Morris can’t believe the sense of gravity he gets from the painting. It’s as if the man were standing her before him, asserting his masculinity through brushstrokes and painted posture alone.
Coming to this exact realization as he awkwardly averts his eyes and starts brewing a cup, Morris jokes to himself, “Can oi interest you in a pape milord…”
Unbeknownst to the off-duty barista, the receptionist has yet to take his eyes off him. Watching as Morris taps away at a coffee machine that inexplicably has a screen, he scans with concentration more like a machine than a man.
Only when the nervous interviewee sheepishly looks over his shoulder at the otherwise empty room does the receptionist at last avert his eyes. Having apparently gathered everything he needs, when Morris sits down with his steaming to-go cup, the receptionist speaks up.
“Sir Byron will see you now. Please proceed through the door on my left before entering the third room on the right.”
Letting the man’s words hang in the air for a moment, Morris puffs his cheeks and squints as he realizes this is the second time the secretary has outright stated he’s going to be meeting with the CEO.
The first time he had assumed it was a simple mistake, just a slip of the doorman’s hidden tongue. Having spent even a second longer with the mechanical man, Morris feels confident that he is not the type to speak in err. Nevertheless he opts to clarify.
“Hey! Hi there~ I don’t believe I got your name earlier, Mr..?” His question hangs in the air long enough that he gives up and continues. “Right. Well, I do believe there has been some sort of a misunderstanding? I-I’m here for a simply preliminary interview, surely Mr. Roman had better things to do than-“
“This organization is Byron Roman. If he allows some plain well-read fop to represent him in any regard, and that ungainly grunt makes an embarrassment of his name. Well.”
It’s the most animated Morris has seen the man since he walked in. Despite the cool collected tone he’d swear he saw the man’s eye twitch at the very idea of someone embarrassing the brand. Breezing past being called a grunt and clinging to being called well-read Morris tries to salvage the situation. Sure that if everything goes well that he’ll be working to some degree with the severe man before him, he beats down his nerves to perform.
“Of course! Of course~ I completely understand, sir. The squeaky wheel- err? Rather, a man is always judged by the company he keeps! I am simply surprised that a man as great as Byron Roman would make time in his busy day for an aspirant such as myself.”
Unlike the previous hidden grin, at this the secretary’s eyes light up with a smile. Like a faithful hearing true testimony of their lord.
“Well spoken Mr. Baker. Perhaps we’ll have a fruitful working relationship after all. Hold fast to that fervor. Now, if you don’t mind, please away to the next suite. Sir Byron will arrive to join when he is finished with his current business.”
Once more gesturing to the door to his left, the secretary’s face resets to its emotionless steel as he awaits for Morris to obey. Coffee cup in his hands he is torn whether to leave it or bring it to the second location. The simple decision almost freezes him in place.
He can’t help but overthink every single choice before him. Scoffing at himself as he clenches his jaw, in lieu of a decision he follows the path of least resistance and keeps the cup in hands. Still chiding himself for his perpetual lack of volition and his obsession with minutiae, he attempts to beat stoic surety into himself in preparation of meeting a CEO.
The process is interrupted as he crosses the threshold out of the lobby only to find an unremarkable hallway. Warm wooden flooring and vintage wallpaper give the place a homey vibe far more similar to a small-town doctor’s office than the working HQ of a tech company. Even seeing the large elevators at the end of the hallway in a building Morris knows is only the one story tall, he can’t help but be lulled by the place’s provincial decor.
“It’s like my mom decorated this place…”
Snooping just enough to check out the other few doors on the way to the promised third on the right, Morris finds only more beige doors. Their handles are covered with a thin layer of dust that his attention just glides past, much like it does regarding the gleaming elevator down the way.
Far less overactive minds would begin telling themselves horror stories and worst-case scenarios about wandering into the back office of a billionaire’s clearly shady studio. Taking a sip of his coffee and stealing one last glimpse of the empty hallway, Morris refuses to give way to anxiety. The rich light roast on his tongue grounds him, it perfectly reminds him why he’s come here today.
He is not going to be a barista anymore. The lobby’s attendant flickers in his mind as he swallows. A job just like that, maybe one where he doesn’t need to be quite so dogmatic, is that too much to ask?
Lost in thought as he enters the room. From the side of his eye Morris catches movement and spits up coffee as he flinches into the door in surprise. Instantly worried that Byron has been waiting on him and caught this jittery display, he tightens his posture and forces an awkward smile on his face to feign confidence.
His harried resolve immediately drops when he turns completely only to find a full-length mirror leaned against the wall. Sighing in relief Morris decides to use the opportunity to freshen up. Setting down his coffee he wanders closer to inspect his reflection.
Hair as unfrizzled as he’s able to get it, there are more than a few curly fly-aways sticking out of his tight dirty-blonde bun. Looking down his baggy button-up there are thankfully no coffee stains on its placket.
At least everywhere visible is stainfree if nothing else. The same can surely not be said regarding the sweat under his arms, but this is thankfully hidden by a neat cardigan and nigh-medical grade deodorant.
‘I’ll be fine’ He tells himself on loop, tugging his cardigan down to cover a wrinkle. Looking downwards his pants are simply too long and bag atop dress shoes he only pulls out for very special occasions. His belt still slightly limp even on its most extreme loop, Morris feels nerves prickle on the back of his neck. He absolutely won’t be fine, he looks like a fucking mess!
The barely positive mantra he’s been clinging to is succinctly batted away as the reality of the situation pelts away the hope he’d been foolish enough to trust. He hadn’t even applied for any position in particular, simply thrown his resume at the company’s inbox alongside a pathetic cover letter asking to be used however they see fit.
As if their CEO would waste a second of his day besides to come down here and chastise him for wasting his important company’s time. The receptionist held more worth in a finger than could be found in all of Morris put together, and he thought he’d be able to work a job like that!? He’d crumble under the slightest obstacle, some rich investor chews him out and he’d dissolve. Morris feels himself tearing up at the very idea.
Or perhaps he’s simply halfway to weeping for being a dumbass who thought things could be better. Always thinking. Too much thinking. He feels his fingers clench into his forehead before he even realizes he’s put his face in his hands. The pain of his fingernails scratching brings him back to his senses and after making sure he didn’t leave splotchy red marks on his hairline he takes a deep breath and turns away from his watery-eyed reflection.
Now’s not the time.
If this is real, and it must be. Then this is a massive opportunity he simply can’t waste because he got in his own head. He’s too smart for that. He’s smart, and Byron Roman himself has a position in mind for him. This is-
BING BONG DING DONG- DONG DING BONG BING
“Jesus christ…”
Nearly jumping out of his skin, it’s clear that despite telling himself to calm down he has remained well on edge. Looking up to find the villainous implement that startled him, Morris is shocked he didn’t notice the clock before now. Still recovering from the jumpscare he can hear a subtle tick-tock, grounding him in reality as he attempts to find calm.
Centering himself on the consistent clicking of gears nearby, Morris sits in a small chair and sets his bag down beside him. Time to lock in. Reaching down to paw through the couple of belongings he saw as necessary, Morris debates whether it’s best to read through his printed resume or to focus wholly on setting his mind at ease.
Obviously he’s not going to just scroll on his phone. At worst he’ll stumble across something that’ll stress him out more. At best he’ll look like some screen-addicted zoomer right when Mr. Roman walks in.
Fingers glaze the worn cover of his trusty bible. Melville’s masterpiece. Moby Dick. Thinking of the tome and the vastness of the sea within, the classicist feels the constriction in his chest just melt away. Focused on the sound of North Atlantic gulls in his mind, buoyed by the persistent ticking of the newfound clock, how could Morris ever notice the slightest hissing now emanating from the nearby overhead vent.
Book in hands, he turns it over a few times before opening it to some choice section on whales and their constituent parts. Morris at last relaxes back into his chair. Despite doing everything right, as he reads his pulse continues to rise. First putting his hand on his chest to feel its racing beat, Morris shakes his head and pointedly ignores how it suddenly feels warmer in the room to read the passage before him.
Fanning out his button-up he frowns and tells himself the discomfort is all in his head. Shifting in his seat he feels the pooling sweat in pits and resolves to ignore it. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he squints at the text and begins to whisper it aloud to himself.
‘Gnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed unrelenting.. Uh?’ Hearing something bump in the hallway he turns to hopefully see his interviewer interrupting him only to find it’s presumably in his head. Scratching at the side of his chest, carefully not shoving his hand deep in his pits, Morris purses his lips and looks back to the book, unknowingly skipping a few lines.
‘Or, if for any reason thought to be corpo- uhhh? Corporately, no. Corpor-really? Corporeally? Jeeez, god… I must be more stressed than I even thought.” And he certainly thought he was plenty stressed.
Leaning back against his chair, Morris closes his eyes and simply tries to find peace in the darkness. His foot anxiously taps on the floor, at first matching the ticking before rapidly outpacing it. And then it falls heavier. His shoes were tight from the get-go having rarely been worn, but suddenly it’s almost like they’ve gotten tighter in the last few minutes.
Every muscle in his body tensed, he uses his anxious tension to jump up with a start and pace the otherwise empty office. This does nothing to abate the discomfort in his shoes, but as he does so he begins to find that it is not only his feet that are suddenly acting up. Crossing his arms tightly as he patrols the small suite, his cardigan tugs against his shoulders like it never has before.
With a scowl he looks down at his wrists exposed from both his sweater and shirt. Imagining the surely pristine suit his town’s idol is sure to arrive in he easily works himself up anew about his foolish daydreams. Even worse than before, as if every already extreme emotion had heightened. As if they were still heightening.
Throwing his arms down and swinging them to simply remove them from his sight, he refuses to acknowledge how the twigs twitch with every sway. Muscle fibers that have been inactive save to froth milk and open novels suddenly twinge and burn with a need Morris doesn’t understand.
Struggling to make sense of the strange sensation, with pursed lips his fists cramp and at last it becomes perfectly clear. Aggression. Morris is filled with the all-too unfamiliar need to punch something. His consistent pacing back and forth immediately stops as the urge takes pride of place in his mind. Staring as his dainty hands curling into fists, Morris watches mouth agog as the veins on their backs throb.
The sound of his knuckles cracking larger with the force of his clenching is absolutely clear. Wispy blond strands that have long decorated his wrists seem suddenly darker in this office light, to say nothing of the fact that it seems like there are altogether more of them.
Hidden by his cardigan sleeves, Morris suddenly feels his forearms filled with force. Not knowing what a flexor or extensor even is, Morris is dumbstruck as he feels muscles reflexively constrict. Higher up his arm, and far more eye-catching, he is stunned as he sees his sweater catch on biceps like he’s never seen. Muscle like he’d never even been able to imagine on his unimpressive form.
Everything else is washed from his mind as he sees his arms continue to bloat. The shock from his sudden violent streak and even the slight pain still pinging from his shoes pinching more and more, everything fades away as a grin overtakes his shaky face. Panting almost as he lowers and raises an invisible dumbbell, Morris watches as with every lift his sleeves are strained further. And his arms continue to grow.
Hands stretch further from the end of his sleeves as the scratchy, darker curls spreading up his forearm continue to thicken. Doing everything short of drooling at his biceps bulging thicker, when it starts to strain against the dress shirt beneath, his vacant expression twitches into one of frustration.
Nose flaring in irritation, he unintentionally takes a deeper breath and gasps as he suddenly notices a pervasive stink has begun to fill the room. Sure that it simply can’t be coming from himself he raises his heavy right arm to look underneath and can hardly believe the sight. Sweating through both the dress shirt and the thick, once baggy cardigan, Morris can’t take his eyes off the dark, spreading stain in his armpits.
Stunned, his face burns bright red and then feels starkly itchy itself. The urge to scratch is waylaid by the far more powerful need to shove his head into his pit and inhale deeply. Get some of that sweat on his face… Maybe it’d stay there, stick on his upper lip and he’d get a deep whiff of his musky male odor with every single breath.
“Nnno… That- I cann’tuhh…” Words dissolve from his mouth and mind as his lips simply fall open.
Tongue almost lolling, his neck that had been surreptitiously thickening itself begins to lean towards his waiting pit. Converted to the cause, his barely cognizant rational self, tries to make sense of his need. How is he to fix the issue without truly understanding it. He has half a mind to unbutton his shirt and let his pits breath to the open air.
Mind wont to picture the bushy tangle of pit hair that must be hidden beneath these restrictive layers, he does just that. Thicker than his pubes and almost as scratchy, he imagines the chalky deodorant he threw on this morning simply melting away. Absolutely overwhelmed by the prodigious musk his pits produce, proof of his own prodigious manhood.
Lost in a daydream, one hand slowly reaches over to scratch the armpit he imagines and finds it just as hairy as he imagines. Stomach quivering as higher thought continues to vacate. Buried beneath two tops, even still his fingertips can still feel the deep scratchy strands that have begun to stretch well beyond their underarm stomping ground.
Lips twitching into a grin, Morris moans quietly to himself as blush returns to his pale cheeks as its skin tightens and grows rougher. Standing limply in the center of the room as he continues to fill out his clothes, there are a couple inches of straining dress socks showing from the pants that were ever too long.
On the opposite end of the garment, his growth is far more drastic. Never much of a shower or a grower, Morris’ petit package has more than filled his lucky pair of briefs. While one hand remains preoccupied with his pits, the other enthusiastically goes to cup a cock slowly twitching larger.
Quickly struggling to remove a belt now constricting his widening waist before it snaps, at the very same moment it clinks against the floor he hears his swelling cock strain his briefs. When it at last breaks free from his underwear and begins throbbing down the side of his pant leg, obviously visible, Morris’ hips twitch forward and he is brought back to the unmistakable reality of his situation.
“OHHHhhh GOddd~” Panting as he tries to make sense of this must-be nightmare, Morris stumbles over to the mirror to try and free himself from this manic hellscape. Thicker lips drooping open surrounded by stubble darkening from its blonde peachfuzz into a real man’s beard, he forces his face into his hands and tries to convince himself that these changes aren’t good. Cock throbbing in response it’s not looking good.
Thick breath mists the mirror, hiding the vacant look in his eyes as they trail up and down the reflection of his body’s new almost pornographic proportions. So focussed on the meaty arms hanging at his side, he had yet to notice how a forming chest suddenly strains the buttons on his shirt. Nipples encircled by lancing curls are absolutely visible through the sweat-stained top.
Hunger and need fill the spot left by intelligence in his eyes, he forces a hand to his mouth to stop a loud moan as his chest cracks wider, at last tearing the pitiful dress shirt. Strange new strength filling him more with every moment, he is again felt with the impatient urge to make use of it. To fight, to ff- fuck. Forcing his fist into his mouth he bites down to feel anything but the oppressive sensation pulsing from his cock at the idea.
Desperately willing himself to settle down and figure out how to wake up from this hallucination, Morris slams the fist not cupping his cock into the wall as he bites down hard on his lip to try and force himself back to his senses. “FUCK!”
Clutching his injured mouth he stomps a foot in pain as the taste of iron fills his mouth. This marks the end of his dress shoes as the seams on its front burst open to reveal long toes almost completely visible beneath the sparse threads of a sock barely hanging in there. The sound of leather tearing continues as his freed foot continues expanding and tears the tattered shoe in two.
Apathetic to the small trail of red dripping into the thickening stubble on his chin, he looks down at his mismatched feet. One with a shoe hanging on its ankle, still widening beyond the pale. The other barely hangs in there, shining leather filled to the brim with the mass of a foot simply far too large.
Gasping in pain at the feeling of his left foot trying desperately to match its pair’s growth while still confined, there’s an ice cold pit in his stomach as he at last realizes he can’t be dreaming. It just feels too much, too good. And then the other shoe bursts open, sending fabric and laces flying, the slightly humid air of the office a balm to the sole.
Somewhere increasingly buried in his mind, he struggles to understand. If he’s not dreaming, then this is real. His back cracks as he adjusts to stand slightly taller. This is impossible.
Staring at the remains of the most expensive piece of his outfit now hanging from both ankles, Morris tries to understand. It’s what he’s best at, making sense of something. Thinking. He has a degree. He was in debate and wrote for his university’s paper. At least he’s pretty sure he did?
Furrowing his brows as they begin to thicken from their patchy blonde, Morris finds it suddenly difficult to recall. Concern at his situation rapidly gives way to frustration which gives way to apathy. He’ll just wait for Byron to come in and explain everything. Surely he’ll know what’s going on.
As it begins to become more and more difficult to recall his higher education, his thoughts begin to drift increasingly to Byron. Picturing the great man does no favors to his libido, his trigger happy crotch is eager to twitch with fervor as Morris struggles to control himself.
No matter what he’s not going to be caught masturbating when the mysterious executive walks in. Despite wanting nothing more in the world to do so, he moves to sit down and struggles to tuck the massive cock in between his thighs before doing his best to cross the thick trunks.
Vaguely recalling he brought some book with him, Morris looks at the novel tossed aside and picks it up. There’s a flicker of recognition as he knows it’s a book he really likes. But as he reads the title he has to stifle a laugh as in lieu of that ingrained peace, he simply reads the words ‘Moby Dick’ “Pffff WAH HAh ah- Hrm.” Clearing his throat as his voice cracks lower, shifting to one which yearns to guffaw rather than giggle.
Steeling himself, as much as he’s able. Morris recovers slightly and sternly tells himself he likes this book. That he’s a big reader, he’s got a degree in books. This is his favorite book. But even as he flails to remember what exactly a B.A. stands for, the memories of going to university feel less true.
Surely he’d be smarter then…
When that thought flits to his mind the pride he holds in his intelligence returns. Determined to prove it by reading a book thicker than he can clearly remember reading, he opens it to a random page once more: Chapter 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
Eyes glazed over, the language is far too advanced for his simplifying mind to even begin to comprehend. Still, they drift over the lines enough for him to pretend he’s grasping anything before at last they catch on something: ‘Squeeze! squeeze! Squeeze!’ Exclamation points calling to him, Morris continues to read Ishmael’s account of processing spermaceti. And unsurprisingly, he begins to laugh.
While earlier he was reading to focus on the text, now he almost needs to sound out the words for them to sink in. Following the lines with his fatter finger “All the morn-ing long; I squeezed that- hehheh, Sperm till I myself almost melted into it HAH HAhah- Huh… Sperm… Squeeze…”
Biting the lip that has miraculously healed already, if only he could recall the injury, Morris’ now sperm focussed and squeeze happy mind can only do what the written page suggests. Dropping the tome as he manspreads in an office chair that now creaks beneath his heavier load, he swallows the drool pooling in his mouth. Looking to pants now decorated with small tears, the once-academic stares at the too squeezable cock stretching halfway down his meaty thigh.
Pants so tight he can see the thick veins through the tearing fabric, Morris’ mouth falls open as he drools outright, beginning to rub his own whale through pants seconds away from tearing apart altogether. Feeling it scratch against his curl covered thighs and the cheap satin of his dress pants, he can scarcely recall that he’s in this room let alone the reason why.
Pool of pre rapidly pulsing through the vicelike pants, Morris’ moans echo as he can recall no reason at all to quiet himself. As he can recall nothing but the pleasure emanating from his wanting cock. Louder than the clock, completely covering the ever-present hiss of the vent that has been steadily increasing; not that Morris ever stood a chance at noticing. His twitchy hips rut as he spits up over himself from excitement at release that is soon to come.
Every aspect of self and every stray neuron firing is focused on the rising pressure in his crotch. Morris can feel his balls pull up as his free hand clenches the chair about to break underneath his weight. Legs extend as every muscle flexes, and just as that sweet release is on the precipice of freeing him from the grand weight of his worries- the door knob turns.
Clad in a tailored three-piece suit more expensive than Morris’ apartment enters the prodigal chief himself, Byron Roman. Morris veins run cold at being seen in such a compromised position by that most influential man that has ever stepped foot in their podunk shared home town. Bolting up like a bullet, the horny man’s spine is straight as a ramrod.
So too is his cock as it finally wins the war against his cheap dress pants. Sending a small stream of pre flying as it bursts free from confinement, Morris can’t help but cross his eyes as it bounces in the air. Hazarding a glimpse, he can hardly believe just how impressive his dick is. Almost twice its previous size and veinier than his arms after the best pump he’s ever had, Morris would have cum at the very sight were he not wholly stunned from being in the presence of Byron.
Closing the door behind him as he enters outright, there is no surprise on the executives face as he inspects the goods. Striding to meet the man, he holds his hands behind his back as he inspects every inch of the man standing firmly at attention. Expressionless as he takes in every detail of Morris.
Zeroing in on whatever bodypart of Morris’ strikes his fancy, as he stares Morris continues to grow. Accelerating from the attention of the great man before him, as if every muscle and mindless body part were trying to make him proud.
Starting from behind, Byron takes an interest in the man’s ass. Morris twitches as his glutes expand, what remains of his briefs fall irrevocably into their crack as his hairy cheeks hang larger in the open air, stretchmarks painted across their prodigious mass like the work of art it is.
Eyes trailing upward, Morris' waist fills out to give his silhouette the most powerful shape one can imagine. Connecting his heavy chest with wide hips and heavy thighs, there is no way someone could look at the drooling man and imagine anything but strength lying within him.
Finishing a slow lap around his aspirant, Byron stands in front of Morris and does one last look down and up. Landing on his face, Morris feels his jaw sharpen underneath the perpetual stubble that coats it. His chin juts out like a superhero’s while his cheekbones and brow ridge grow just as prominent. There’s a small crack in the air as Morris feels his nose reshape into something either aquiline or one that has simply broken and rehealed.
Still frozen in place, Morris’ stunted mind only just realizes that he’s at eye-level with Byron Morris. It’s so unbelievable that it almost breaks him free from whatever trance he’s in. Feeling the sweat drip down his exposed midriff as a breeze in the room sails through the treasure trail etching itself up his puffy abs mostly hidden by his strong gut, a needy grunt ekes out of his throat.
Finally, Byron gives any real indication that he’s anything more than a passive observer. Waiting for his guest’s glazed eyes to look back at him, the CEO smiles. “So. What is it that brings you in today?” His voice is like an upright bass alone in an orchestra hall, tightly controlled, smooth, and completely attention grabbing.
Unable to string two thoughts together he grunts and tries to explain himself, “I- I, uhh… J- Job- s ssir…” Struggling to swallow drool still spilling from his overactive glands, he tries to stand even straighter to hide the obvious mess he’s in. Taking a deep breath to recover from the strain of speaking, he inhales a hearty dose of his musk and struggles against the handful of twitches his body enacts in response.
“I hope you don’t mind the subterfuge, from your letter I did gather you were quite desperate. So much so you were quite lax reading the fine print of- Well, I imagine you can’t recall anyway so what is the point, right old- Er? What was your name again?” For the first time Byron reaches out to touch Morris, brushing some shred of torn cardigan stuck to his sweaty skin as he asks the question
“I’m Mo- Mo…” Finally thickening enough to be the caterpillar-like brows he’s always admired on other men as his brow ridge bulges lower, his eyebrows furrow as he tries to recall the simplest of answers. Waiting patiently, Byron starts to massage his bicep, distracting him all the more. It’s his name. It should be engrained within his mind, within his self more than anything else.
Byron’s hand travels up his shoulder before shifting over to cup his heavy pecs, prodding them as if he’s inspecting livestock with a grin. “Come now boy, you must know your name! I read your very brief resume- or I briefly read it, rather. Hm, I suppose you couldn’t mind such a dig at this point ah ha ha!” With each laugh he presses firmer into the man’s chest, delighting as he quivers with need.
“I’mmm Mmmnhh”
Byron reaches up to grasp the man’s jaw with his free hand while he travels down the whole of his torso with the other. Batting away the shirt as he easily sails down sweaty abs and haphazardly detangles scratchy body hair, Byron smiles as he forces the man to look directly in his eyes. “You wouldn’t mind if we just gave you a new one? After all, what could you want more than a fresh start under my wing.”
Needily nodding, the now nameless man melts as Byron at last graces his cock with attention. Lightly grazing its veiny surface with his manicured nails, the executive gives one small tug on the meaty cock’s head and watches as pre that has been trickling down his shaft drips onto the floor.
Eyes darting to the book lying on the floor, Byron smirks as he brings his hand to his mouth to sample the sticky ichor glazing his hand. “Moby, hm? Isn’t that swell.”
Tongue hanging limp from his mouth as he pants like a dog, he must agree the name feels fitting. It feels like him. Or he would if there was a single thought in his mind. At the moment any higher consciousness, much like his blood, was rushing to that most turgid of organs. He was just waiting for Byron’s permission to finally become.
As Byron’s hand reaches to grasp what little of Moby’s cock it’s able, the new hire feels the peace he was always longing for. Mind simplifying with each small tug and twist of the fingers, he feels all he is and was drain into his balls as they pull upward.
Eyes rolling back as his supernaturally rigid posture twitches and almost collapses under the touch of his boss. There’s a blank grin on Moby’s face as he prepares to release the heavy weight of understanding. And with a few simple flicks of Roman’s wrist, Moby does just that.
Erupting like a geyser, everything that made Morris what he was is launched from him in pearly strings. His application and the contract he thoughtlessly signed, his few long years as a barista, his poorly received thesis and the best years of his life precipitating it; all converted to a messy cum splatter on the floor of this corporate office.
Moby pants as he falls back amongst the pools of his scattered past self. Bleary smirk on his face, the toll of almost doubling in size leaves him drained as his eyelids begin to waver. Pulling up a chair and lighting a cigar that had been hidden in his jacket, Byron Roman watches him overtaken by sleep.
He doesn’t remember too much about the man smoking above him. He doesn’t remember too much at all. But he knows the man is everything to him. And when he wakes up well, he’s going to do his best to make him proud.
Byron Roman never really saw the point in a grunt. His many underlings all served their purposes, true. But a body man, one always at his beck and call, one always by his side. He always imagined it would be suffocating.
Never has he been more pleased to be proven wrong. Moby has performed every duty even better than expected. Given their steamy first meeting it’s not long before their relationship grows beyond that of boss and muscled-up assistant.
His scientists always pushed one of their own to be the lab rat, but Byron has always preferred the humanities. While mechanical intelligence may have sufficed, Moby’s tortured classical passions gave his final form far more flavor.
Reclined at his desk, incense burning slowly as he stares at Moby standing over watch outside his office, Byron decides it’s time to call it a day. To that end, he calls his grunt over for their now daily ritual. Calling him over, Byron’s mouth curls into a grin as watches Moby’s tight uniform contort and stretch over his muscle with every labored movement.
“You rang boss?”
“Moby be a dear, lock the door and close the blinds.”
Blush burns underneath Moby’s permanent five o’clock shadow as his mouth reflexively falls open. Sprinting to the door to do just that, he bounds back to his boss to do exactly what’s made for.
Undoing his tie, Byron’s already well-excited himself, zipper creaking as this becomes indisputable. Something about their sessions always leaves him feeling rejuvenated himself. When he looks in the mirror after he’d swear his beard is always a touch darker, the neck it hides thicker. Perhaps he’d worry, but fucking and being fucked by the titan simply has a way of softening his many worries.
Stealing one last glance at a weathered blue copy of Moby’s old book, he cracks his shoulders and feels them reset ever so slightly firmer. “Time to do what you do best, boy.”
for @triswaps94 --- REPOSTING some of my favorite CYOC stories and adding images to them. This is various branches from Chameleon Clothes from the Chronivac Version 4.0 storyline ---
Makes the wearer tranform into the 'most' ideal form (look) for a pair of clothes.
ex. Skater clothes worn turn the wearer into the ideal skateboarder looking guy
There are som presets that SHOULD be kept the same:
IDLE TIME (TIME AFTER YOU PUT CLOTHES ON, BEFORE CHANGE): 1 minute TRANFORMATION TIME: 5 minutes IDEALNESS (1 to 10, 10 BEING PERFECT, 1 BEING ALMOST YOURSELF): 8 DURATION : 1 year
PLEASURE FROM TF : Yes BRAIN PATTERNS (THINKING LIKE THE TF): 50%
Jeff finds his brother's uniform in his closet and decides to try it on. He puts on the suit to find that it was a bit to big for him.
After about a minute, he feels tingly, as he looks down, and the uniform isn't big on him any more. Now the pants are the right size. He lifts them up to see that his legs have sprouted lots of hair. Jeff then runs to the bathroom, as he feels his chest expanding outward. He lifts up his coat to see that he now has nicely rounded pecs, and his stomach has expanded a bit to give him a tiny beer gut. He feels powerful as his arms begin to expand, and huge muscles appear on them. He looks to his neck, as it thickens, and hair begins to grow on it, which travels up to his face, giving him a bit of stubble. His jaw becomes prominent, his eyes go stone gray. He looks at his somewhat long hair as it falls out, and dark brown hair presses through, short on the sides, but a bit longer on the top.
The transformation finishes as little red dots appear on his face. They become a but bigger, and become zits.
REQUEST FOR @exjocklover5: Love to see one where a handsome fit lacrosse player gets turned into a 35 year old beefy hairy carpenter house framer. Be cool to see a story about Joe who was a lacrosse goalie and captain was about to go pro but ended up with a knee injury. He found a sketchy healing drug online but instead it turned him into an exjock bluecollar man with a family in his thirties and an insatiable thirst for Busch light.
I took a few creative liberties here and wrote a long one lol. Enjoy!
-------------------
“C’mon,” Ethan muttered, gripping the back of the couch as he tried to straighten his right leg. “I’ve got this... I've... fuck!”
He exhaled deeply and collapsed onto the couch, wincing as the pain shot through his knee. It hurt so much, so fuckin' much. And it wasn't just physical. He could hear his phone buzzing, the messages piling up.
"You coming back this season, bro?"
"Tubing Friday. Your knee good enough yet?"
"Scouts still asking about you btw."
Ethan cursed again. He missed going to practice. Missed drinking with bros. Missed the parties, the dumb arguments, the camaraderie. He missed his life before the injury.
“Fuck me...” His head sunk into his hands, "Stupid fuckin' knee."
He glanced up at his stick and the framed photo of the team. Him in the middle with a wide grin and his arm around his bros. Fuck... he wanted to get back to that. And he wanted to get back fast.
"There's gotta be a way..." He muttered.
An hour later he was deep in rehab forums when an ad stopped him cold.
BUILD-U-BACK RECOVERY
NOW ENROLLING IN YOUR AREA: A NEW START, LASTING RELIEF
“Sounds fake as hell,” Joe murmured. But when he glanced back at the team photo he felt a pang in his chest. He reached for his wallet soon after.
----------------
This was it. Ethan stood on the empty practice field, stick in hand. The cold night air felt good against his warm skin. The stadium lights already dimming.
"Okay..." He bounced on the balls of his feet, "Okay, I've got this."
He dropped into goalie stance carefully, bracing for the pain. But it never came.
"No way..." Ethan pushed harder, shuffling across the crease before planting sharply off the bad leg, "Oh my god." He laughed with disbelief, "No fuckin' way!"
"Walsh?"
Ethan spun and smiled wider when he saw Luke, "Bro!"
"Dude! You're running!"
"I know! I fuckin' know!" He pointed at his knee, "It's gone, dude! It doesn't even hurt anymore."
"Let's fuckin' go, bro!"
It fuckin' worked. That fuckin' drug actually worked! Ethan stood proud, chest heaving and adrenaline surging. He was back. Practice, scouts, games, parties... it was all back.
-----------------
“Dude! First game back, you feel ready?”
Ethan looked up from tying his cleats and grinned. “More than ready.”
He tugged at the bottom of his hoodie, annoyed again by how tight it felt around his waist and chest. He’d already stopped wearing some of his older shirts entirely after realizing they didn’t fit right anymore. He figured his dryer was doing a number on his wardrobe.
“We won’t be too upset if you fuck up out there,” Luke said while peeling his shirt over his head. “We get you’re a little rusty.”
“Eat shit,” Ethan laughed, tossing a roll of tape at him before reaching for his own hoodie.
The cool air felt warm against his skin, and Ethan scratched absentmindedly at his chest, pausing for just a moment as his fingers tangled with thicker hairs there.
"The fuck...?" Ethan frowned and looked down.
Dark curls spread across the middle of his chest before trailing down his stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. Sweat glistened faintly through the hair despite the cold room, and when Ethan shifted slightly, the waistband dug tighter against a stomach that suddenly looked thicker than he remembered.
"I shaved this shit this morning..." He figured the hair growth was a side effect of the drug, but he'd spent the last few days making sure he kept it under control. But now...?
Luke whistled low. “Damn, Walsh. Didn’t realize the recovery plan involved growing a lawn on your chest and blowing out your waistline.”
A couple guys laughed awkwardly before looking away again.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ethan muttered, pulling his jersey on faster than usual. The fabric stretching tighter around his waist than he remembered.
Nobody really said anything after that.
Ethan forced a grin anyway and slammed his locker shut. “Alright, boys,” he called out. “Let’s do this.”
-------------
It was supposed to feel normal again. Friday night. Sports bar packed wall-to-wall after the game. Music too loud. Ethan sat wedged between Luke and Dylan with a cold Busch Light in his hand before realizing halfway through the bottle that he didn’t even remember ordering it.
“You looked like shit tonight,” Luke laughed.
“Appreciate it.”
“Seriously though, you good?”
Ethan scratched at the rough stubble on his chin. “Just playing bad.”
His phone buzzed against the table.
"CONGRATULATIONS ON ONE MONTH! YOUR NEXT PHASE OF RECOVERY STARTS TONIGHT!"
Ethan frowned at the notification before locking the screen again, "Next phase?" He stared at his arm, now dusted with dark hairs.
"Hey Ethan." Luke nudged him, "Someone's staring."
Ethan spotted her across the bar. Blond. Gorgeous. Smiling at him. For the first time all night, something loosened in his chest.
“There we go,” Dylan laughed when he caught Ethan staring. “That’s the Walsh we know.”
Ethan grinned and took another sip. Soon after, he was fumbling with his apartment keys while she laughed softly beside him in the hallway. They moved to his bedroom, clothes discarded quickly.
"Fuck..." Ethan whispered, as she kissed slowly along his neck, "I needed..."
"Standby mode protocol upload."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“What?” she asked softly.
“It's uh... Nothin’.”
Her hands slid slowly across his chest and draped around his shoulders before pausing.
“Wow,” she said with a small laugh. “You’re kinda hairy.”
Ethan glanced down automatically, eyes widening at the sight of the dark hair curling across his shoulders and down his back.
"That's not..." He knew it wasn't there five hours ago.
“Sorry,” she added quickly, still smiling. “You’re just hairer than most guys I’ve been with.”
"Pleasure directives stem from labor initiatives."
Ethan winced hard enough that she finally pulled back slightly.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just...” He rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t feel right.”
She kissed him again anyway, her hand sliding lower across the thicker, softer shape of his stomach before slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers and around his flaccid cock.
“Oh,” she laughed gently, trying to mask her confusion.
Ethan glanced down, a wave of sickening humiliation washing over him. His cock stayed completely dead. Buried in a dense, coarse mat of newly thick pubic hair and a rapidly expanding fat pad, his dick looked distinctly shorter, stubbier, and entirely useless
“You okay?” she asked again, quieter this time.
“Yeah. I just...” He swallowed hard. “I dunno. It's not working... I... Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly, “Seriously. It happens.”
A few minutes later he stood awkwardly by the door while she slipped her shoes back on.
“Maybe just stress?” she offered gently.
“Yeah.” Ethan forced a laugh. “Probably.”
After she left, the apartment felt painfully quiet again. Ethan stood there shirtless for another minute before walking to the fridge automatically and grabbing another Busch Light.
------------
A week had passed, and Ethan exhaled heavily as he stepped out of the shower. He’d stopped changing in the locker room after practice a few days ago, tired of catching teammates staring too long at his stomach or shoulders before awkwardly looking away. Now, alone in his apartment, there was nobody else left to notice except him.
“Jesus Christ...” he whispered at his reflection.
The mirror across from the bed reflected somebody that looked wrong. Dark curls spread heavily across his chest and shoulders now, while rough stubble shadowed his jaw despite shaving before practice that morning. Even standing still, his body looked heavier than it used to.
“I’m exercising,” Ethan muttered weakly. “I’m eating healthy...” His eyes drifted toward the empty Busch Light cans scattered across the nightstand, “I...”
"Standby initiating."
Ethan’s breath caught as the voice echoed in his head.
“What the...”
"Standby mode active."
Every muscle in his body locked instantly.
Ethan jerked hard against it on instinct, but nothing responded correctly. His fingers twitched once beside his thigh before going still again. His chest continued rising and falling normally. He could blink. Breathe. Swallow. But that was it.
“What... the fuck...” he forced out weakly.
Hours passed as Ethan sat frozen on the edge of the bed staring into the mirror. The rough hair across his chest thickened slowly while his stomach pushed heavier against his lap with every shallow breath. His face itched constantly as a dark beard spread across his jaw until he looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.
A knock on the door and the sound of heavy footsteps entering his apartment made him tense. He watched as two men in BUILDING-U-BACK jackets entered his room and stopped mid-step when they saw Ethan in nothing but a pair of tight sweatpants.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s the lacrosse kid?”
“Yeah. CRW-57F.”
The younger guy kept staring. “Still got some of that frat-boy face left.”
“Not for too long.”
The younger rep shook his head slowly. “Weird seeing one this young.”
“Don’t worry,” the older rep said casually. “Give it a week and you won’t even be able to pick 'em out from the others.”
Ethan strained against the paralysis hard enough that his jaw twitched once.
“You know what’s crazy?” the younger rep continued. “Six months from now he’ll be drinking beer after shifts talking about kids that don’t exist like the rest of ’em.”
“Yeah well, the whole family-man thing makes clients comfortable. People trust workers who look settled.”
One of them glanced toward the empty Busch Light cans beside the bed.
“Damn,” he muttered. “He’s already self-reinforcing.”
“Good sign.”
Ethan let out another whimper as he tried to reach for his phone, but his arm wouldn't budge.
“Oh shit,” the younger rep said suddenly. “You think he knows what we’re saying?”
“Nah,” the older rep replied casually. “The lab guys say there's not much left going on upstairs during standby.”
Ethan felt something cold settle quietly in his chest. The older rep finally looked directly at him and nodded toward the hallway.
“C’mon CRW-57F," He tossed him his old lacrosse hoodie, "Housing assignment’s ready.”
Ethan stood automatically.
------------
Ethan barely remembered the drive to the facility. He had been packed into a van shoulder-to-shoulder with a few other hirsute guys sporting beer guts. His eyes remained fixed on the man across from him, and Ethan realized with growing dread that it was like looking in a mirror.
"There's been a mistake!" He tried to call out, but the words in his head wouldn't leave his mouth, "Please..."
When they did finally arrive at the facility, he was walked to a featureless room with a table and a few bins.
"This is CRW-57F." A man said to his colleague, entering the room, "Originally Ethan Walsh. Signed up for the program for an injured knee." He looked down at his clipboard, "Worker identity is officially Joe Mercer."
"Joe Mercer? That's not..." He thought, but the name Ethan was already starting to feel distant.
"Alright, let's get him in the system." The man continued, "We're going to need your personal belongings, CRW-57F."
Joe felt as he reached into his pocket and gripped his phone. He quickly dropped it into one of the bins, along with his keys, wallet, student ID.
"Oh shit, that's the college kid?" One of the men said, looking down at the ID.
"Yeah, lacrosse player, if you can believe it now."
"Damn, that drug did a number on him." The man sighed, "Okay, CRW-57F, need the clothes too."
Ethan winced as he gripped his team's lacrosse hoodie and yanked it off. Cool air hit the thick hair covering his chest and stomach, and he heard one of the employees exhale quietly through his nose.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Hope the knee was worth it.”
"Update on the apartment?"
"Cleaning crew is taking care of that, lease will terminate tomorrow."
"N-No..." Ethan thought, imagining them clearing it out. His team photo. His lacrosse gear. The clothes crammed into the closet. Every piece of evidence that Ethan Walsh had ever existed.
"Family updated?" The other man nodded, "And..."
"What do you think? Took it poorly." The other man sighed, "Kid’s barely old enough to drink and now he’s gonna look older than his dad."
"Visitation scheduled?"
"In a month."
Ethan felt his stomach twist. The thought of his parents seeing him like this made him want to disappear.
"By then he'll be settled enough that it won't matter much." The rep muttered, "They all stop trying eventually."
One of them picked up Ethan's student ID and looked at the picture for a second before tossing it into the bin with the rest of his belongings.
"Poor kid."
"Yeah."
The lid snapped shut. A folded stack of clothes landed in Ethan’s arms a second later. Gray work shirt. Plain jeans. Steel-toe boots. The employee checked another box on his clipboard.
“Alright CRW-57F,” he said casually. “let's get you downstairs.”
------------
Ethan barely slept.
The worker housing smelled like sweat, musk, sawdust, and stale beer. The bed made his back ache. Men wandered the halls at all hours wearing gray shirts and work pants, scratching at thick stomachs or rubbing sleep from heavy eyes while they talked about wives, back pain, football games, and their kids.
“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”
“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!”
Ethan sat quietly on the edge of his bed with a Busch Light in his hand, staring toward the floor while his body moved through routines his brain still hadn’t fully accepted. Every few hours that same pressure built behind his eyes again, and afterward his thoughts always came back slower.
"Who are these people?" He wondered, "They all look... the same..."
But when he looked down, he realized how much he looked like them too. Even more than the night he was brought to the facility. The gut, the hair, the beard, the weathered skin... what the fuck had they done to him?
“Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man.”
Ethan looked up slowly. A different pair of workers stood near the vending machines now.
“Yeah? Mine just turned thirteen. Kid's eating me out of house and home already!” The exact same laugh followed.
Ethan felt his stomach tighten. It was the same conversation, the same cadence… the same everything. They all talked like that. All looked the same. Nothing to distinguish them...
"Lacrosse." He thought suddenly.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture the locker room. The smell of the gear. The roar after a clean save. He could almost see the jersey. Blue. Or green? No... Red?
Ethan shuddered and took another swig of his beer.
------------
He couldn't recall the drive out here. One moment he was climbing into his assigned bunk, the next he was hauling lumber across a chaotic job site. Sweat drenched the thick hair across his torso. He reeked, too... of sawdust, exhaustion, and that stale musk clinging like the rest of them. He craved a shower, but knew better. Management preferred them this way.
"57F?" Two reps walked past him, "Still not meeting his quotas."
"Really? You'd think with him having been a star athlete..."
"Eh, you would think." The rep muttered, "We've found it really doesn't."
"Shame. We'll ship him out to Ohio tomorrow then, they're looking for more men and he's slowing us down."
He continued to work, but their words kept repeating in his head. A month ago, he was a star. Always getting positive feedback, always being commended. Now, he was failing at whatever this nightmare was.
"Joe?" He turned immediately to see one of the workers approach him, "You remember my boy, yeah?" The man smiled, "Tyler’s putting on weight. Gonna join the football team like his old man."
"Yeah?" The word left his mouth before he could even think about it. In fact, he didn't even really process it. Everything slowed suddenly, simplified in his brain. Lacrosse? Old apartment? Friends? Suddenly, it felt far from reach, "Mine just turned thirteen." He'd heard those words before from the other workers. The exact same words. Delivered in the same cadence, with the same gravely voice. Now... those words were coming from him, "Kid's eating me out of house and home already!"
Both men laughed. But as the other worker stepped away, Ethan's eyes widened.
"Fuck... no..." His thoughts were slower than they had been just two minutes prior. But so was his anxiety. Everything suddenly felt so much simpler, "La-lacrosse... lacrosse... not this..." He repeated for as long as his mind let him.
The pressure behind his eyes returned immediately. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the lumber until his knuckles turned white. He tried to hold onto the panic, tried to hold onto the certainty that something terrible was happening to him, but even that feeling seemed to be slipping away. The fear was still there. He could feel it. Yet every second it felt smaller, duller, less important than the work waiting around him.
"Joe!" He looked up automatically. One of the workers waved him over, "Quit daydreaming. Grab this end."
He did as he was told and the pressure vanished. Relief flooded him, washing away the confusion, the panic...
"Appreciate it," the worker said.
"No problem." The answer came naturally, "I ain't no slacker."
The two men carried the load across the site together while talking about football, kids, weekend plans, and just how good the cold beer at the end of the day would taste. Across the yard, one of the reps glanced up from his clipboard.
"Huh... Looks like Ohio's getting him just in time."
"I guess so..."
Joe adjusted the lumber on his shoulder and laughed at something one of the other workers said. The sound blended effortlessly with the rest of the crew as they disappeared into the noise of the job site.
Hey! I have a possible request, I see a lot of your stories revolve around role reversal stuff etc. What about a story where a jock bullies this chubby ugly anime obsessed nerd but then the tables are turned and at the end of it the jock becomes the fat nerd and reality is changed etc. It’s just an idea if you don’t like it all good :)
A Reversal
When he was a kid, Jared was as skinny as a stick, but ever since puberty he started putting on pound after pound, consequence of a very sedentary life style, not playing any sports, just staying home all day, studying, playing games and watching anime. The most exercise his body saw was the daily right arm workout sessions to anime girls. At school, he had a few his friendgroup, all varying levels of nerd like himself, who were considered the weird kids, which meant no one really liked associating with them. Some even went out of their way to make their lives harder, such as Blake.
Blake would sometimes just send photos like these, showing off his shredded body, huge muscles and the hefty bulge of his 10incher, to both the girls he wanted to bang and the nerds he wanted to feel superior too, with cruel captions shaming their bodies and their appearances. Jared had tried to file a complaint with the director’s office, but since Blake’s dad was a huge contributor to the school, it just went straight to the paper shredder.
One day, while doing a JJK marathon, Jared started getting video calls from Blake, who simply didn’t stop calling. Jared tried to ignore it at first, but instead of just simply blocking the caller, he decided he’d just pick up and give Blake what he wanted already, because if he didn’t Blake would probably beat his ass tomorrow.
When he picked it up, it was just Blake flexing on the bathroom, clearly on some weird kind of rush from this.
“You like what you see, fatty? Yeah, you’re never gonna be this fucking hot, you piggy. Girls fucking grab my arms and lick my abs while I fuck them, the best they could grab in you is your fucking fatass” He said
Jared felt like crying, both in shame and anger, angry that the jock was such a fucking dick, but also ashamed that he was right. He was a fat loser, but he wanted to be attractive, he wanted girls to find him hot, but he had dug himself in a hole and couldn’t get out of it. He wished his life wasn’t like this, and he wished that Blake had a bit more empathy.
His prayers didn’t go unheard. Suddenly, both Blake and Jared stopped, their eyes open wide. Jared felt his body burn, as all the fat in his body melted away into golden energy, which flied into the screen. He looked at the camera, and saw his face, not bloated anymore, but defined.
At the same time, he saw Blake’s muscles shrink into nothingness, leaving him a skinny runt. Then, Jared felt his muscles sore as he saw his biceps begin to expand and grow, then he felt his pecs growing nice and tight, and his abs popping up in his belly like bricks in a wall.
He moaned in pleasure, feeling the power enter his body. Blake on the other hand, was also growing, but now in muscle, but fat. His belly grew, and with it also his bodyhair, that he once had kept trimmed so pridefully, now leaving him with a patchy beard. Both of them felt their heads spin as their lives changed around. Now the one that let himself go was Blake, who once a promising young man, now was a fatty who ate fast food every single day of the week, all because one his ex told everyone about his small cock.
He had called Jared in hopes that he could help him get a girl.
“Yeah, sorry man, no one wants a fat fuck with a small dick” Jared answered
”This is what girls want, they don’t care if you’re a huge nerd like me if you’re hot about it. “ Explained the resident pussyhound of the school, a specimen with a footlong who had fucked every girl in the halls.
“Maybe if you put down the fries and actually exercised for once, you’d at least be able to attract some bitches. Meanwhile, not much I can do about it, fatass.”
He then hung up, smiling. He didn’t know why he was so happy, nor why he felt so satisfied in calling Blake a fat loser. He just felt like it was right.
If you ever want to see what your son’s future is, all you have to do is look at your past. It is a chain and, no matter how hard you try to break it, you end up reinforcing it.
I realized this as I handed my son his tool bag. I came from a family of roofers. My father was a roofer and I was a roofer. I didn’t want this for my son. However, he was going to work just one summer with me before he started college. This was the start of the same story from 30 years ago.
The year was 1995 and I had just graduated high school. My father was a hard working man and his body was breaking because of it. He had inherited Ironridge Roofing from his father. “Don’t worry Danny Boy,” he’d say to me, “The business ends with me.”
My father didn’t want me to be a roofer like him. He wanted me to be the first in his family to go to college and that was the plan.
However, one early Monday morning he woke me up. “Daniel, I need your help today,” he said as he walked in. One of his employees had an injury over the weekend and was going to be out for the Summer season.
My father drove us to the shop. He was a heavy smoker and constantly smoked in his work truck. I didn’t care much for it so I rode with the window completely down.
Once we got there, he handed me my equipment. It was supposed to be just the Summer season.
The first few weeks were hard, but I got a hang of it. The hardest part was working with the rest of the crew. They all knew I was the boss’s son and they all knew I was just a temp. Therefore, they didn’t bother.
It was break time and my father was checking in. The rest of the crew sat together, smoking their cigarettes.
“Why aren’t ya sitting with the rest of the guys?” my father asked with a cigarette between his lips.
“I don’t know. They treat me different. They don’t see me as one of them,” I confessed.
My father pulled out his pack of Marlboro Reds and slid one out of the pack. He handed it to me. “Don’t tell your mother,” he said. I had never smoked before and wondered why he was giving me one. I placed it in my lips and my father lit it for me.
After that, things got better with the rest of the crew. I wasn’t othered anymore. I only smoked a few throughout the day, usually just on breaks, but they were a bridge.
The Summer season rolled into Fall. Just one more season eventually because just one more year.
It was the Summer of 2000 when college wasn’t discussed anymore. After 5 years, it just wasn’t in the cards anymore. I knew this and my father knew this. It was a mutual acceptance.
I started smoking a bit more throughout the day. With my paychecks, I eventually got my own place and even got a tattoo that made me feel tough.
I was just one of the guys. I was now a hard working man, just like my father.
In the evenings, me and the crew would go to the local dive bar. We’d drink the rest of our paychecks. That’s how I meet Rebecca. She was a pretty girl who I think liked my edge. What started out as a one night stand eventually became a relationship. Rebecca was smart; she went to college and was a teacher. She probably deserved more than what I could give. Her high-class family disapproved of me, but I think I was a form of rebellion for her. Something against the grain of her life.
It was 2005 when she found out she was pregnant. I proposed soon after and we had a shot gun wedding. However, neither of us were truly happy. I knew what I was for Rebecca and I knew it wasn’t what she wanted. I was supposed to be a phase in her life and an eventual bad decision.
We split up shortly after Ryan was born. She had full custody, but I occasionally saw my son on the weekends.
I escaped my reality with work, Marlboro Reds and cheap beer. It was 2010 when my father asked me to take over the business. His health was declining. I agreed without a second thought.
The crew accepted this handover; they had all respected me. I was the first one at work and the last to leave. They trusted me as their new boss.
In my evenings, I’d pick up take out for dinner, a case of beer and a pack of Reds. I’d eat alone, only with Ryan’s toys scattered around. I’d always wonder when I’d see him again.
2015 was a tough year. The years of heavy smoking had caught up to my father and he passed. After he died due to lung disease, I attempted to quit smoking myself. It was for myself and for Ryan. I didn’t want to be a bad role model for him. I wanted him to have a different life than what I had, and what my father had.
I was stressed at work. Even though my father retired, he was still a source of guidance for me as I ran the business. Now he was gone. I only made it a few days before I was lighting back up. I’d try quitting again once it slowed down.
It was 2020 when my body was really started to feel the effects of my life choices. My back was always sore. I’d wake up in the morning with a deep cough. I never attempted to quit smoking again. I accepted that ship had long sailed.
Ryan was now 15 years old. As he got older, our relationship got stronger. Now that he was a teenager, he was able to make more of his own choices. He’d come over on the weekends and we’d chat on the phone in the evenings.
“How was work, dad?” he’d always ask.
“Rough,” I’d always respond, usually with a cough. He wasn’t going to take on this business, I promised myself.
But promises are usually broken, and this chain is unbreakable.
Ryan was standing before me, ready to work for just one summer. I could have break the chain right now, but I needed his help just like my father needed my help 30 years ago.
The last 30 years flashed in my mind after I handed him his bag. I hoped Ryan’s next 30 years would be different than mine, but I also knew I had just placed Ryan’s first link of the same chain.
The afternoon sun filtered through the dense canopy of the ancient woods as Mike and Steve hiked deep into the wilderness. Both thin, lanky college students with narrow shoulders and smooth skin. Walk towards the camp site deeper in the forest where they want to spend a night.
As they walked, the conversation naturally drifted from upcoming university exams to their frustratingly stagnant love lives.
"I'm telling you, man, it's a curse," Mike sighed, adjusting the straps of his heavy blue backpack. "Another semester, and I still haven't figured out how to talk to girls without sounding like a total dork."
Steve laughed, adjusting his green beanie. "Join the club. We're just too scrawny to get noticed, Mike. We practically blend into the background."
Mike glanced around at the thick, shadowy forest. "Hey, by the way... this area is called The Bear Creek, right? Are there actual bears out here? Should we be worried?"
Steve grinned mischievously, nudging his friend. "Nah, don't worry. If there are any bears out here, they’re probably just gay bears looking for a good time."
Mike snorted, rolling his eyes as they approached a rushing river.
To continue their trail, they had to cross a deep, churning body of water over an incredibly flimsy wooden footbridge. Mike took the lead, stepping cautiously onto the creaking planks, while Steve followed closely behind, holding onto the guide ropes for dear life.
Without warning, a sharp CRACK echoed through the gorge. The brittle wooden bridge snapped clean in half under their weight. With a collective gasp, both boys plummeted directly into the freezing, deep water below.
The shock of the icy current knocked the breath from their lungs. Gasping and shivering violently, they struggled against the flow, their heavy, waterlogged clothes dragging them down. Adrenaline surging, they fought their way toward the riverbank, dragging themselves out of the water and collapsing onto the muddy shore, completely drenched and gasping for air. Realizing they couldn't hike back in freezing, wet clothes, they decided to set up emergency camp right there in a small, sheltered clearing away from the water.
Between two large trees, they strung up a makeshift clothesline and hung their wet jeans, jackets, and shirts to dry. Stripped down to just their underwear, they built a roaring campfire, sitting close to the flames on damp logs, desperately trying to stop their violent shivering.
As the heat washed over them, Mike looked up at Steve and froze. His eyes widened in absolute bewilderment.
"Steve... dude, what is that on your face?" Mike pointed a trembling finger at his friend's jaw.
Where Steve’s skin had been completely smooth just minutes ago, a thick, dark stubble was rapidly breaking through his skin. Down on his chest, fine, dark hairs were sprouting and multiplying right before their eyes.
Startled, Steve gasped, "What are you talking about?" He quickly raised his hands, his fingers brushing against his face. His jaw dropped as his palms scraped against the rough, coarse texture of a freshly growing beard.
"No way..." Steve whispered, but as he stared back at Mike, his voice caught in his throat. "Mike... look at yourself!"
Now it was Steve’s turn to point. Mike looked down at his own chest. His heart hammered against his ribs as he watched dark, thick curls of hair rapidly spreading across his sternum and down toward his stomach. A heavy shadow of stubble was darkening his own jawline, itching with an unnatural, magical warmth. They stared at each other in sheer disbelief, terrified yet strangely mesmerized by the inexplicable phenomenon overtaking them.
Driven by a sudden, internal surge of heat, both boys stood up from their logs. They watched in absolute awe as their bodies began to violently reshape.
The thin, frail frames they had known their entire lives were stretching and expanding. Beneath their skin, thick, powerful muscles began to ripple and carve themselves out. Mike’s chest swelled outward, his biceps bulging into thick knots of power, while his abdominal wall hardened into a chiseled, rock-solid core. Steve underwent the exact same explosive growth, his shoulders broadened significantly, his back widening into a thick V-shape, and his thighs thickening like tree trunks.
"Steve... look at us," Mike growled out. The words felt incredibly heavy, a deep and rumbling vibration that shook his own ribcage. "My voice... what is happening to my voice?"
Steve looked up, his eyes widening as he heard the sudden change, and tried to speak a reassurance. But as he opened his mouth, his own voice cracked and plunged down a full octave, settling into a thick, guttural baritone that practically vibrated the air between them.
"I don't know, man," Steve rasped, his new booming tone echoing off the surrounding trees like a low thunderclaps. "We sound like... Look at your chest, Mike. We're turning into giants."
The vocal shift was profound; their words now carried a heavy, roaring resonance that felt entirely primal, matching the immense physical power of their newly transformed frames.
But the transformation didn't stop. The strange, magical force pulsing through their veins grew even more profound, pushing far past mere athletic fitness and into a territory of raw, massive bulk. Their bodies began to expand with an unstoppable density, their skeletal frames widening to support an immense weight of solid power.
Mike watched in sheer fascination as his waist thickened and his torso widened, taking on a very robust, stocky, and powerfully thick-set shape. Beside him, Steve’s neck surged in size, blending into massive traps that sloped down to shoulders now as wide as a barn door. Every inch of their previously lanky frames was being filled out with heavy, dense mass. Their chest muscles swelled so immensely that they formed deep, shadowed clefts down the middle, while their abs packed into thick, blocky slabs of armor.
This explosive growth put an incredible strain on the only clothing they had left. The flimsy fabric of their underwear was forced to stretch to its absolute physical limits, the seams groaning as the material became incredibly tight and strained against their newly thickened, tree-trunk thighs.
As their bodies changed into giant muscle bears, the primal surge of testosterone triggered an intense, physical awakening below the waist. Right before their eyes, their male organs began to expand and thicken rapidly, filling out with heavy, throbbing heat. The fabric stretched painfully taut across their crotches, unable to conceal the heavy, prominent, and massively enlarged bulges that now pushed hard against the strained material, proudly marking the completion of their transition into ultimate, dominant manhood.
Concurrently, a dense, primal coat of dark, natural body hair completely carpeted their bodies, covering their massive chests, thick bellies, heavy arms, and powerful legs in a rich, masculine fur. Their facial features hardened; jaws became wider, browlines more dominant, and their newly formed, full beards grew thick and rugged. In a matter of minutes, the two scrawny college boys had completely vanished. In their place stood two massive, imposing muscle bears.
They stood close to each other by the roaring fire, breathing heavily, overwhelmed by the intoxicating aroma of musk, woodsmoke, and raw testosterone. The shock of the transformation slowly melted away, replaced by an intense, heavy wave of erotic attraction that pulsed between them. They had never looked at each other this way before, but now, seeing the raw, hyper-masculine perfection of the other, desire completely took over.
Mike reached out, his thick, hairy hand trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against the massive, hard contours of Steve’s newly grown chest. He traced the deep groove of his pectorals, amazed by the sheer density of the muscle beneath the thick fur. Mike let out a low, guttural growl of approval, stepping even closer until their massive chests brushed together. Steve raised his own heavy, muscular arms, wrapping his hands around Mikes thick biceps, squeezing the rock-solid mass with a brilliant, breathless smile.
The unbearable erotic tension that had been building between the two newly transformed giants finally snapped like the dry twigs beneath their bare feet. Driven by a pure, primal instinct that bypassed all logic, Mike stepped completely into Steve’s personal space. The heat radiating between their heavy frames was intoxicating. Mike leaned in, his gaze locked onto Steve's lips, and captured them in a fierce, passionate kiss that instantly set their desires ablaze. The scratch of their newly grown, thick beards meshing together added a rough, intensely masculine texture to the embrace, sending a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to their cores.
Steve didn't hesitate for a single second. The last remnants of his old, hesitant college self vanished completely, replaced by the confident hunger of a massive muscle bear. He eagerly and aggressively returned the embrace. Opening his mouth to deepen the kiss, he wrapped his newly powerful, fur-covered arms around Mike’s thick, solid waist. His large hands gripped the heavy muscles of Mike's lower back, digging into the dense, warm flesh.
With a low, guttural groan that rumbled from deep within his chest, Steve pulled their massive, hairy bodies tightly together. The impact was electric; their immensely swollen chests crushed against one another, and their heavy, strained crotches pressed hard together, the friction of their prominent bulges sending a wave of intense heat through their underwear. They lost themselves entirely in the raw sensuality of the moment—enveloped by the roaring heat of the campfire, the musk of their heavy sweat, and the overwhelming, intoxicating reality of their new, ultimate masculinity.
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