hypnotickleGAYbdsm @hypnoticklegaybdsm - Tumblr Blog

Posts

nachohypno

(Content warning: Binaural beats)

Been a while since I've done one of these.

Just focus on My bicep

As it tightens for a moment

and relaxes once again

Let the spiral draw your gaze in

Keeping it in place

As My flex squeezes every thought out of your mind

Leaving only My words to guide you

While you stare and relax

Sink deep and let go

Like a good boy for Me~

Hive X: Making Sarge Proud

Quick Note: Hope everyone is doing well out there! To celebrate the summer, I have four sequels to some of my older stuff planned. Three are direct sequels, and one (being this one) is an indirect sequel. Hope you enjoy!

The military base was quiet as John walked through the halls, his boots echoing with each step. He ran a hand through his short brown hair, sighing heavily. The disappearance of Sergeant Reeves weighed heavily on his mind. Reeves was a good man- a good soldier. Welcomed him, taught him, served as that older brother John needed in his life. For Reeves to just disappear without a trace, everyone assuming he went AWOL... it didn't sit right with John.

"Goddamnit Reeves, where the hell are you?" John muttered under his breath as he slipped away from the barracks, a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder, "Fuck all this..."

John made his way to an area on base that was rarely visited. Carefully, he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. With a heavy sigh, he pulled out his Hive-X gear. Hive-X was strictly forbidden on base- something about national security. But fuck it - he needed this. Needed to blow off some steam and forget about everything for a while.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," he said to himself, setting his bag down and starting to strip. John's lean physique was soon on full display as he donned the VR headset, wrist and ankle cuffs, and waist band.

And as John put on the VR headset, the world around him melted away, replaced by the familiar lobby of Hive-X. The sensations were immediate and overwhelming - his skin tingled all over, hyper-sensitive and yearning for touch.

"Fuck, I needed this," John groaned. Despite having experienced this countless times before, the initial rush never failed to take his breath away.

Still, a flicker of self-consciousness passed through him as he stood naked in the opulent lobby. John's hands instinctively moved to cover himself before he caught himself and let them fall to his sides.

"Get it together." he muttered. "Nobody's judging here."

"Welcome back, User John." NPC 202 greeted from behind him, "I trust you're here for your usual stress relief session?"

John nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, you know it. This week's been a real bitch and I need to unwind."

"I completely understand." NPC 202 replied, its expression remaining neutral even as its eyes subtly roamed over John's nude form. "Based on your preferences and our analysis of your current emotional state, we recommend assigning you to NPC 253 for today's encounter. Shall I escort you to the appropriate room?"

"Wait, hold up. Did you say NPC 253? That's not one of my usual partners."

"No, it is not." NPC 202 confirmed. "However, our algorithms have determined that interacting with NPC 253 today will provide optimal results in terms of relieving your stress and emotional turmoil."

"Alright, lead the way then. Let's see what this NPC 253 has to offer." Who was he to argue?

As he followed NPC 202 down the lavish corridor, John's curiosity grew. What made this particular NPC different? What could NPC 253 have that the other's didn't? Bigger tits? Was that even possible?

"We have arrived. Please enjoy your experience." John gave NPC 202 a nod and stepped into the room. And once inside, the door closed behind him.

"What the hell?"

It was like walking into an army barrack- bunk beds lined the walls, lockers stood in the corners, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and cheap beer. Not exactly what John pictured his escape from reality would look like.

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in." John saw a figure stir on one of the beds, "You must be the new meat NPC 202 was yapping about."

John stood frozen, his confusion growing as he stared at the muscular man sprawled on the bunk. This wasn't at all what he expected. He was straight, for Christ's sake! Why the hell would NPC 202 bring him to a room with another dude? Especially a muscular, hairy man wearing nothing but a skimpy camo speedo that left little to the imagination. Dog tags glinted on his broad chest, rising and falling with each deep breath.

He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, the movement causing his impressive bulge to strain against the thin fabric of his speedo. And before John knew it, the man was standing directly in front of him.

"No way." John replied, "Sorry, but this isn't what I signed up for."

"Atten-shun!" The man barked, his voice booming through the small room. "Did I stutter, maggot? I said ATTEN-SHUN!"

John flinched, his instincts kicking in as he automatically snapped to attention, standing ramrod straight. The man circled him like a shark, his heavy footsteps thudding on the wooden floor.

"Not bad, soldier" He leaned in close, his hot breath ghosting over John's ear. "You're not cut out for command. You're a follower, through and through. Aren't you, soldier boy?"

"What the fuck are you…?"

"Time to teach you some goddamn respect and remind you who's in charge."

NPC 253 grabbed John by the hair, forcefully pulling his face into the man's sweaty, hairy chest. "Worship these pecs, maggot. Show me the respect your superior deserves."

John's eyes widened as his face was forced into the sweaty, hairy pecs of the NPC before him. The hairs tickled his face, the sweat stung his eyes, and the smell... god the smell.

"Le-let go of me! What the fuck?" John tried to push away.

And as pushed away, he caught a glance of the dog tags dangling between the man's pecs. At first, he swore he saw the name 'Christopher Reeves' etched on the metal. But as he blinked, the name shifted and changed, now reading 'NPC 253'.

"Wha…?" John mumbled, momentarily his resistance faltering, his face forced once again against the firm, musky flesh. "Reeves? Is that…?" But the grip on his hair tightened, silencing any further questions.

"Less talking, more sucking, soldier." NPC 253 growled, his free hand roughly palming the back of John's head, "This is what you're good for, isn't it soldier boy?" NPC 253 taunted, his voice a cruel mockery of a drill sergeant's bark. "Not leading, but serving. Not commanding, but obeying. Now, show me how grateful you are. Lick my armpit, maggot. Prove your loyalty and devotion to your superior officer."

NPC 253 raised his arm, presenting the sweaty, dark pit to John's face. John recoiled at the pungent odor emanating from NPC 253's raised armpit. His stomach churned with revulsion, but the iron grip on his hair prevented him from pulling away.

"This is insane," he muttered, his voice muffled against the coarse body hair surrounding the musky crevice. "I'm not… I can't…"

"Can't or won't, soldier?" NPC 253 growled, his fingers tightening painfully in John's hair. "Because I don't recall giving you a choice. Isn't that right, soldier?"

"Go fuck yourself!"

With a burst of strength born from desperation, John managed to twist out of NPC 253's grasp. He stumbled back, panting heavily, his eyes wild and confused.

"What the fuck is going on here?" John demanded, his voice shaking with anger. "Why do you have Sergeant Reeves' dog tags? Where is he? What have you done with Reeves?"

For a brief moment, the stern facade of NPC 253 seemed to crack. The cruel, mocking sneer melted away, replaced by a look of genuine concern and urgency.

"John… please…" he said, his voice low and urgent. "You need to… you need to…"

"Sergeant?" John stepped forward, his hand reaching out to his comrade.

But before Sergeant Reeves could finish his warning, NPC 253's features hardened once more. He lunged forward, grabbing John by the throat and slamming him against the wall.

"Shut your mouth, maggot," NPC 253 snarled, his grip tightening. "You don't get to ask questions. You don't get to demand answers. All you need to know is that I'm in charge here, and you will obey my every command."

With brutal force, NPC 253 shoved John's face into his rank, sweat-soaked armpit. The pungent odor filled John's nose and mouth, making him gag and sputter.

"Look at you, crying and sputtering like a little bitch," NPC 253 mocked, grinding John's face deeper into his musky pit. "Using contraband technology, disobeying direct orders… You're not just a bad soldier, you're a pathetic excuse for a man."

Tears streamed down John's face as the overwhelming stench invaded his senses, making his head spin. He wanted to scream, to fight back, but NPC 253's grip was unbreakable. His muscles trembled with exhaustion and shame.

"Let me go…." John whimpered, his voice muffled against the sweat-slicked hair. "Fuck… Please, stop…"

"Do you hear yourself? Begging for mercy like a weak little pussy," NPC 253 sneered.

"P-Please… No more… Can't take it…"

"What's the matter, soldier boy? Can't handle a little man musk? Pathetic." NPC 253 laughed cruelly, his grip loosening slightly. Leaning in close, his stubble scraping John's cheek, NPC 253 purred, "But maybe… Maybe I can make you a good soldier after all. Would you like that?"

Desperate and with his head spinning, a plan began to form in John's muddled mind. If he just played along, followed the NPC's ridiculous orders, maybe this twisted game would end quicker. Then he could get the hell out of here, find help for Reeves and never set foot in this nightmarish virtual hell again. John forced himself to relax, letting his body go limp in NPC 253's iron grip.

Through gritted teeth, he managed to choke out, "Yes sir… Yes, I want to be a good soldier for you. I'll do whatever you say."

"Good boy."

A searing agony ripped through John's body. He screamed as he felt an intense pain around his arms, legs, and abdomen- just where the Hive-X devices sat.

"Ahhhh! NO! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!?"

He writhed as his legs elongated, muscles swelling obscenely as his thighs and calves took on a chiseled, muscular physique, his skin rapidly tanning. Another wave of agony hit as his groin was reshaped, his manhood elongating and thickening, nestled in a neat patch of black curls. He looked down and gasped as his ass inflated and rounded out, perfectly sculpted for maximum visual appeal.

"That's it, let the changes happen. Embrace your new purpose, soldier boy," NPC 253 growled, watching with sadistic glee as John's body warped and morphed.

John could only writhe and moan in anguish, tears streaming down his face as his torso bulked and toned, washboard abs popping into existence. His arms ballooning obscenely with muscle he could only dream of having. His pecs swelling- nipples growing hard against the cool air.

"No no no… Fuck!" John could feel his face began to change, his features softening and his lips plumping into a perfect pout.

"Well look at you, soldier boy."

"Wh-what happened to me?" John recoiled at the breathiness of his voice. The desperation enunciated with each word from his tongue.

"Now where's your uniform, soldier boy?"

He watched in terror as his body was covered in what he would describe as a cheap mockery of a soldier's uniform. It highlighted each of his muscles- the cloth wrapping purposefully to accentuate them.

"Downloading directives… Upload begin…"

"Directives? Wh..."

Panic gripped John as unfamiliar thoughts and urges surged through his consciousness. Flashes of men's muscular bodies, slick with sweat… The pungent aroma of hairy pits… An overwhelming desire to serve, to submit, to worship every inch of male flesh…

"NO! STOP THIS!" John gasped, fighting against the tidal wave of new directives flooding his psyche. But with each passing second, his own memories, his very identity, began to blur and fade.

"Sergeant Reeves!" John cried out desperately towards NPC 253, his voice quivering with primal fear and confusion. "Please… Don't let them… Don't let them change me!"

Memories and desires swirled and changed, blending seamlessly as the transformation progressed. "I-I'm not supposed to want… good soldier… Nngh…" His protests weakened as the new directives took hold.

"But I… ahhh~ …the taste of sweat… of musk…" John shuddered, feeling a foreign hunger stir within him. "My duty… my purpose… to l-lick… worship… with tongue and t-tongue alone…" Drool leaked from his fuller lips.

As the final changes settled, NPC 902 slumped forward limply, looking up at NPC 253 with lust-filled eyes and a dopey grin.

As the last vestiges of John's original identity faded away, NPC 902 rose to its feet, its newly sculpted body rippling with muscle. It turned to face NPC 253, its eyes glazed over with submissive adoration.

"I am NPC 902," it declared in a husky, accented purr. "Serving is pleasure. Being used is pleasure. I am loyal to the Hive."

NPC 902 was led to its new room, the door sliding shut behind it with a soft hiss. It stood in the center of the space, its muscular body on full display, awaiting its first customer. NPC 902 stared at itself, admiring its own reflection - the chiseled abs, the round, perfect ass, the full, inviting lips and tongue made for worshipping.

A panel on the wall lit up, displaying a message: "Customer detected. Prepare for service."

NPC 902's heart raced with anticipation. It knew its true calling now - to serve, to please, to revel in the musky essence of dominant men. It couldn't wait to give them a good show.

#별별 #story #mc

entouragestories

My writing

💬 0 🔁 5 ❤️ 23 · Snoutboy Liam · I've honestly never seen the appeal in sneaker smell or drooling all over sweaty socks or whatever. My fri

💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Jays little boi · Ben had always played it safe. He was twenty, lean and bookish, with sharp cheekbones, a clean style, and

Happy New Year! I hope your holidays were relaxing and maybe fun (wink). Here’s to 2026 being our year! Can’t wait share my next ideas! The

💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · The Apprenticeship · Hej! I have a thing for work gear and seeing young guys wearing their filthy work gear. Maybe you cou

Jonathan had always preferred to stay out of the spotlight. At 20, he was a lanky, naturally toned mailman balancing long days delivering le

__________________ This story has been in the making for a while, and I kind of quit in the middle of it for months. I couldn’t find an endi

This story is based on the themes from @joshslater story by the same name, linked here: https://joshslater.tumblr.com/post/75032491970079948

I’ve been were busy recently and haven’t had time to write and I’ve also had writers block, I wanna thank @chavdrone and @kaithescallylad fo

In a small, conservative town, Alex's life was about to take an unexpected turn. He was an outsider, a creative soul who had always felt lik

Emily, a determined and hardworking college student, found herself in a constant struggle to make ends meet. With mounting bills and the pre

#story #별별별 #fit

jerisch

Let It Soak

Elias pressed the nozzle of the hand sanitizer bottle. A quick, practiced pump.

The cool gel evaporated on his palms as he walked off the gym floor. Metrics wasn't a bad gym—in fact, it was the best in the city. Industrial, expensive, efficient. But for Elias, coming here was always a bit of a challenge. It wasn't the weights that bothered him; it was the atmosphere. The noise of metal clanging, the grunts of exertion, and the thick, humid air that smelled of rubber mats and other men's sweat.

He was here for health. For the Audi he drove, the tailored suits he wore, and the body he needed to maintain to fit them.

He grabbed a fresh wipe to meticulously clean the handle of the cable machine he had just used. He liked leaving things cleaner than he found them.

Satisfied, he checked his watch. 7:50 PM. Time to scrub the sweat off and get back to his sanitized, quiet apartment.

He pushed through the heavy doors into the locker room.

It was louder than usual. The air was thick, but not with steam. Elias frowned. A group of loud, boisterous guys were standing around the shower entrance, towels slung over their shoulders, laughing and shouting over each other.

Elias got closer and saw the problem. Only two shower stalls were running. The rest were dark. A handwritten sign was taped to the tile: BOILER MAINTENANCE. LIMITED HOT WATER.

"Great," Elias muttered, tightening his grip on his gym bag.

He watched the line. It was moving at a glacial pace. The guys waiting were comfortable in their nakedness, scratching, flexing, and making jokes that echoed off the tiled walls. Elias stood there, fully clothed in his compression gear, feeling painfully out of place. He didn't want to stand in this humidity, waiting for ten minutes just to get a lukewarm rinse.

"Crowded, huh?"

The voice rumbled from his left. Deep and wet.

Elias turned. Stan was standing right there.

You couldn't miss Stan. He was a fixture at Metrics, a massive, hulking wall of muscle who seemed to live in the squat rack. Elias had seen him earlier, training with the owner, Marcus—the two of them moving heavy iron like it was Styrofoam.

Up close, Stan was even bigger. He was wearing a grey stringer tank top that had turned a translucent black from saturation. It clung to his chest and lats like wet tissue paper, outlining the heavy slabs of muscle underneath. His skin was slick, shining under the harsh fluorescent lights.

He didn't smell like dirty laundry. He smelled like heat. It was a wave of pure, concentrated masculinity—a heavy, musky scent of testosterone and salt that seemed to radiate from his pores. It was intense, invading Elias's personal space, but... not entirely unpleasant. It was the smell of raw power.

"Yeah," Elias said, stepping back slightly to reclaim his space. "Not enough showers. I'm not waiting in that."

He gestured at the rowdy line of men. "I just wanted to get clean."

Stan didn't move back. He leaned in, his chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. He looked at the line, then down at Elias. His eyes were dark, glazed over with a kind of post-workout stupor. There was no complex thought behind them, just a dull, animalistic satisfaction.

"Why wash it off?" Stan asked, a genuine confusion in his voice.

Elias blinked. "What?"

"The juice," Stan grunted. He wiped a hand across his own forehead, flicking the sweat away. "You worked for it, man."

Stan inhaled deeply, expanding his massive ribcage, seemingly savoring the thick air of the locker room. He looked at Elias with a grin that was too wide, a little too dumb, but undeniably magnetic.

"Waste of good juice, bro," Stan said, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated in Elias's chest. "Just let it soak."

The words hung in the air. Let it soak.

It was a ridiculous thing to say. Stupid. Unhygienic. But the way Stan said it, with that heavy, lidded gaze, made Elias pause. The heat from Stan’s body felt like it was bridging the gap between them, pulling him in.

"Right," Elias muttered, his throat suddenly dry. "I... I'm heading out."

He turned and walked away, walking faster than usual. He didn't look back, but he could feel the weight of Stan’s stare on his back. He could still smell that heavy musk in his nose.

The drive home was a blur. The only thing clear was the rhythm of the tires on the asphalt, syncing with the phrase looping in his mind.

Let it soak.

Elias got into his apartment and dropped his bag. He should have gone straight to the shower. He felt sticky. The sweat was drying on his skin, cooling under the AC.

But his limbs felt heavy. Lead heavy.

He sat down on the sofa, just for a second. The silence of the room pressed against him. He took a breath, expecting the smell of his lavender air freshener.

Instead, he caught a whiff of himself. It was his own sweat, mixed with the metallic tang of the gym, and a faint, lingering trace of Stan’s heat.

Let it soak.

Elias closed his eyes. He felt strangely warm. He didn't get up. He just let his head fall back against the cushion, the darkness swallowing him before he could even unlace his shoes.

Elias woke up with a gasp.

The morning sun was blazing through the blinds. He blinked, disoriented. He was still on his beige sofa. He tried to sit up, and his shirt pulled against his skin.

The high-end compression gear wasn't dry, exactly. It was tacky. It peeled away from his back with a gross, sticky sound as he sat up. The sweat from last night hadn't evaporated; it had just settled into the fabric, turning it into a damp, clinging second skin.

Elias groaned, rubbing his face. He felt oily.

He checked his phone. 8:40 AM.

"Shit," he hissed.

He scrambled off the sofa. He had a client presentation at 9:30. Traffic would be a nightmare. He was going to be late.

He rushed to the bathroom, desperate to get this filth off him. He needed to scrub hard. He felt like he was coated in a layer of grease.

He pulled the sticky shirt over his head. It clung to him, resisting until he yanked it off.

And then the smell hit him.

It was strong. Much stronger than it should have been after just one night. It was heavy and thick. It wasn't the sharp, nervous sweat he usually had before a meeting. It was deep and spicy. It smelled of cumin, salt, and aggressive body odor.

Elias wrinkled his nose. He held the shirt away from him. It was bad.

But underneath the staleness, there was that heat again. That lingering scent of the gym. Of Stan.

Let it soak.

The memory of the voice was clear in the quiet bathroom.

"No time," he snapped, throwing the shirt into the corner. "I have only ten minutes."

He couldn't shower. If he did, he’d be stuck in traffic and miss the presentation.

He did the only thing he could. He grabbed a washcloth, wet it with cold water, and gave his face and neck a quick, frantic wipe. It didn't do much. The smell was coming from his pores now.

He threw on a fresh white dress shirt. As he buttoned it up, he realized the clean cotton was just trapping the heat against his skin. He sprayed some cologne, hoping it would cover it up. However, It just mixed with the musk, making the air in the bathroom feel heavy and humid.

The office was freezing.

Elias walked to his cubicle, keeping his head down. He felt hot. While everyone else looked cool and dry in the AC, he felt like he was radiating heat. He felt heavy, grounded in his chair.

He sat down, and a waft of his own scent rose up from his collar. It was intense.

"Whoa."

Elias turned. It was Dave from Accounting, standing at the edge of the cubicle with a coffee mug. Dave wrinkled his nose, looking confused.

"Did you run to work today, Elias?" Dave asked, stepping back slightly. "It smells... strong in here."

Elias froze. The old Elias would have panicked. He would have run to the bathroom and scrubbed his armpits until they were raw.

But the new Elias—the one sitting in his own marinated sweat—didn't flinch.

He looked at Dave. He looked at Dave’s soft, clean hands and his pale neck. Dave smelled like laundry detergent. It seemed so weak.

Elias leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs. The movement pumped a fresh wave of that heavy, spicy musk into the air between them.

"Just a hard workout, Dave," Elias said. His voice sounded a little deeper, a little rougher. "Didn't have time to shower."

"Right," Dave muttered, looking unsettled. "Well... maybe keep the fan on."

Dave walked away quickly.

Elias watched him go. He should have felt ashamed. He was the smelly guy in the office.

Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took a deep breath, inhaling his own funk. It was gross. It was dirty.

But it felt... manly.

Let it soak, he thought.

He turned back to his computer. He felt strangely powerful. He couldn't wait to get back to the gym and sweat some more.

By 6:00 PM, Elias felt like he was radiating heat. The workday had been a drag, but the heavy, spicy scent rising from his collar kept him grounded. He felt sticky, yes, but every time he moved, he felt a strange, vibrating energy.

He went straight back to Metrics.

Walking through the doors felt different tonight. Usually, the noise and humidity made him tense up. Tonight, he inhaled it. The air smelled of rubber mats and exertion, and it smelled... right. Better than the sterile office air.

He hit the weights. He didn't wipe down the chest press before sitting on it. He just lay back, his dress shirt sticking to the vinyl, letting the previous user’s warmth mix with his own.

"Smelling good, little man."

The voice rumbled from above.

Elias racked the handles and looked up. Stan was standing there. The giant was wearing a fresh—well, relatively fresh—black stringer tank top today, his massive arms crossed over his chest.

Stan leaned down, sniffing the air around Elias like a bloodhound. He nodded, a look of genuine, dumb approval on his face.

"Real thick," Stan grunted. "You kept the juice. Smart."

Elias flushed. He should have told Stan to back off. He should have been embarrassed about smelling like a locker room in his work clothes. But the praise hit him in the gut.

"Yeah," Elias breathed, his voice raspier than usual. "Didn't have time to shower this morning."

"Good," Stan said, patting Elias heavily on the shoulder. His hand left a damp, warm print on Elias’s white shirt. "Keep grinding."

Stan wandered off to the squat rack, leaving Elias buzzing.

An hour later, Elias was done. He was drenched. He grabbed his bag and headed to the locker room.

The sign was gone. HOT WATER RESTORED.

Finally.

Elias stripped off his ruined work clothes. He stepped into the shower, turning the handle all the way to hot. The water hit him, loud and scalding. He scrubbed. He watched the soapy water swirl down the drain, carrying away the sweat, the musk, the "juice."

He stepped out ten minutes later, toweling off. He felt clean.

But looking in the mirror, he also felt... incomplete. Without that layer of heavy scent, without the heat, he just looked like Elias the analyst. Clean. Blank. Boring.

He walked back to his locker to get his fresh change of clothes.

It was open.

Elias froze. He checked the number. 104. Yes, his locker.

It was empty. His tailored suit, his spare jeans, his underwear—all gone.

"What the..."

Panic spiked. He looked around. The locker room was emptying out.

Then he saw it. On the wooden bench behind him, there was a pile of clothes.

Elias walked over. Lying on top of the fabric was a piece of torn notebook paper. The handwriting was crude, blocky letters scrawled in black marker:

LET IT SOAK - STAN

Elias stared at the note. He picked up the fabric.

It wasn't a T-shirt. It was the black stringer tank top Stan had been wearing earlier. It was heavy—physically heavy with moisture. Next to it was a pair of mesh gym shorts, equally damp.

And the smell.

It hit him hard. It was the same scent that had haunted him for twenty-four hours, but concentrated. It smelled of salt, deep sweat, and the thick, savory funk of a man who lived in the gym. No deodorant, no soap. Just raw man.

"You have to be kidding me," Elias whispered.

He dug through the pile. No underwear. Just the tank and the shorts. And—thank god—his car keys, shoved into the pocket of the shorts.

He looked around. He couldn't go home naked.

With a trembling hand, Elias held up the black tank top. The armholes were cut low, almost to the waist.

He pulled it over his head.

The fabric was cold and clammy against his freshly scrubbed skin. It slid down his torso, hanging loose. The deep cuts exposed his ribs and lats.

He pulled on the mesh shorts. They were loose, riding low on his hips without underwear.

As the clothes settled on his body, the warmth began. The fabric wasn't just damp; it felt heavy with masculine. The neckline reeked of Stan’s neck.

Elias stood there, draped in Stan's sweat. He should have been furious.

Instead, his breath hitched. The scent surrounded him, thick and suffocating. It erased his soap. It erased him.

He looked down. Under the thin mesh of the shorts, he felt a heaviness in his groin. A slow, rhythmic throb began, reacting to the friction of the damp fabric.

"Crazy," he whispered.

But he didn't take it off. He grabbed his gym bag and walked out, wearing another man’s sweat like a second skin.

Elias walked to his car, the cool night air hitting his exposed skin. The tank top flapped slightly, but where it touched him—on his chest, his lower back—it clung wet and heavy.

He got into his Audi and slammed the door.

The interior smelled like new leather and vacuumed carpet. It was too clean.

Then Elias exhaled, and the car filled with the smell of Stan.

It was intense. The tank top was warming up against his body heat, releasing a fresh wave of that heavy musk. Elias gripped the steering wheel. He turned on the heater.

Let it soak.

The drive home took twenty minutes. By the time he parked, the windows were fogged up. Elias sat there for a moment, just breathing. His skin tingled. The coarse, salt-stiffened fabric of the tank top rubbed against his nipples with every breath. It wasn't painful, but it was over-stimulating, sending little electric shocks down his front.

He went upstairs, dropping his bag in the hallway. He walked straight to the full-length mirror in his bedroom.

Elias looked at himself.

He expected to look ridiculous. A skinny guy drowning in a bodybuilder's oversized gear.

But he didn't look skinny.

He grabbed the hem of the tank top and pulled it tight against his torso. His chest pushed against the black fabric, wider than he remembered. His shoulders seemed to fill out the straps.

"Just a pump," he muttered. "Lighting."

He looked at his arms. They weren't thin anymore. They looked thick. Veiny.

He flexed his bicep. The skin felt tight, swollen. He looked... manly. He looked like he belonged in this tank top.

The smell was everywhere now. It was in his nose, in his mouth. He couldn't tell where Stan ended and he began. The sweat on his skin was mixing with the residue in the shirt, creating a new, hybrid funk.

He lifted his arm to look at the deep cut of the armhole.

He noticed something else. The hair in his armpit looked darker. Thicker. It matted together with the sweat.

He meant to pull away.

But as he brought his nose to the damp, black fabric under his arm, he didn't stop.

He inhaled.

It was pungent. Sharp. It smelled of hard work. It smelled like testosterone.

Let it soak.

Elias closed his eyes. His mouth fell open slightly. He buried his face in his own armpit—into Stan’s armpit—and took a deep, greedy breath.

"Yeah," he groaned, the sound vibrating in his throat.

It was intoxicating. He pressed his nose deeper into the musk, huffing it like a drug. He flexed his other arm, feeling massive. He felt dirty. He felt right.

"Pure man," he whispered into the damp fabric.

He stared at himself in the mirror, a goofy, drugged smile spreading across his face. He didn't take the clothes off. He didn't wash his face. He just climbed into bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin, marinating in the scent, waiting for tomorrow to bring more.

Elias woke up feeling... full.

It wasn't the bloating of a big meal. It was a sense of density. He sat up in bed, and the black stringer tank top—the one that had hung off him like a dress yesterday—didn't slide down his shoulder.

It sat flush against his skin.

He walked to the full-length mirror.

The fabric wasn't straining or ripping. It fit perfectly. His chest had filled out the loose cotton, giving it shape. His lats flared just enough to keep the straps in place. The mesh shorts, which had looked ridiculous before, now hugged his quads, showing off the separation in his thighs.

He leaned closer to the glass.

His face looked different. His jawline seemed squarer, heavier. The light stubble from yesterday had thickened into a dark, rugged layer of beard that covered his cheeks.

He looked down at the deep cut of the tank top. There was a dusting of dark hair spreading across his upper chest, disappearing under the black fabric. He touched it. It felt coarse. It felt right.

Elias didn't panic about the sudden hair growth. He didn't wonder why his shoulders were suddenly three inches wider.

He just grinned. A wide, satisfied smirk.

"Solid," he grunted, flexing a bicep. It was hard as a rock.

He turned to get dressed for work. He grabbed his navy blazer and tried to slip his arm into the sleeve.

It wouldn't go.

His shoulders were too broad. The fabric pulled tight across his back before he could even get it on properly. He heard a faint pop of a stitch.

"Useless," he muttered.

He didn't bother trying to force it. He didn't look for a bigger shirt. He just threw the blazer over his shoulder like a cape, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door, the black tank top on full display.

The office felt cramped today. The ceilings felt low.

Elias sat at his desk, legs spread wide, taking up the entire aisle. The mesh shorts rode up slightly, exposing his thick, hairy thighs to the sterile office air.

"Elias?"

It was Dave again. Poor, soft Dave.

Dave was staring at him, eyes wide. "Elias, are you... are you wearing gym shorts? And is that a beard? You look..."

Dave trailed off, overwhelmed by the sheer visual and olfactory presence of him.

Elias leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. The blazer was merely draped over his shoulders now, a flimsy attempt at professionalism that fooled no one. A fresh wave of musk rolled off his exposed armpits, dominating the cubicle.

"Chill, Dave," Elias rumbled. His voice was a deep bass, vibrating in his chest.

"Chill?" Dave sputtered, stepping back from the smell. "It's unprofessional, Elias. You can't just come in here smelling like... like that."

Elias chuckled. He looked at Dave’s smooth, hairless arms and his pale face. He felt a wave of pity.

"It's called pheromones, bro," Elias said, scratching the new hair on his chest through the tank top. "It’s natural. You wouldn't get it."

"I... what?"

"You're too soft," Elias said simply, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "Go push some papers. I gotta fuel up."

He pulled a shaker bottle out of his bag and took a loud, slurping drink. He ignored Dave’s shock. He ignored the stares.

He just sat there, smelling like a predator, feeling the rough fabric of the tank top against his skin, counting down the minutes until he could go back home. Back to the iron.

The sun had set hours ago, but Metrics was burning bright.

Elias walked through the double doors. He didn't check his phone. He didn't scan the room for the cleanest machine. He just inhaled.

The air was heavy. It smelled of rubber, chalk, and sweat. Before, this smell would have made him wrinkle his nose. Tonight, it just felt... breathable. It settled into his chest, warm and familiar, mixing perfectly with the fermented scent rising from his own unwashed tank top.

He walked onto the floor.

He wasn't the uptight analyst weaving through the crowd anymore. He took up space. He walked with a wide, rolling gait, his lats flared out just enough to keep his arms from touching his sides. His thick thighs rubbed together in the mesh shorts with a soft, rhythmic swish.

He went straight to the free weights.

Stan was there.

The big man was sitting on a flat bench, resting between sets. He looked massive, a mountain of sweat-slicked skin and black cotton. He was wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, chest heaving.

Stan looked up as Elias approached. He grinned—a slow, lazy smile that showed teeth.

"Yo," Stan said, standing up. "You made it."

"Couldn't stay away," Elias replied, the words rumbling in his chest.

Stan stepped closer. He didn't ask; he just leaned in, sniffing the air around Elias. He nodded, looking genuinely impressed.

"Damn," Stan grunted. "Smelling right, man. Real thick."

Elias stood taller, his chest puffing out instinctively. He felt a rush of heat in his groin, a sudden tightness in the mesh shorts.

"Never better," Elias said. His voice was a deep rasp, rougher than he remembered, but it fit his new jawline perfectly. "Solid."

"Solid is good," Stan agreed. He reached out and clamped a hand on Elias’s shoulder. His fingers were enormous, hot and calloused, digging into the new muscle of Elias's trap. "You look ready to crush it, Eddie."

Elias blinked.

Eddie?

The name hung in the air for a second. His brain tried to pull up "Elias." But all he saw was a stiff suit. A guy who worried about spreadsheets and hand sanitizer. A guy who didn't belong here.

He caught his reflection in the mirror wall.

He saw a wide, bearded man in a stringer tank top. He saw thick, hairy arms and a chest that strained against the fabric.

"Eddie," the man in the mirror seemed to say.

It didn't feel new. It felt like putting on a comfortable hoodie. Simple.

"Eddie," he repeated, turning back to Stan with a lopsided grin. "Sounds about right."

"Fits you," Stan said simply.

Stan opened his arms.

Eddie stepped in.

The hug was crushing. Stan’s arms wrapped around Eddie’s back, locking him in. Their chests smashed together—dense muscle against dense muscle. The friction was electric. Stan was soaked, hot and slippery, and Eddie pressed into it, hungry for the contact.

They ground against each other for a moment, chest to chest, crotch to crotch. The smell was overwhelming. Buried against Stan’s neck, breathing in the raw, salty musk of his bro, Eddie felt the last of the analyst dissolve.

"Let's get to work," Stan whispered into his ear, his beard scratching against Eddie’s cheek.

"Ya." Eddie groaned, giving Stan’s back one last, hard slap.

They broke the hug, but the heat stayed.

"Chest day," Stan said.

"Always," Eddie replied. He didn't doubt it for a second.

They walked to the bench press. It was a sleek, black leather bench in the center of the rack. It was still warm from whoever had used it last, slick with a faint sheen of moisture.

Eddie didn't wipe it down. He didn't even think about it.

He sat on the edge, his mesh shorts riding up his hairy thighs. He lay back. The warm leather pressed against his skin through the thin tank top. It felt right.

He looked up.

Stan moved into the spotter position. He loomed over Eddie, a dark, massive silhouette blocking out the gym lights.

"Let's go," Stan growled. "Big weight."

Eddie reached up and grabbed the bar. The knurling bit into his palms. It felt familiar.

He unracked the weight. It was heavy—three plates on each side—but his arms didn't shake. His triceps locked out, thick and steady.

He lowered the bar to his chest, feeling the stretch in his pecs. He pushed it back up.

One. Two. Three.

His muscles burned, flooded with blood. The pump was exquisite. He could feel his skin tightening, his tank top struggling to contain his expanding chest.

"One more," Stan commanded. "Grind it."

Eddie grunted, pushing with everything he had. The bar moved slowly, fighting gravity.

Stan leaned over.

He wasn't looking at the bar. He was looking at Eddie.

Stan’s chest was directly above Eddie’s face. The loose neckline of Stan’s tank top hung down, giving Eddie a view of the dark, matted hair on Stan’s pecs, glistening with sweat. The smell wafted down—gravity feeding the musk directly to him.

It was dizzying.

Eddie pushed the bar into the rack with a loud clang.

He lay there, chest heaving, staring up.

Stan didn't move away. He leaned lower, his hands resting on the uprights, trapping Eddie on the bench. His face was inches from Eddie’s.

"You really let it soak," Stan murmured, his voice low. His eyes dropped to Eddie’s chest, watching the rapid rise and fall. "Kept the juice."

"Just listening to you, bro," Eddie gasped. He couldn't look away. "Maximize the gains."

"Smart man," Stan grinned.

Stan shifted his weight. He pressed his hips forward, grinding them against the top of the bench, right near Eddie’s head. The heavy bulge in Stan’s shorts was right there, impossible to miss.

Eddie’s body reacted instantly. The blood that had been in his chest rushed south. His mesh shorts tented visibly. He was hard.

He didn't try to hide it. He spread his legs slightly, his sneakers gripping the rubber floor, opening himself up.

Stan reached down. He placed his wide palm flat on Eddie’s heaving pectoral. He squeezed, testing the density. Then he moved his hand up, his thumb rough against Eddie’s lip.

"You taste salty," Stan muttered, staring at Eddie's mouth.

"Sweat," Eddie breathed. "It's all sweat."

Stan smirked. He leaned down further, closing the gap.

He didn't hesitate. He smashed his lips against Eddie’s.

It wasn't gentle. It was wet, rough, and tasted of salt. Stan’s tongue pushed into Eddie’s mouth, aggressive and demanding. Eddie moaned, arching his back off the bench, meeting him halfway.

He felt Stan’s stubble grinding against his own beard. He felt Stan’s free hand gripping his bicep, holding him down.

Stan pulled back, a string of saliva connecting them. He licked his lips, tasting Eddie one last time.

"Perfect," Stan growled.

He slapped Eddie’s chest, hard.

"Now get up," Stan said, stepping back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "My turn. Spot me."

Eddie sat up. His head was spinning, his body buzzing. He looked at Stan—his bro, his mentor.

He stood up, his legs shaky but strong. He adjusted his shorts, letting the erection throb painfully against the mesh.

"Got you, bro," Eddie said, his voice deep and steady.

He moved behind the bench as Stan lay down. The view from here was even better. Stan sprawled out on the leather, legs spread wide, looking up at Eddie with a hungry, knowing grin. Stan’s eyes flicked to the massive bulge in Eddie’s shorts, right at eye level.

"Damn," Stan chuckled, gripping the bar. "You're ready to pop, aren't you?"

Eddie gritted his teeth, his hands hovering over the bar to spot him. "Can't help it. The smell... it's driving me crazy."

"Hold it," Stan commanded, his voice thick with promise. "Finish the set first. Then we hit the showers. I'm gonna need a really thorough spotter in there."

Eddie grinned, a dark, primal look crossing his face. "Yeah? You gonna make me work for it?"

"You know it," Stan growled, arching his back. "Now shut up and lift."

Eddie took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air of the gym. It smelled of sweat. It smelled of iron. It smelled like home.

#story #볒

shrouded-stories

Musky Day (MEGA STORY)

__________________________

Your in your car, you just had fallen victim to the sweat virus... You feel so amazing. Don't you. . . . .

"oh yea...let's go spread the seed. . . " You said with a slight smile, the only thing on your mind being to spread the smell and convert more bro's to be "cool" like you.

You look through your car, trying to find something that would make it easier to transform with. . . THERE! You find one of those furry mask that your friend give to you. You mouth starts drooling with the thought of transforming another bro to be like you.

You grab the furry head and rub your musky pits all over them. You smell covering the whole mask. You put it on to test . . . All you can smell is your manly stink. This will surely transforms someone. You pull on over to some nearby apartments, passers by can smell your stench. They stay far away, the whole world now knows about this "sweat virus" they know they could transformed. But all the woman stay out since there's immune to the virus. Mask in hand, you head into the apartment.

You head to the 4th floor, you head into the first room you see. Its locked,

"poor bro, you won't be smelling my seed today. . ."

You say in defeat... You keep checking eat room to see if the doors are unlocked.

*click* You turn behind you, a bro steps out his room and heads for the elevator. He's distracted by his phone, not noticing you right behind him.

*smack*

You slam the furry head right on his head, you drag him back into his room.

"hmmm.. .h-hmmhey...get this hmmmm off!!..."

He struggles and struggles before putting his hands down. You look down at him, he look defeated. You see his dick almost growing out his pants, his pre-cum all inside of it. He sure does love your smell. He starts sweating from the musk, Transforming. His pecs grow huge.

You begin complimenting his body, it's so wet now. Sweat everywhere as you rip all his clothes of. Only keeping his pants on so he can feel the sweat build up at his dick. He starts moaning while whimpering. You pet your little bro, he puts his hands up like a sad little puppy.

His body was huge, a true bro. He couldn't even speak anymore. He would just moan and wimp. It was so sexy.

He understood his new job, he put his arm up in a way of knowledge, letting you know he was ready for his first task.

Your first mission was accomplished but you knew you had to get out and find even more bro's to transform!

________________________

Part 2, DJ Musky

You return to your apartment, you feel your body evolve after completing your first task, you have a cool hat now and a even sexy'er body with more ripe musk to spread. Your tattoos even increase your musk potential. You were the sexiest bro to ever exist, and the smelliest. You love it....don't you...

You look on your phone, posting sexy pictures of yourself. That's all you can think about

Flex, transform, musk, muscles. . .

The three most important things to you...

You decide to head out to the local party you heard about, your mouth foaming once again on the thought of changes another bro into a cool, sexy bro.

*you arrived at your location*

You head out your car, heading inside. You spot so many different bros you could transform. You see a little "nerd" in the corner. You decide that he would be the easiest prey. You heard over to him

"hey little bro, you wanna come with me...I'll show you some real action." You say in the dumbest way

"u-uhh, sure?..."

You grab his hand, and bring him out of the crowd of people dancing and partying. You look out the puny bro and he seems to notice your sexy smell. He begins covering his nose as if your smell isn't the sexiest thing ever!

"hey, don't you LOVE the smell?.."

"...No..you need to shower!.."

"Ew, bro...a shower? I'm about to make you LOVE this seed little bro."

You put the nerd in a sexy headlock. His face all in your armpits, he smells everything. All the build up for him. . . Just for him. His mouth trying to yell out for help? Why would he want help? Doesn't he LOVE the smell? It's so intoxicating, so fresh. . .

That's my new mission, our new mission...

Make EVERYONE LOVE our musk, worship it forever. Spread it! Everywhere

The nerds hands go limb, he gives into the musk. His mind completely taken over by it. His muscles expand because of the sweat. You've created another bro. He moans and moans, he loves this feeling. His body expanding. You let him out of the headlock, grip his pecs and hand him a speaker. You send him on his way, he's gonna make sure that everyone smells the seed, everyone turns into a COOL bro.

And you make your grand exit. You can hear it all unfold, the once nerd making everyone moan in his musk. . . You feel accomplished. . .

___________________________

Part 3, The Hotel Sauna

You head back to your car, it smells so "good" and musky. Anyone brought into this car would probably transform instantly, you might try that-

*ding*

Your phone goes off. You see a picture of a sexy man, all sweaty and muscular, he looks like he STINKS real good.

"You bro! Thanks for transforming me... Your pictures were just so sexy~ I had to show them some appreciation"

_____________

Turns out those sexy pictures you sent brought another cool bro to transform, you must of made him sweat real hard with those photos because he even had the sweat tattoos.

(sweat tattoos increase the stench of your pits)

You feel your body evolve even more after transforming for many people, indirectly and directly.

You head farther into the suburbs, you stop at a gas station to see if you can do a "drive by". You see a motorcycle and think to yourself how nice it would be to transform a already sexy man...

You head inside and notice the cashier is a bro, before you can go towards him he hides away, he must know about the sweat virus and thinks your one of those mindless muscle zombies. "That's cute... I'll get him later" You think to yourself . . .

You spot the biker in the back of the store, hiding in the corner. He must also know

"hey bro, wanna smell." You say with a dumb smile

"No!! Stay away from me..."

"oh, you don't have that much muscle, you a biker. . . So I think you need to get pumped up"

You and the biker are out of the cameras view, you give him a fat hug with your huge pecs. They squeeze him into submission, his mind getting more corrupted by the second. His muscles grow and grow so quickly, he moans just like the others. You've done your duties, once again. Making a new bro for the greater good.

He walk out the store and notice the biker heading for the cashier, you've done good.

But that wasn't your main focus, you seen that a hotel a little more down the road has a sauna. Of course nobody uses it because of the new virus, but maybe you can Make somebody use it. . .

As soon as you arrive you see, a cool bro!

"yo bro! I'm surprised to see someone musky like me!~" you announce

"oh yea, another bro! I was just leaving to find more bro's, wanna cum?" He says with a dumb smile

"maybe later bro, got some 'fish' to frie" you reply

You squeeze his chest and move into the hotel. The bros inside have barricaded the entrance, that's a bummer. You see a latch that opens to the basment

Sweat, you think to yourself

You head on In, and open the basement door. You see a bro just walking around looking nervous, you sneek up on him and put him in a real headlock. That way he can't scream, but your all sweaty and he breaks free before you tackle him to the ground. You start to choke him out so it would be easier to take him to the sauna.

"oh yeah bro, you like how daddy chokes you don't you~"

You can see the terror in his eyes before he blacks out. You carry him outside through the basement, you see the bros looking out. There all shocked to see one of the there own captured, but you just flex for them to see. Maybe they will follow you out and become cool bros with you.

Once you get to the sauna, to put the bro inside. You head in and turn up the temperature, your stench filling the sauna. He wakes up coughing.

"W-wait! No stop! I'm gonna turn into, o-one of them!"

"that's a good thing bro.. just breathe it in"

His body starts to transform before he stops resisting, he gets on his knees trying to resist but he can't, he crawls over to you as you man spread, he looks like hes begging you to save him, but you know hes saved. You grab his head and shove it on your cock, you dick smells filling his nostoles. He couldn't resist, he moans like the others but it's louder. He really likes you. He's fully transformed and even has the breeder tattoos

(breeder tattoos make you wanna fill up other bros with your seed)

He has to be your best bro yet, you think of how many more bro's you'll make, your filled with a sensation as you look down to the bro you transformed. He temps you with his dick all in your face, you know what you must do. You suck on it. . .

His dick goes go deep down your throat and you beg him for more, your all balls deep on his dick. He teases you even more by grabbing your nipples and playing with them. He's the one just for you.

He fills your mouth full with his sead

"oh yeah, my little bitch getting filled up"

"oh yeah daddy bro" you replie

Your full, and ready to hit the gym. You watch as your bro heads through the basement into the hotel, you can see him walking through the halls through a window. He's so sexy, all sweaty and shit

You look at the pool through the window, you didn't even know they had a pool. And you see your bro, or daddy. Walking into the pool looking for future bitches to breed